A donkey suddenly brayed, startling Wickham. His senses tensed as he scanned his concealment. The bright moonlight made blending into the surroundings extremely difficult.
He could see a thatched roof lean-to sixty yards away. Directly behind it, next to the encroaching jungle, stood a small ramshackle house. The rickety-looking structure had rusted sheets of tin nailed to the exterior.
The donkey brayed again, causing the agent to freeze in his hiding place. He could see the animal moving around next to the lean-to. Wickham stood, hot and sweaty, and started walking slowly toward the road. He had taken only nine steps when a naked light bulb flashed on in the shanty.
"Shit," Wickham. said as he crouched down and ran for the sanctuary of the jungle on the far side of the road. Without warning, his right ankle snagged a trip wire designed to foil thieves.
"Goddamnit," Wickham swore when he heard the tin cans topple off the front porch of the shack. He broke into a sprint for the jungle as the donkey brayed loudly and a dog barked excitedly.
He had barely crossed the narrow road when a man stepped out of the front entrance to the house. The figure tucked in his shirttail and looked around. A moment later, he spoke to someone inside and a small boy appeared. The youngster carried a rifle and a flashlight.
Wickham bent down into the thick foliage and watched the man disappear around the back of his house. The Cuban reappeared with the barking dog on a leash, then took the rifle and flashlight from the boy.
Wickham's mind raced, seeking an avenue of escape. He reached behind his back, lifted the baggy shirt bottom, and eased his Excam out of the holster.
The youngster remained close to the house while the man and his dog started around the property. Wickham followed the search, then froze when the Cuban reached the point where the agent had entered the field. The man and his yelping dog hesitated a few seconds, then started across the tobacco field on the same course Wickham had taken. The agent knew that the Cuban could see his boot prints in the moist soil.
"Oh, Christ," Wickham whispered as he watched the Cuban and his dog approach his hiding place. The man carefully splayed the flashlight beam twenty feet in front of him. It would be only a matter of seconds before Wickham would be discovered.
The quaint hotel, located one and a half blocks from the White House, had become a meeting place for heads of state and foreign diplomats.
A group of the late night crowd, many attired in their native dress, gathered around the television set in the cocktail lounge. A Special Report sign had just been flashed on the screen by ABC news. The lively, noisy chatter hushed when the commentator appeared.
"Good evening," the anchor said, unsmiling. "Sources inside the government, who are familiar with the growing tension in Cuba, have told ABC news that Cuban fighter planes attacked three Navy A-4 Skyhawk jets over their base at Guantanamo Bay. The exact time of the aerial attack is unknown. Pentagon officials have confirmed that a confrontation between U. S. and Cuban jet fighters did take place. The number of aircraft involved, according to officials, is not available for release at this time. The cause of the attack is still unknown.
"A White House staff member, who insisted on anonymity, stated that a downed Cuban fighter, which crashed near Guantanamo Bay Naval Base, contained the remains of a Russian pilot."
The anchor continued in a somber manner, glancing to someone off camera. "Elsewhere in Washington, the United Nations Security Council has been summoned for an emergency session regarding the attack."
The cocktail lounge began to buzz with speculation as to what might have caused the aerial attack. The crowd continued drinking while the commentator paused to receive new material.
"I have just been handed a release from the Cuban news agency Prensa Latina," the well-groomed man said, scanning the page quickly before he continued. "A Cuban Air Force MiG-23 fighter jet crashed into a suburb of Holguin this evening, killing seventeen people on the ground. Witnesses in the neighborhood where the jet came down reported that the airplane was trailing fire before it plowed through five houses. Residents of the Loma de la Cruz section of Holguin said that the pilot ejected moments before the crash."
The anchor stared at the copy a moment, then looked back into the eye of the camera. "Cuban government officials have accused the U. S. of precipitating the attack."
Murmurs filled the room as the commentator switched to a White House correspondent for a series of questions.
Chapter Sixteen
President Jarrett, looking haggard and irritable, sat behind his desk. Samuel Gardner was seated at one end of two oversized sofas that faced each other in the middle of the room. Bernard Kerchner, reading a readiness report, sat at the other end.
"The son of a bitch is consistent," Jarrett spat. "Late as usual."
Gardner, frowning, nodded in agreement. "It's a game, sir. He has to convince you that his time is more important than yours."
Sergey Aksenhov was a typical career diplomat, having served his entire adult life in the Russian Foreign Department. This was his seventh tour in Washington, his first as foreign minister. He prided himself on being unflappable and emotionless. His cold, stony eyes never revealed what his devious mind was thinking.
"I apologize, gentlemen," the tall, heavyset foreign minister said in an orchestrated display of rushing to remove his overcoat. "This evening has been difficult for me."
The three Americans remained silent. The Russian seemed surprised at their lack of cordiality. The usual handshakes and polite banter had been replaced by an icy silence.
"Minister Aksenhov," Jarrett began as the diplomat sat down facing Gardner and Kerchner, "I have received some very distressing news in regard to American-Soviet relations."
Aksenhov feigned surprise. "If you are referring to this evening's unfortunate events, Mister President, I must inform you that we have no other choice than to file an official complaint with the—"
"Minister Aksenhov," the president interrupted tersely. "I suggest you cut the formality and listen for a change."
Aksenhov, genuinely surprised, showed only a flicker of emotion. Years of training and practice had almost eliminated any external signs of stress. Undaunted by the hostility in the president's tone, Aksenhov spoke slowly and evenly. "As you wish, Mister President."
"We have been advised," Jarrett began, staring into Aksenhov's eyes, "that Russia — actually a faction of the KGB — is responsible for commandeering… hijacking one of our B-2 bombers."
Aksenhov remained poker-faced, but the statement had had a profound impact on the diplomat.
"Furthermore," Jarrett continued harshly, "the bomber is in Cuba — a Soviet satellite — and I intend to recover the aircraft if it is not released immediately."
"Mister President, gentlemen," Aksenhov said sincerely, "your accusation is preposterous — outrageous."
Gardner sat straight up. "Goddamnit, Sergey, we're past the point of pretending that the Soviet Union isn't involved. I insist that you notify your superiors in Moscow — now. I have championed the cause for a diplomatic resolution to this unprecedented violation, but the president is adamant. We are going to recover the aircraft, or destroy it."
Aksenhov remained silent, but his mind was spinning. He knew nothing of the hijacking. He had recognized the MiG attacks as a planned diversion to focus attention on Guantanamo Bay, but he assumed it had been ordered by Castro for reasons he did not yet understand. If the American bomber had indeed been hijacked to Cuba, that might be reason enough — an attempt to scare them off, divert them. The Americans had mentioned the KGB. Did the Kremlin know? He would have to contact them immediately.