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"Is that confirmed?" asked the President, his expression turned solemn.
"Yes, sir, it was confirmed."
"A great pity. He deserved recognition for his contribution to the Jersey Colony."
"Still, the mission was a great success," Brogan said quietly. "Major Quintana recovered a wealth of intelligence material, including the Soviets' latest codes. It arrived only an hour ago. Analysts at Langley are sifting through it now."
"Congratulations are in order," said the President. "Your people performed an incredible feat."
"You may not be so hasty with praise, Mr. President, after you hear the full story."
"Okay, Martin, let's have it."
"Dirk Pitt and Jessie LeBaron. . ." Brogan paused and gave a dejected shrug of his shoulders. "They didn't return to the mother ship with Major Quintana and his men."
"Were they killed on the island along with Raymond LeBaron?"
"No, sir. They departed with the others, but veered away and headed for Cuba."
"Cuba," the President repeated in a soft voice. He looked across the table at Oates and Fawcett, who stared back incredulously. "Good lord, Jessie is still trying to deliver our reply to the proposed U.S.-Cuban pact."
"Is it possible she can somehow make contact with Castro?" asked Fawcett.
Brogan shook his head doubtfully. "The island is teeming with security forces, police and militia units who check every mile of road. They'd be arrested inside an hour, assuming they get past patrols on the beach."
"Maybe Pitt will get lucky," Fawcett muttered hopefully.
"No," said the President gravely, his features shrouded with concern. "The man has used up whatever luck he had."
In a small office at the CIA headquarters at Langley, Bob Thornburg, chief documents analyst, sat with his feet crossed on his desk and read through a pile of material that had been flown in from San Salvador.
He puffed a veil of blue pipe smoke and translated the Russian typing.
He quickly scanned three folders and picked up a fourth. The title intrigued him. The phrasing was peculiarly American. It was a covert action named after a mixed drink. He quickly glanced through to the end and sat there a moment, stunned. Then he set the pipe in an ashtray, removed his feet from the desktop, and read the contents of the folder more carefully, picking it apart sentence by sentence and making notes on a yellow legal pad.
Nearly two hours later, Thornburg picked up his phone and dialed an internal number. A woman answered, and he asked for the deputy director.
"Eileen, this is Bob Thornburg. Is Henry available?"
"He's on another line."
"Have him ring me first chance, this is urgent."
"I'll tell him."
Thornburg assembled his notes and was restudying the folder for the fifth time when the chime of his phone interrupted him. He sighed and picked up the receiver.
"Bob, this is Henry. What have you got?"
"Can we meet right away? I've just been going over part of the intelligence data from the Cayo Santa Maria operation."
"Something of value?"
"Let's say it's a blockbuster."
"Can you give me a hint?"
"Concerns Fidel Castro."
