Cyclops (Dirk Pitt 8)

After close to an hour, Hagen's suitcase was finally cleared and they made for Clark's car, a Lincoln sedan with a driver. A light rain was falling, but Clark was prepared with an umbrella. The driver placed the suitcase in the trunk and they set off toward the Swiss Embassy, where the U.S. Special Interests Section was housed.

Hagen had honeymooned in Cuba several years before the revolution and he found that Havana looked much the same as he remembered it. The pastel colors of the stucco buildings gracing the palm-lined avenues seemed faded but little changed. It was a nostalgic trip. The streets were teeming with 1950s automobiles, makes that stirred old memories-- Kaisers, Studebakers, Packards, Hudsons, and even one or two Edsels. They mingled with the newer Fiats from Italy and Ladas from Russia.

The city thrived, but not with the pa

ssions of the Batista years. The beggars, prostitutes, and slums were gone, replaced with an austere shabbiness that was the hallmark of Communist countries. Marxism was a wart on the rectum of mankind, Hagen decided.

He turned to Clark. "How long have you been in the diplomatic service?"

"Never," Clark answered. "I'm with the company."

"CIA."

Clark nodded. "If you prefer."

"That line about Douglas Oates?"

"For the benefit of the airport eavesdropper. I was informed of your mission by Martin Brogan."

"Where do you stand on finding and disarming the device?"

Clark smiled darkly. "You can call it a bomb. No doubt a low-yield bomb, but having enough punch to level half of Havana and start a firestorm that will incinerate every flimsy house and but in the suburbs.

And no, we haven't found it. We've got an undercover team of twenty men probing the dock areas and the three ships in question. Nothing has turned up. They might as well be looking for a shoe in a swamp.

The celebration ceremonies and parade are less than eighteen hours away. It would take an army of two thousand searchers to find the bomb in time. And to make matters worse, our tiny force is handicapped by having to work around Cuban and Russian security measures. As things look, I'd have to say the detonation is inevitable."

"If I can get through to Castro and give him the President's warning--"

"Castro won't talk to anybody," said Clark. "Our most trusted officials in the Cuban government-- we own five who hold top-level positions-- can't make contact. I hate to say it, but your job is more hopeless than mine."

"Are you going to evacuate your people?"

There was a look of deep sadness in Clark's eyes. "No. We're all going to stay on this thing to the end."

Hagen was silent as the driver turned off the Malecon and through the entrance of what had once been the United States Embassy but was now officially occupied by the Swiss. Two guards in Swiss Army uniforms swung open the high iron gate.

Suddenly, with no warning, a taxicab whipped directly behind the limousine and followed it through the gate before the startled guards could react and push it closed. The cab was still rolling when a woman in a militia uniform and a man clad in rags jumped out. The guards quickly recovered and came running over as the stranger confronted them, crouching in a part-boxing, part judo stance. They stopped, fumbling for their holstered automatic pistols. The delay was enough for the woman to yank open a rear door to the Lincoln and climb in.

"Are you American or Swiss?" she demanded.

"American," replied Clark, as stunned by the disgusting aroma that hung on her as by her abrupt appearance. "What do you want?"

Her answer was entirely unexpected. She began to laugh hysterically. "American or Swiss. My God, I sound like I'm asking for cheese."

The chauffeur finally woke up to the intrusion, leaped from the car, and grabbed her around the waist.

"Wait!" ordered Hagen, seeing that the woman's face was badly bruised. "What's going on?"

"I'm an American," she blurted after gaining a measure of control. "My name is Jessie LeBaron. Please help me."

"Good lord," Hagen muttered. "You're not Raymond LeBaron's wife?"

"Yes. Yes, I am." She motioned wildly at the struggle that was erupting in the driveway of the embassy. "Stop them. He's Dirk Pitt, special projects director for NUMA."

"I'll handle it," said Clark. By the time he was able to intercede, Pitt had flattened one guard and was wrestling with the other. The Cuban cab driver danced about wildly waving his arms and shouting for his fare. Several plainclothes policemen also added to the confusion by appearing from nowhere on the street side of the closed gate and demanding that Pitt and Jessie be turned over to them. Clark ignored the police, stopped the fight, and paid off the driver. Then he led Pitt over to the Lincoln.

"Where in hell did you come from?" Hagen asked. "The President thought you were either dead or arrested=