When We Left Cuba(26)
When we were younger, our mother instructed us to always have a smile on our faces when out in society, to be polite, to laugh at men’s jokes and flatter their vanity. She raised me to be soft and malleable in a time when she thought that would win me a husband. Now I am all sharp edges and steel, and I can’t imagine one of these American men wanting me for their wife, can’t possibly fathom why they would take on all that weighs me down if not for the superficiality of such a relationship—the realization that we have nothing in common, that we are little more than strangers, an eventuality. No, I can’t say I have much interest in the sacrament of holy matrimony.
I trip on a pebble beneath my shoe, my gaze trained on a point in the distance.
There’s a car parked near our driveway. A nondescript black car.
A man leans against it, dressed in an equally unremarkable black suit, a neat little hat.
My heartbeat picks up.
He turns toward me as though he’s been expecting me, and a chill slides down my spine. How long has he been waiting? Did he see me at the beach with my sister? Did he watch us play with Miguel? It’s one thing for me to meet him at restaurants, for Eduardo to act as a go-between, but this—him standing outside my family’s home—unnerves me. It’s easy to forget Mr. Dwyer is a man who has eyes and ears everywhere, easy to look at his benign appearance, the way he blends into his surroundings, and underestimate him.
Mr. Dwyer greets me with a false smile—congenial and casual—as though we are neighbors encountering each other on a fine summer day.
There are no preliminaries, no disinterested inquiries into my well-being, merely—
“Castro is coming to New York to address the United Nations General Assembly.”
My heart pounds.
“We want you to go to New York and meet with him. We’ll arrange for you to be at the same location: a party or restaurant, perhaps. The State Department will ensure he has a large American security detail present, and we will be able to monitor his movements quite effectively. What do you think?”
Fidel might not have pulled the trigger that killed my brother, but it was likely on his orders. Alejandro—intelligent, educated, well-connected, charismatic, passionate about Cuba’s future—was a threat to Fidel’s regime, to his ability to consolidate power and unite the divergent factions in Cuba. My brother’s death provided a warning to anyone who dared challenge Fidel’s stranglehold on the island.
Can I face my brother’s killer, and smile, and flirt in an attempt to steal his heart?
Only if I get to watch the life drain from his eyes as I was forced to do with Alejandro.
“Do you want me to kill him in New York?” I ask.
“No. We’ve discussed this, and relations with Cuba are simply too tenuous at the moment for people not to suspect our involvement if his death occurs on American soil. We do not need this turning into an international incident that will reflect poorly on American interests in Latin America.”
“Then what do you hope for with this meeting?”
“We want you to draw his attention. Like Fidel, you and your brother were critics of Batista and his policy. We want you to engage Fidel, to convince him you are open to the future he envisions for Cuba. Between your past, and your not inconsiderable charms, we hope that will be enough for him to be interested. After all, Fidel enjoys his women.
“Once you’ve made the initial contact, the next phase will be to send you to Cuba at an expedient time and arrange for him to meet with you there. After you’ve gained his trust, well, then you can remove him from the equation.”
It sounds so simple, and yet, so very ambitious. The CIA’s plan depends on a myriad of factors, each one contingent upon my ability to play the consummate actress.
“And how am I to convince Fidel I harbor no rancor over my brother’s death? That I trust him? I may be able to sell a great many things, but no one in Cuba would believe I would cozy up to my brother’s murderer.”
“There was never any proof tying Fidel to your brother’s death. Who’s to say it wasn’t one of Batista’s men left behind when the president fled the country? That your brother’s murder wasn’t an attempt to strike back at the revolutionaries? Your brother wasn’t involved with the 26th of July Movement, but there were so many groups of young, disaffected men. In the chaos, perhaps your brother was mistakenly targeted?”
Dwyer smiles at me, the effect somewhat chilling.
“We can make the truth be whatever we need it to be, make Fidel believe whatever we need him to believe. It really is quite simple.”
“When it comes time . . .” I swallow. The words stick in my throat.
“To kill him?” Mr. Dwyer finishes for me.
“Yes. Will you help me? I don’t know . . .”
It seems such a silly thing to speak aloud, because of course I don’t know how to kill a man.
“Yes. We will. It will need to be done carefully. We will guide you.” He cocks his head, taking my measure once more. “This is it, Miss Perez, the chance you wanted to take back your country and to avenge your brother. Do we have a deal?”
I clasp his outstretched hand.
“We have a deal.”
chapter nine
I put away my summer dresses and floral prints, the casual shifts I have begun wearing as a concession to the Palm Beach heat, in preparation for my trip to New York. I raid my closet—and my mother’s and sisters’—for the most elegant pieces I can find. I even have a dress made by a seamstress I discovered on one of my shopping expeditions on the mainland. It is sleek, sexy, and if anything will catch Fidel’s attention, this will be it.