When We Left Cuba(80)
“That man has no shame, does he?” Nick pauses. “So they know about us.”
“I think everyone knows about us at this point. We haven’t necessarily been discreet. Does it bother you?”
“It doesn’t bother me, but it complicates things.”
“I think everything is already pretty complicated now.”
“Yes, it is.” With careful precision, he slices into the meat I overcooked, his knife forced to saw to and fro to cut through the dried bits.
“What did he want?” he asks.
“They want me to go to Cuba,” I repeat.
“Of course they do. And what do you want?”
Silence falls between us.
“You didn’t tell him ‘no,’ did you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Don’t you see what a mistake this is?”
“The only mistake is the fact that Fidel has been able to remain in power for so long.”
“Are those your words or the CIA’s? After London, how can you put yourself at risk again? You saw what comes of the work you do for them. You saw what the stakes are. You got lucky. You could have been killed. Do you really think you can make it into Cuba and back out again? That you can kill Fidel Castro?”
“I have to try. The CIA thinks I have a chance. What do you expect? I’ve always been clear with you where my loyalties lie.”
“And what about my loyalties? Or that this is bigger than Cuba? The Soviets have nuclear weapons trained on us. They shot down one of our reconnaissance planes. The situation is volatile enough as it is, and the only way a safe conclusion will be reached is if cooler heads prevail. This is no time for the Agency or for Dwyer to insert themselves into the diplomatic solutions being crafted. The CIA has been allowed to run rampant for far too long. They’ve become too powerful, too arrogant. They think they’re the ones running the show these days.”
“And perhaps the president has allowed it by doing so little and creating a vacuum where the CIA could step in. The administration is talking about potentially invading Cuba. That’s hardly a diplomatic solution. Why can’t I be one of those solutions? Why are some more acceptable and others not?”
“Because you’re risking your life heedlessly. You aren’t a spy, and you aren’t an assassin.”
“Are you sure about that? Because I did a pretty good impersonation of one in London. You killed men in war. Why is what I am doing any different?”
“This isn’t war, Beatriz. Not yet.”
“Why isn’t it war? Because we’re fighting with other weapons? Because we don’t have planes and tanks?”
“Tell me you aren’t seriously considering this. That you can’t be this foolish.”
“I’m not foolish. You knew this about me all along.”
“I hoped you would realize your life was worth more than this. I thought after what happened in London, after you killed a man, you would come to your senses.”
“And I thought you would understand, considering how much you’re devoted to your work, the things you’re passionate about.”
“I do understand. But that doesn’t mean I don’t worry about you. You won’t let anyone take care of you.”
“I am neither a child nor an invalid. I don’t want to be taken care of.”
“Then what do you want?”
“You, you stupid man. Just you.” I reach for him, my fingers connecting with the warm skin at his neck, threading through his silky hair, pulling him close to me.
“When will you go?” he asks, as though he knows my answer was given a long time ago, his mouth against mine, his arms holding me tight.
“When they send for me,” I answer.
“Then I will pray for peace.”
* * *
? ? ?
Perhaps it was Nick’s prayers, or Kennedy’s cool head, or the success of diplomatic channels, or assets run by men like Mr. Dwyer, but it appears we are to have peace.
“Can you believe it?” Elisa asks over the phone the next day, after the crisis has ended.
The Soviets are to move the missiles out of Cuba. The invasion plans are abandoned, and whatever my role is in all of this, I’ve yet to hear anything from Dwyer. If President Kennedy is to have the appearance of peace, then the CIA will likely have to put their plans on hold. I can’t imagine Mr. Dwyer is pleased. In a way, neither am I.
While I certainly didn’t want a nuclear war to break out, I had hoped that this was the final straw, that the United States would finally rid us of Fidel. And once again, we are disappointed. Nothing is changed. Fidel lives to fight another day.
“I thought we would die,” Elisa says.
“I wondered it myself a time or two,” I admit.
“And now that the crisis is passed, will you stay in Washington D.C.?” Elisa asks. “Or will you go back to London?”
“We haven’t spoken of it. I haven’t decided.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. I liked London, but it didn’t quite feel like home. I’m not sure what does anymore, to be honest.”
Now that the mission with Ramon is over, there’s really no need for me to return. As much as I enjoyed attending school, there are other universities I can attend, other places to live. The problem with a cover is that it’s really not a life. You wear it like a second skin, make yourself believe the truth of it, but once the mission is over, the cover is gone, and you’re left with a sudden need to reinvent yourself.