When We Left Cuba(71)
The sight of the brick row of buildings in front of me brings relief, the familiarity of my street a comfort now. I enter the edifice, and when I reach my floor, I slip the key in the lock, pushing the door to my flat open and letting it close behind me, the deadbolt clicking into place.
I shrug out of my coat, hanging it on the coat rack near my front door, and at once, I am met with the same feeling as before—the sensation that I am not alone. I take two steps forward, ready to greet Dwyer and be done with the microfilm, only to stop in my tracks.
My instincts haven’t failed me.
I’m not alone.
But it isn’t Dwyer staring back at me.
chapter twenty-four
“Ramon.”
It takes a moment for me to attempt to reconcile all of the reasons he could be here, only to quickly come to the conclusion that whatever his reason, it isn’t good.
Ramon rises from his seat, still dressed in the same tuxedo from last night. Even in that simple motion, I see the change in him, the mask slipping, the quiet student replaced by someone far more formidable.
“Sit down.” He gestures to one of the vacant chairs at the little table that functions as my dining space.
A gun lies in front of him; his finger rests on the cold black metal.
I don’t move.
“I wondered, you know. When I first saw you at the party, my initial thought was you were there for the same reason I was. But I dismissed it, because, well, I didn’t take you for a spy. My mistake, of course.”
What am I going to do?
“CIA? MI6?”
He’s going to kill me. Just like he killed his girlfriend Claudia. My great battle with Fidel has now come to this—me dying at the hands of one of his spies, a traitor to our country.
“It doesn’t matter, I guess. We both know why you were there last night.”
I scan the little flat, looking for salvation, for something to get me out of this mess.
“I’m going to need the microfilm now.” His expression hardens to flint; he holds his hand out to me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I don’t have to feign discomfort as I stumble over the words, my fear all too genuine. “I told you why I was at the party. That man—we were together when I lived in the United States. We’ve been involved for a long time. Our affair is why my family sent me to London in the first place.”
I walk toward the table, setting the purse containing the microfilm on one of the chairs.
Ramon’s gaze follows the motion as I’d hoped it would, my bright red clutch like a cape before a bull.
I glance at the gun.
Leave it on the table. Go for the microfilm. Give me a chance—
He doesn’t.
Ramon strides toward my clutch, the gun dangling from his free hand with the insouciance of a man who can switch from idle to killer with a moment’s notice, and who doesn’t view me as very much of a threat at all.
My gaze darts to the knife block sitting in the kitchen I never use, the blades still sharp. There’s a sliver of time, a heartbeat of opportunity, and the odds that I will be able to overpower him are slim, if I fail—
What does it matter? I’ll die anyway.
Ramon opens my clutch.
I lunge for the knife block.
He turns as my hand wraps around the largest handle, pulling it from its wooden sheath, adrenaline crashing through me.
In a flash of speed, he’s in front of me, his hand on my wrist as we wrestle for the knife.
If he were a bigger man, I’d be dead by now, but with his slight build, we are on a more even playing field, even if he maneuvers me with a level of skill in which I am outmatched.
As quickly as it began, it’s over, my hand empty, the knife tumbling to the floor.
I’m going to die.
I’m not sure if it’s my life that flashes before my eyes, but it’s something. Moments flicker.
The Malecón. A Havana sunrise. The ocean lapping over my skin. Nick’s mouth on mine. My sisters’ laughter. Our nanny, Magda, telling me there are untrustworthy men in the world, and that if I ever find myself in a situation where one tries to take advantage of me, I should hit him where it hurts, her voice low to avoid my mother overhearing her.
I bring my knee up as hard as I can, connecting with Ramon’s groin, our gazes meeting, surprise and anger in his eyes—pain—as he doubles over, as his hand comes up, my fingers finding his, wrapping around cold metal, grasping—
We both grab the gun a moment before it fires.
chapter twenty-five
I slip my hand inside the pocket of my coat, hiding the cuts from the front desk receptionist, the spot of blood near my fingernail I missed when I scrubbed my skin earlier.
My old clothes were disposed of, the beautiful red gown ruined by Ramon’s blood and mysterious pieces of body matter best left unexamined. I chucked my outfit in the bin after I called my contact and told them I needed a cleanup in my flat, the blood pooling around Ramon’s dead body. His gun had a silencer on it, but still. It will only be so long before the neighbors investigate the sounds of our struggle.
How long before a dead body starts to smell?
I didn’t bother waiting around for questions, or give myself time to contemplate how lucky I was, the sheer fortune of my finger reaching the trigger before his did, the fortuitousness that it was pointed at him and not me at that exact, precipitous moment.