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"A good thing they can't hear you clearly," she said.
"Why is that?" he asked in mock indignation.
"Your Spanish is awful."
"It always got me by at the dog races in Tijuana."
"It won't do here. You'd better let me do the talking."
"You think your Spanish is better than mine?"
"I can speak it like a native. I can also converse fluently in Russian, French, and German."
"I'm continually amazed at your talents," Pitt said sincerely. "Did Velikov know you spoke Russian?"
"We'd have all been dead if he had."
Pitt started to say something and suddenly gestured ahead. They were rounding a curve, and he pointed at a car parked by the highway. The hood was up and someone was leaning over the fender, his head and shoulders lost in the engine compartment.
Jessie hesitated, but Pitt took her by the hand and tugged her along. "You handle this," he said softly.
"Don't be frightened. We're both in military uniform, and mine belongs to an elite assault force."
"What should I say?"
"Play along. This may be a chance to get a ride."
Before she could protest, the driver heard their feet on the gravel and turned at their approach. He was a short man in his fifties with thick black hair and dark skin. He was shirtless and wore only shorts and sandals. Military uniforms were so common in Cuba he scarcely gave them any notice. He flashed a broad smile. "Hola."
"Having motor trouble?" Jessie asked in Spanish.
"Third time this month." He gave a helpless shrug. "She just stopped."
"Do you know the problem?"
He held up a short length of wire that had rotted apart in three different places and was barely hanging together by its insulation. "Runs from the coil to the distributor."
"You should have replaced it with a new one."
He looked at her suspiciously. "Parts for old cars like this one are impossible to find. You must know that."
Jessie caught her mistake and, smiling sweetly, quickly played on Latin machismo. "I'm only a woman.
What would I know about mechanics?"
"Ah," he said, smiling graciously, "but a very pretty woman."
Pitt paid little attention to the conversation. He was walking around the car, examining its lines. He leaned over the front end and studied the engine for a moment. Then he straightened and stepped back.
"A fifty-seven Chevy," he said admiringly in English. "One damned fine automobile. Ask him if he has a knife and some tape."
Jessie's mouth dropped open in shock.
The driver looked at him uncertainly, unsure of what to do. Then he asked in broken English, "You no speak Spanish?"
"Faith and what's the matter?" Pitt boomed. "Haven't you ever laid eyes on an Irishman before?"
"Why an Irelander wearing a Cuban uniform?"
