When We Left Cuba(5)
I walk through the balcony doorway. Isabel stands to the side; Elisa is nowhere to be seen.
“She went home. She wasn’t feeling well,” Isabel answers when I ask about our sister’s whereabouts.
A waiter approaches us, a tray of champagne flutes in hand, more waiters around the ballroom offering the same to other guests, a murmur resounding through the party, whispers tucked behind cupped hands, names on everyone’s lips, the calm before a scandal breaks.
Curious as to the piece of gossip they’ve all seized upon, I scan the crowd, looking for Golden Boy, searching for—
He stands next to the orchestra near the front of the room with an older couple and a woman.
Oh.
Oh.
There’s no point in dissecting her flaws, for I fear it would be a useless endeavor and do me no favors. It’s clear as could be her family did hail on a great big ship at this nation’s founding; she’s stunning with her blond hair and delicate features, the perfect complement to his golden looks. Her gown is the height of fashion, her jewels certainly not paste, her lips curved in a pretty smile.
Who could blame her for smiling?
I join the rest of the ballroom in lifting my champagne flute and toasting the happy couple, as the bride-to-be’s father announces his daughter’s engagement to one Nicholas Randolph Preston III. He is not just a Preston; he is the Preston. The sitting U.S. senator rumored to have aspirations of reaching the White House one day.
Our gazes meet across the ballroom.
How could I not see this a mile away? In the end, life always comes down to timing.
It’s New Year’s Eve, 1958, and your world is parties and shopping trips; it’s New Year’s Day, 1959, and it’s soldiers, and guns, and death.
You meet a man on a balcony, and for a moment, you forget yourself, only to be reminded once again how mercurial fate can be.
I drain the glass of champagne in one unladylike gulp.
And then I see him—the one I came for—and nothing else matters anymore.
Unlike Nicholas Preston, this man is short and stout, his hair balding at the top, his nose more suited to a larger face. He wears his tuxedo like it’s strangling him. Through the research I’ve done, I’ve learned he’s invited to these parties for one reason: his wife is the darling of the charity circuit, her maiden name whispered with reverence throughout the ballroom. He clearly prefers the comfort of the shadows, every inch of him reinforcing the intelligence I’ve received: he’s a man unafraid to roll up his sleeves and dirty his hands, who enjoys moving world leaders around like they are pieces on a chessboard.
His last name is Dwyer and he’s the CIA’s man on Latin America.
I lied before when Nicholas Randolph Preston III—soon-to-be-married U.S. senator—asked me about freedom. I would savor it—for a moment.
And then I’d fight like hell to ensure it was never, ever taken away from me again.
As nice as moonlit dances with princes are, I came here with more important business at hand. I came to meet the man who is going to help me avenge my brother Alejandro’s death and kill Fidel Castro.
chapter two
Same balcony. Different man. Same assessing gaze, except this time there isn’t a glimmer of admiration or a spark of attraction. And there’s certainly no dancing, even if the music lingers in the background.
“It appears we have a common enemy,” says Mr. Dwyer. His rough-hewn features are arranged in a careful mask; his gaze lingers on my face, my body. He is every inch the spymaster in his perusal: unflinching, thorough, opportunistic.
The CIA’s role in Latin America has been bloody and brutal, whispers of their involvement in places like Guatemala reaching the circles in which I now travel thanks to the mantle my brother has passed on to me after his death.
“We do,” I acknowledge.
“And you think you can do something about him?”
Dwyer removes a slim cigarette from a gold case; the flame from a matching engraved lighter sends the paper crackling. The first puff of smoke makes its way into the air, the heady scent of tobacco filling the balcony, mixing with the perfume I dabbed at my pulse points.
“I do.”
Maybe it’s strange that at twenty-two and female, I am standing on this balcony rather than someone like my father, someone who has spent his life accumulating power and influence, but the very nature of my age and gender makes me an attractive weapon. For this to work, they need someone who can get close to Fidel, someone he will not view as a threat, who can draw his interest. After all, who is more easily discounted than a woman, and a debutante at that? Fidel has many vices, and it is well known his Achilles’ heel is feminine beauty.
“You were involved with the rebels in Havana.” Dwyer’s stare is flinty and faintly disapproving. The CIA’s relationship with former Cuban president Batista was a complicated one to say the least; I and others like me caused them their fair share of problems over the years.
War makes for strange bedfellows.
“I was.”
“Because of your brother?”
Perhaps he means to catch me off guard with these details of my life he’s gleaned, but I’m hardly surprised they know about Alejandro’s involvement in the revolution or about his death. The Americans have meddled in Cuba’s affairs for a very long time, their machinations pulling the strings for Batista and others like him.