When We Left Cuba(97)

Eduardo squeezes my hand, pressing a kiss to my cheek before he releases me.

“Of course you will. We’ll dance at the Tropicana someday.”



* * *



? ? ?

The boat begins to move, cutting through the sleek water, through the dark night. The waves hit the sides with thick slaps. Havana drifts farther and farther away, until the city is little more than a speck in the distance, the open water ahead.

Dreams never die all at once. They die in pieces, floating a little farther and farther away each day. So there’s no longer an island before you, no longer Havana, the crash of waves along the Malecón vanishing, until the speck disappears completely. All you once clutched to your breast and held so deeply in your heart ceases to exist, slipping through your fingers like the sand that once lay beneath your feet.

And you are alone. And in that moment, you have a choice— You can either succumb to the deep dark, cast yourself unto the sea, the weight of all you have lost simply too great and impossible to regain. Or you can turn around, putting the past behind you, and look forward.

To brighter days, to the future, to freedom.

To home.





chapter thirty-six


When I return from Havana, the Palm Beach house is as I left it, save for the fact that Nick’s things are gone. And still, I am immeasurably grateful for the comfort and familiarity of it in the face of all that transpired while I was gone.

Even now, without Nick here, it feels like home.

I send my report off to the CIA, hearing nothing in return from Dwyer. A week passes, and I spend my days alone, but for the occasional walk with my sisters. I crave the solitude now, a mourning of my own, perhaps. I don’t tell them about my trip or about Eduardo. We all have our secrets.

A man waits for me near the veranda when I return from my walk one morning.

“Beautiful house,” he comments when he sees me.

I smile. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Yours?”

“It is. Would you like a drink?”

Dwyer nods, following me through the enormous glass doors, into the sitting room, where he sits while I pour him a drink.

I hand him the glass and take a seat opposite his, sipping the mimosa I poured for myself, needing the liquid courage.

“I’m glad to see you are alive,” Dwyer says after a beat. “I heard things were complicated in Cuba. You have my apologies. I didn’t know about Eduardo. We do our best to prevent these things from happening, but sometimes they’re outside of our control.”

“I don’t blame you. I’ve known him since we were children, and I never suspected he would work with Fidel.”

“You were close.”

“I thought we were,” I admit.

“I read your report. You said he saved your life.”

“He did. Javier would have killed me. I doubt I would have gotten lucky twice.”

“Then perhaps there was still enough of the man you knew in him.”

“How do you do it?” I ask. “The secrets? The lies? How do you trust anyone? How do you stomach it?”

“It’s a cliché, of course, but it becomes easier. And you learn. Not to trust anyone but yourself.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t trust you?”

“You most definitely should not trust me, Miss Perez. Eduardo was a lesson for you. A hard one. We all have one in our career. You won’t forget it.”

“But how could I have been so wrong about him? I thought we understood each other, that we were the same.”

“The truth is always so very complicated. I’m supposed to say people rarely surprise me, that I’ve become so good at reading them that I can predict their actions and all that nonsense, but that’s not true at all. People are constantly surprising me. The world is not so black-and-white, Miss Perez. There is a great deal of gray. And the truth is, there is a possibility that you and Eduardo Diaz are similar, that you do understand each other, and that you still stand on opposite sides.”

“So where does that leave us then? Is this all for nothing?” I take a deep breath. “I failed. Fidel is still alive.”

“I wouldn’t judge yourself too harshly. You’re in good company. Everyone we’ve sent in has failed. Some men are simply harder to kill than others.”

“It seems unfair that he should live when so many good men have died for his revolution. I wanted revenge for my brother. Where is the justice?”

“There is very little fairness in my job. There is luck, and planning, and grueling hours, and hard work, but sometimes these things happen. It can be discouraging. Can make you question why you do the work.”

“Why do you?”

“Because I like it. Because I’m good at it. Because I believe everyone has a purpose to their life and this is mine. Because sometimes we do win, even if we lose a fair share, too. There’s always another fight. Another problem to solve. Another country to fix.”

“You could always let them fix their own problems.”

“We could. But often their problems are America’s problems. Besides, no one complains when we intervene in situations where our presence is needed, where it’s welcomed. The line between villain and hero is whisper thin and, very frequently, a matter of perspective. Gray, Miss Perez. We operate in the gray.”