When We Left Cuba(63)

“Fine. You win. When do I leave?”



* * *



? ? ?

I sit in the Palm Beach airport, waiting for my flight to Spain. My mother was correct; my father put up no protest when he learned I would be joining my mother’s cousin, the relief in his eyes palpable. I mailed a letter to Mr. Dwyer, but I’ve heard nothing back, my departure a rapid one. Elisa and Maria were sad when I told them the news, but I spun it as an adventure abroad. Isabel was more reticent; the guilt in her eyes did nothing to lessen my anger with her.

Does Nick know I’m leaving?

I’ve heard nothing from him since we last parted, and when I took my final walk down the beach, the Palm Beach house looked shuttered now that the season has ended.

The airport is certainly quieter than it was when President Kennedy was in town.

Someone sits next to me in the waiting area near the gate, and I shift in my seat, an arm pressing against mine.

“Where are you headed?”

I jolt at the familiar voice and come face-to-face with Mr. Dwyer.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask.

He smiles. “By now you should realize there’s little I don’t know.”

“Did you receive my letter?”

“No. I heard the whispers. Madrid, is it?”

“I’m sorry. I know you had plans for me, for the Hialeah group.”

Dwyer shrugs. “We’ll just send someone else in. You were right—they aren’t as useful as I’d hoped they’d be, their connection to Fidel far too tenuous.” He glances at his watch. “You still have a bit of time before your flight. Are you here by yourself? No family to see you off?”

Maria is in school, Elisa busy with Miguel. They are the only ones I would have wanted here.

“It’s just me.”

“Good, then have a drink with me.”

I hesitate, Nick’s earlier warnings about Dwyer and the CIA coming back to me again. And still, I’m in this deep already—I agree and follow him to a restaurant. We both order martinis and then the waitress leaves us alone.

“Eduardo is alive,” Dwyer says.

Relief floods me. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. He’s in prison—La Caba?a. Fidel will negotiate his release along with the rest of the prisoners.”

“Was he injured in the invasion?”

“His leg, I believe. But he is very much alive, and all things considered, doing well.”

“Thank you for telling me. I was worried about him. We didn’t know what had happened.”

“I know you’re close, and I thought you would like to know.”

“There are those who say the CIA is responsible for what happened at the Bay of Pigs. Who would lay the blame at your feet.”

“I am sure there are some who would say that.”

“What happened?”

He takes a sip of his martini. “I wish I had the answer to that. It is not nearly as nefarious as some would have you believe. We made a plan. It wasn’t adequate. And more than that, Fidel knew about our plan. Knew we were coming and was prepared.”

“You have a spy in your midst.”

He laughs. “Likely more than one. But how do you root out the spy? It is difficult when you have so many men and women working for you. It could be anyone.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because this doesn’t have to be the end of our relationship.”

“Excuse me?”

He chuckles. “I didn’t mean it like that. Please, Miss Perez, believe it or not, not every man is enraptured by your beauty.”

“I didn’t presume.”

“I’m sure. What I meant was there are other opportunities for a woman like you within the Agency: smart, well-connected, and yes, beautiful.”

“Such as?”

“At the moment, our plan to send you to Cuba is on hold. The timing is not good, the optics are not good, and quite frankly, the president is not pleased with the Agency. Besides, I have some business to take care of in the Dominican Republic.”

“Trujillo?”

The Dominican president gave former Cuban president Batista a temporary safe haven when he fled the country in ’59.

“It is a difficult time to be a dictator in the Caribbean,” Dwyer replies, his expression bland. “Turns out they have short life expectancies.”

I’m more impressed than horrified.

“But have no fear; Castro is still very much a priority. He has decreed that Cuba is to have a socialist government now. He’s abolished elections.”

“I heard.”

“They’re imprisoning rebels,” Dwyer adds. “Executing hundreds. He still hopes to inspire others, to export his brand of revolution to other countries in Latin America. To that end, I have a proposal for you.”

“And what would this proposal entail?”

He takes something out of his pocket and slides it across the table to me.

An airplane ticket.

I scan the details.

“Why London?”

“You once asked me who Claudia was.”

Claudia was the name that got me into the meetings in Hialeah.

“The Cubans are ramping up their intelligence operations—there are rumors that they are establishing a new intelligence section designed to spawn communist fervor around the world,” Dwyer explains. “Idealistic presidents, Congress, and the like don’t hamper them. And don’t think they’re doing it alone. We’re not just fighting the Cubans. We’re fighting the damned Soviets, too.”