When We Left Cuba(18)

Another thud. Louder now—

“Beatriz.”

I walk over to the window and pull back the curtains.

Eduardo stands outside my second-floor window. He’s removed the bow tie and jacket from the tuxedo he wore earlier tonight at the Heart Ball, has rolled the sleeves of his snowy white dress shirt, baring his forearms. He raises his arm to throw another rock— I open the window.

“What’s wrong?” I hiss.

My room is toward the front of the house, my parents’ to the back, but I am surrounded by Isabel and Maria, and the last thing I need is for them to say something about Eduardo’s nocturnal visit.

“Were you sleeping?” he whispers back, stepping closer to the window, his gaze raking over me, no doubt taking in the nightgown and robe, my disheveled hair, the vestiges of makeup I missed removing earlier this evening.

“It’s almost two A.M.”

“Is it that late?” He grins. “You’re getting old. Once upon a time, you would have been out dancing somewhere at two A.M.”

“You didn’t come here to go dancing.”

“No, I didn’t. I need to pick up a shipment. Care to join me?”

“A shipment? At two A.M.?”

“It’s a very discreet shipment. Germane to our interests—the Cuban ones.”

The prudent thing would be to say “no” and go back to bed. But I’ve already done the prudent thing tonight by putting distance between myself and Nick Preston, and I’m still feeling the sting of that decision.

Small rebellions are the hardest ones to resist.

“Give me a minute.”



* * *



? ? ?

Fifteen minutes later, we’re barreling down the highway, headed farther south.

“What’s in the shipment?” I ask Eduardo.

“I don’t know. They don’t tell me that part beforehand. It’s brought in by boat and picked up by some guys—different ones each time. I meet them by the docks, and we confirm we are who we say we are. Then they move the shipment from their trunk to my car and we all go on our way.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Once or twice.”

“Have you ever checked the shipment?”

“Of course.”

“What was in the shipment those other times?”

Silence is his only answer.

“What do you do with it?” I ask, trying a different tack.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“What is it used for?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.”

“What can you tell me then?”

“Where’s your sense of adventure? You said you wanted to be involved in my other activities. This is one of the other things we’re working on.”

“With the CIA?”

“Not exactly.”

“Is it smart to make enemies of them?”

“I’m not doing anything to jeopardize our plans with the CIA. But what’s in our interest is not always in theirs, and vice versa. You should always have a contingency plan, Beatriz. And be careful of who you trust.”

“Are you warning me off you?”

Eduardo smiles. “Never.”

“So what am I doing here? You didn’t just drag me out in the middle of the night for fun.”

“No, I didn’t. Last time I did one of these runs, I got pulled over by a local cop. Nothing happened, but they asked more questions than I cared for. Now, if it happens again, I have the perfect excuse: they’ll see us together and think I snuck out to be with a woman. No one would look at you and think anything nefarious.”

I look down at my outfit: a simple pair of trousers, the pale sweater I threw on over my top, the serviceable pair of flats.

I see his point.

“We’ll meet, pick up the package, drop it off where we’re supposed to go, and I’ll have you home and in bed by dawn. You can plead the aftereffects of this evening’s festivities and too much champagne when your parents ask why you slept in so late.”

“I doubt they’ll notice.”

“So what are you worried about then?”

“Everything.”

Eduardo reaches between us and takes my hand.

“Trust me.”



* * *



? ? ?

Our surroundings turn seedier, the impact heightened by the quiet streets, the dark night. We drive for nearly an hour before Eduardo makes a series of turns, until we’re parked in front of what looks to be an abandoned marina.

“Wait here,” he whispers. “And keep the doors locked.”

“I thought you said this wasn’t dangerous.”

“It isn’t. I can’t say the same for the neighborhood.”

He reaches across me, pulling something out of the glove box and thrusting it in my hand.

My fingers curl around cold metal.

“A gun?”

“Like I said, you can’t be too careful with the neighborhood. If you see anything suspicious—anything not related to me,” he amends with a grin, “shoot.”

I’m beginning to wonder if he didn’t just bring me here for cover, but also for backup, which is a worrying thought indeed.