When We Left Cuba(27)
Mr. Dwyer has devised an invitation to the Hamptons with one of the many prestigious families his wife is acquainted with as my cover for the weekend. My mother is overjoyed at the prospect of me traveling in such prominent circles, my father too busy to be concerned, my sisters bewildered by the surprise invitation and the friendship I’ve failed to mention all season, yet too caught up in their own lives to worry overmuch about my plans.
Elisa is distracted by her upcoming move to Miami, Isabel dating a local businessman, Maria busy with school and her friends. Their distraction is fortuitous indeed, and they are happy to help me shop and pack for my trip without it raising an alarm.
The flight to New York is pleasant enough. I land at Idlewild Airport and take a cab to the Midtown hotel Mr. Dwyer has arranged for me: an elegant enough structure a blush removed from the fashionable corner of the neighborhood. I’m unlikely to see anyone I know, but my reputation should be preserved should anyone learn I’m staying in the city alone.
Once I’ve checked in to my room and set my suitcase down, I head downstairs, where Mr. Dwyer is waiting for me in our prearranged meeting spot.
The hotel bar is a somewhat depressing place, filled with weary business travelers and men looking for a good time. A man sits in a corner playing the piano with little enthusiasm. There’s nothing unsafe about the hotel, just a tinge of wear to its edges, and while I value the anonymity it provides, part of me wants to head over to the Plaza, where I stayed when my parents brought us on a shopping trip to the city so many years ago, anonymity and budget be damned.
I slide into the empty seat across from Mr. Dwyer.
He doesn’t look up from his newspaper, folded to the crossword section, a black ballpoint pen in hand. He carefully, meticulously, fills a series of squares with block letters, his handwriting neat and just a touch oversize. When he finishes, he sets the pen down on the table, and looks up at me.
“Did you have a pleasant flight?”
“I did.”
“Good. He’s in Harlem.” Mr. Dwyer frowns. “At a place called the Hotel Theresa. We had him at the Shelburne a few blocks away from your hotel, but he stormed out of there with his entourage in tow.”
“What happened?”
“Something about a damage deposit. The press is talking about chickens. Who knows? Likely, he just wanted to thumb his nose at all of us. He claims we’re harassing him. Even complained to the United Nations about it.”
He mutters an invective about Fidel I can’t disagree with.
“He’ll look like a hero to the people,” I muse. “Leaving the comfort and elegance of the Shelburne for Harlem.”
“We’re aware. We tried to get him in at the Commodore, but he wasn’t amenable. The man’s been prancing all over New York City, people fawning all over him like he’s a damn celebrity. He’s receiving world leaders in his hotel room: Khrushchev, Nasser, Nehru.”
I almost feel sorry for the Americans.
“Fidel likes to cause trouble. His brand thrives on chaos, disorder, operating outside of the system. Don’t underestimate him,” I caution.
Mr. Dwyer shoots me a pithy look, conveying the distinct impression that at the moment he has little sympathy or tolerance for my countrymen and me.
“You leave the politics of this visit to me. You just worry about catching his interest.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night. He’s holding court at the Hotel Theresa in an effort to get back at us for not inviting him to the Latin America summit. There will be women there, and we’ll have one of our people put your name on the list.”
“Are you sure you want me to go in under my real name?”
“It will be part of the appeal for Castro,” Mr. Dwyer answers. “Besides, if you pretend to be someone you’re not, the risk is too great that a member of his entourage will recognize you, if not Fidel himself. It is hard enough to gain his trust; starting out with a lie could kill the operation before it even begins.”
Our waitress comes by with a new drink for Mr. Dwyer and asks me what I would like. I order a sidecar while she sets an old-fashioned beside his folded newspaper. The condensation from his drink has edged against the newspaper, blurring the letters in “two across.” He frowns at the smudged ink.
“Any questions?” he asks, once she’s left us alone again.
Only about one thousand.
“What happens next?”
“You talk to him. Flirt. Make an impression. Then you go home. Tell your family you had a wonderful time in the Hamptons. The money we agreed to pay you for this little jaunt will be in the account we opened for you in Palm Beach.”
We settled on five thousand dollars and all of the expenses paid for this trip, deposited in a secret bank account the CIA helped me open.
“Then we’ll look at more occasions to put you in Fidel’s path,” he continues. “It is unlikely he will return to the United States, so it will have to be in Havana. But that attempt will be much more successful if you’ve already established a rapport between you. We’ll be in contact when we have more information.”
Mr. Dwyer reaches into his pocket, pulling out a slim money clip and peeling off a few bills. He tosses the money—enough to pay for both of our drinks—on the table, sliding his chair back and rising. He picks up the newspaper and tucks it beneath his arm.