When We Left Cuba(14)

“We’d hoped he would compensate the American companies he nationalized,” Mr. Dwyer continues. “That he would be open to discussion, but he is not to be reasoned with. And now with these murmurs of communism spreading, with him cozying up to the Soviet Union, well, we simply can’t bide our time anymore. He has become a thorn in our side, and we must remove him from power. And when fair means have failed us, well, we are not averse to foul ones.” He smiles. “I speak to the methods, not the instrument.”

“Of course.” I pause. “This isn’t just about sugar, though, is it?”

Wars have been waged over far less, but somehow I can’t quite envision the might of the American government this concerned with agrarian reform in Cuba, even if it does affect the fortunes of American companies. Nor can I envision them overmuch concerned with the well-being of Cubans.

“It’s complicated,” he answers. “Fidel has been speaking with foreign leaders, expressing his interest in helping them create similar discord in their countries.”

I’m hardly surprised.

“We must be careful,” Mr. Dwyer continues. “He is popular in Cuba. You’re correct. We cannot create the impression that the ills of Batista’s regime are being repeated through our intervention in matters of Cuban sovereignty.”

His point is not lost on me, nor is the irony that I have become a willing participant in an arrangement that I spent much of my adult life decrying. When the Americans propped up Batista, I viewed them as villains. Now we will join forces to remove Fidel.

Eduardo’s earlier allusion to his more secretive activities with the CIA comes to mind again.

“You have something else planned, don’t you? Beyond my role in all of this.”

“Effective diplomacy relies upon several contingencies. So yes, we have considered many options should this mission fail.”

There are rumors—little more than idle whispers, really—that they’re planning an attack of some sort, an attempt to wrest control away from Fidel.

“The Soviets are becoming a problem. This trade deal—it looks like there is to be friendship between Moscow and Havana. If Fidel gets his hands on enough of Khrushchev’s arms, everything will change.” Dwyer signals for the bill for our two coffees. “We’re working out the details now. I must return to Washington, so it’s likely we won’t meet again for some time. In the meantime, we’ll be in contact when we have something for you. Eduardo will work as an intermediary between us.”

“And if I do this, what do I get in return?”

“I thought you were doing this for love of country, Miss Perez.”

“Then you mistook me. I don’t do anything out of the goodness of my heart. If I’m going to risk my life, I deserve to be sufficiently compensated, and I don’t come cheaply.”

I learned a thing or two about doing business at my father’s knee.

Mr. Dwyer makes a grunt that almost sounds like approval.

“What do you want?” He pulls a shiny black ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket, sliding it across the Formica tabletop. He tosses a paper napkin to me, the restaurant’s name scrolled at the bottom.

My fingers tremble as I write my demand down. I’ve thought about this since the night we met in Palm Beach, tried to imagine what would restore my family’s position. You can’t put a price on avenging my brother’s death, but the rest of it— One hundred thousand dollars and my family’s property in Cuba returned to us.

I cap the pen, set it down on the table, and slide the paper back to him.

“Do we have a deal?”

He gives the napkin a cursory glance before he looks up at me and smiles.

“We have a deal.”



* * *



? ? ?

    “How did it go?” Eduardo asks when I slip back into the car.

“Well, I think. He wants to proceed.”

Should I have made more demands? Did I ask for too much? Too little?

I’ve always prided myself on being fairly good at reading people—it’s hard to get through the social whirl without that particular skill—but the CIA’s man is inscrutable. After his parting words, he took the napkin, crumpled it up in his jacket pocket, paid the check, and walked out the door.

Rude, really.

“I don’t like him.”

“I don’t think anyone likes him, Beatriz.”

“Perhaps I should clarify then. I don’t trust him.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Sometimes.”

Eduardo grins. “Smart.” His expression sobers. “I made a promise to Alejandro when you got involved in this stuff back in Havana. I told him if something ever happened to him, I’d watch over you like I would my own sister. He was my best friend. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Tears well in my eyes at the mention of my brother, at how much I miss him.

“I know.”

Eduardo cups my chin. “It’ll be fine. I promise. In a year, we’ll be sitting at a table at the yacht club toasting your success. We’ll dance at the Tropicana. You’ll be a hero in Havana.”

“I don’t want to be a hero. I just want to go home.”

“And we will,” Eduardo vows.