When We Left Cuba(64)

“And Claudia?” I ask.

“Claudia worked for Cuban intelligence. Claudia became one of mine. Worked as a double agent of ours. Someone killed her for it.” Dwyer is silent for a beat. “She was young, like you. From a good family—not as prestigious as yours, but still. She was a good agent for us. Her father was murdered by Batista. She believed in the revolution, but Fidel betrayed those beliefs.”

He slides a photograph across the table.

I recognize the woman instantly.

“She was there that night in Harlem.” The sensual brunette. “She warned me off Fidel.”

He smiles fondly. “You were younger then. New to the game. I had to have someone there to keep an eye on you, make sure you didn’t deviate from the plan, make sure you weren’t impulsive.

“She liked you. Thought you had promise.”

“When was she killed?”

“A week ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s always hard to lose assets. But I’m also worried about Claudia’s work for us being compromised, her sources at risk. It’s never just one agent—it’s all the people they were in contact with that you stand to lose as well.”

“What do you want me to do? Why London?”

“Claudia’s former boyfriend is there. His name is Ramon Martinez. He’s a graduate student. He was a double agent for us as well, but his intelligence has been far less impressive, far less reliable.”

“You think he’s a mole; you think he turned her in.”

“I do. At the moment, though, I don’t have proof, and we have to be careful with these agents. We can’t risk burning bridges. We need them to turn against Castro and spy for us. At the same time, someone is feeding intelligence to Fidel. The sort of intelligence that caused the disaster at the Bay of Pigs. I need to know who I can trust.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“We want you to set up a life as a student in London. To cross paths with Ramon. Catch his interest. See if you can discern where his loyalties lie.”

“I would go to university for real.”

“You would. I imagined you would like to study politics.”

“And my living expenses?”

He smiles. “You would be compensated for the work you do for us, of course. In addition to what we’ve already paid you. You’re becoming a wealthy woman, Miss Perez.”

It appears I’m headed for London, not Madrid.



* * *



? ? ?



NOVEMBER 26, 2016

PALM BEACH

In truth, the champagne does not taste as good as she’d imagined it would. It is a fine bottle, of course, an exceedingly expensive one, an exquisite vintage of one of her favorite brands. And still—when this moment had played out in her mind, hundreds, thousands of times, she’d drained the champagne flute under different circumstances, in different company.

Time has tempered the taste of victory, lessening it somehow as each bubble tells the tale of how much she has sacrificed to reach this point.

After so many close calls, near misses, assassination plots and attempts, Fidel Castro is dead. Time has accomplished what she and so many others like her failed to do.

And perhaps, if she is really honest, the champagne does not taste as fine because every other time she has drunk it she has been in excellent company, and this time she is alone. Victories aren’t nearly as fun without the right person to celebrate with, and the lure of her youth is bright and sharp, the memory of champagne-soaked afternoons a siren song.

She glances at the clock, marking the time, hoarding the last few private moments she has left with her memories. Her family will be calling soon, friends from all over the world.

She sweeps into the master bedroom, heading for the walk-in closet, thumbing through the dresses there, the bright, colorful prints, settling on the perfect one for an evening like this.

He always did like her in red.

She dresses carefully, meticulous in her selections, as exuberant in her fashion choices as she was when she was a girl of twenty-two. She is equally deliberate with her hair, her makeup. She’s never taken much stock in those ridiculous articles advising women to “dress their age.” Everyone knows a woman should dress as she damned well pleases.

The phone rings as she dabs perfume on her neck, behind her ears, as she slips the diamond bracelet onto her wrist to complement the canary diamond ring that has sat on her finger for so very long.

She knows, of course, when the phone rings who is on the other end of the line, has been expecting his call for decades.

She smiles at the sound of the familiar voice.

“Hello, Eduardo.”





chapter twenty-two


OCTOBER 1962

LONDON

Dwyer keeps me updated on the status of the Bay of Pigs prisoners as the months drag on, until a year has passed since I left Palm Beach, then a year and a half. Reportedly, President Kennedy is working on securing the prisoners’ release. There is nothing we can do but wait as the two governments negotiate, as these men are moved around like pawns on a chessboard.

I never realized how lonely spies must be, how difficult it is to wear a mask each day you go out into the world. And even as it is lonely, as it is difficult, I like it. Like what it has made me—