When We Left Cuba(93)

Fidel lounges on one of the couches, a customary cigar in hand, flanked by security men.

I stiffen at the sight of them.

Eduardo mentioned Fidel would be alone, that he often entertains his women in the privacy of his suite, this whole evening arranged by a spy embedded in Castro’s government.

Why isn’t he alone?

“Beatriz Perez, we meet again.”

I walk toward Fidel on shaky legs, attempting to steady myself in my heels, a smile affixed on my face. A drink sits in front of him on the coffee table, and my gaze sweeps over it as I run through the possibilities in my mind of how I can slip the poison into the glass.

Why isn’t he alone?

“Sit.” Fidel gestures toward a chair opposite the couch. “You can leave us,” he says to his security personnel. “We won’t be long.”

My legs tremble as I sink down into the chair. Was Eduardo’s intelligence wrong? Is Fidel interested in me as a woman or not? And regardless, will there be an opportunity to slip the drug into his drink?

“It seems we have friends in common, Miss Perez,” Fidel says smoothly when we are alone.

I can hear the sound of his security personnel talking just outside the door. According to Eduardo, the drug should take effect in minutes, giving me a narrow window to escape before they capture me.

I had envisioned an opportunity to take my clothes off, to slip my hand inside my bra and remove the pill. How do I get Fidel to turn his back to me?

“Do we?” I ask, my pulse jumping.

“We do. Two childhood friends of mine who found their way to Miami to escape Batista’s cruelty.”

And just like that, I know. Like a line of dominoes falling into place, it comes together.

Mr. Dwyer wasn’t wrong to be suspicious of the communist group in Hialeah. The Cuban brothers were indeed the ones to watch.

“Javier and Sergio.”

Fidel nods.

The lingerie I carefully chose, the seductive gown, the time spent perfecting my hair and makeup, none of it matters. The plan was over before it began. All along, Dwyer said Fidel’s espionage was formidable. Apparently, more so than even we imagined.

It appears I am to die in Cuba at the hands of the same man who killed my brother.

Fidel takes another puff of his cigar. “The Americans sent you to kill me, didn’t they?”

I don’t answer.

Everyone warned me not to get involved. Told me this was dangerous, that I was in over my head.

They were right.

“You’re hardly the first they’ve sent to kill me. I imagine you won’t be the last.”

Should I take the pill myself? What will Fidel do to me? Throw me in prison? Sell me back to the Americans? Will Nick pay my ransom?

Will Fidel hurt me to teach me a lesson?

“I wondered why they sent you,” he continues. “Besides the obvious physical charms, of course. And then I remembered that there once was another Perez, remembered you mentioning a brother when we met in New York.”

“His name was Alejandro,” I say, my voice growing stronger. “He was with the Federación Estudiantil Universitaria.”

He nods. “Some of my men were with the FEU. They remembered him. Said he was a good man.”

He was a great man.

“I never had the opportunity to meet him. But I want you to know that I didn’t kill your brother. Or order his death.”

White noise rushes through my ears as I attempt to reconcile his words with every single thing I have held to be true, with the sight of my brother’s dead body, the sound of a car screeching down the road.

“I don’t believe you.”

He shrugs. “Believe what you want. The truth is, it never happened. Maybe it would have eventually, but it had nothing to do with me.”

Even as everything in my nature tells me not to believe him, that he is a man not to be trusted, there is something in his manner, in his voice, in his eyes, that gives me pause.

“I’m not going to believe the word of a murderer and a traitor.”

“That’s your choice. But ask yourself this, why would I lie? What do I have to lose? I’m not afraid of your family, of your father’s reputation. His power isn’t what it once was, is it?”

He takes another puff of his cigar. “In war, these things happen. Men die.”

“At your hands.”

“Do you forget what it was like under Batista? How many Cubans he killed? I did what had to be done. But I didn’t kill your brother. And I didn’t kill your President Kennedy. And because I did not, because your government must know that I did not, I will let you go back and tell them so. I will give you your life.”

I gape at him.

“You will tell them that Cuba had nothing to do with this.”

“I doubt my word will count for much. They suspect Cuban involvement. They’re still going to be looking for answers, trying to understand who did kill Kennedy.”

“Perhaps they should look closer to home then.”

My eyes narrow. “What are you saying?”

“I’m merely suggesting your CIA might have a motive behind Kennedy’s death. That there are groups within your country that viewed the president as a traitor and might have desired to strike at him because of it. I’m sure you don’t know any people like that, do you, Miss Perez?