When We Left Cuba(98)
“And Cuba? What will you do about Fidel?”
“Keep trying. There’s always another plot in motion.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t kill me.”
“These are dangerous times for Castro. He has to know we’re looking at him for Kennedy’s assassination. He can’t provoke us further. We’ve shown a remarkable amount of restraint so far, but if we throw the weight of the American government and military behind removing him from power, he stands no chance.”
“Do you think he killed the president?”
“I don’t.”
“But you saw it as an opportunity to remove him regardless.”
“That’s my job, Miss Perez. Seeing opportunities.” His gaze drifts around the room. “This really is a beautiful house.” He turns his attention back to me. “What will you do? What are your plans for the future?”
“I don’t know. Continue my education now that I have the means to do so regardless of my parents’ wishes. I wanted to be a lawyer when we lived in Cuba. Perhaps I’ll go to law school one day.”
He smiles. “For what it’s worth, I think you would make an excellent lawyer. I take it then our days of meeting in roadside diners and hotel bars are behind us?”
“My cover was blown. Fidel knows everything.”
“That cover is useless to us, yes. But that’s the beautiful thing about covers. You can always reinvent yourself.”
“But Fidel—”
“Not Cuba, no. Indirectly, perhaps, you could still keep a hand in, but it would be too dangerous to have you actively involved in missions now that your cover is blown with Fidel. But like I said before, the world is full of many conflicts, and someone like you would be well-placed to help your country.”
“I’m not American.”
“Aren’t you? Building a home here does not make you less Cuban. Even spies need a home to lay their head every once in a while. You could still go to school, visit your family, live the life you’ve chosen. We would be in regular contact, would look for ways our relationship would benefit each other. It wouldn’t be Cuba, but this war with the Soviets will be a long one, carried out by proxy in many countries. Communism has destroyed Cuba. This is your chance to keep it from destroying the rest of the world. You said you wanted to avenge your brother. There are other ways of honoring his memory. Other ways to serve.
“Our work is often thankless. Soldiers come back from war and are praised for their heroism. We live in a constant state of war and operate under a cover of invisibility. But what we do saves lives. If you’re looking for something to give you purpose in the future, for what it’s worth, I think you would be very good at this line of work. And you would enjoy it.”
“Where would you send me?”
“How do you feel about Europe? I believe your mother has a cousin in Spain, correct? Married to a diplomat?”
He smiles, as though he knows I am already his, the decision already made. Perhaps Cuba is lost for now. But there’s still a fight to be had.
“When do I leave?”
* * *
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NOVEMBER 26, 2016
PALM BEACH
She slips her key into the lock of her Palm Beach estate in the early hours of the morning, the evening spent celebrating with her family and thousands of her countrymen on Calle Ocho. As her palm pushes against the heavy wood, as the door swings open, she knows.
How could she not?
The front door shuts behind her, and she follows the light ahead of her, down the long hallway, the artwork she’s amassed throughout the years flanking her, the antiques collected from her travels abroad, the framed photographs of her family—the next generation—the diplomas she’s earned and proudly hung—
A life well lived.
When she reaches the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that lead out to the veranda, she hesitates, the canary diamond on her ring finger glinting in the light. She’s worn it nearly every day for over fifty years, save for the days when she was in Havana, keeping him close to her, even as her path has taken her farther away.
She turns the doorknob, stepping out into the cool night air. She should be tired considering the late hour, and the fact that she’s no longer a girl of twenty-two, accustomed to creeping into the house as the sun comes up.
They’ll have an hour or so before daybreak, before the sun rises over the water in a brilliant explosion of colors.
She should be tired, but she’s not, running on adrenaline and hope now.
The patio door shuts behind her, and the man standing on her veranda shifts, as though he’s coming to attention. He suddenly seems taller, more broad-shouldered, and for a moment, the image of the man she loved and lost, and the man who stands before her now, his back to her, his gaze cast out to the sea, become one. She’s transported to another time, another place, and another balcony. Another life.
And then he turns.
They’ve seen each other throughout the years, of course.
In a world such as theirs, complete and total obscurity is simply impossible. But there has always been a distance between them, an understanding that they were on separate paths.
Did he read the magazine spread on her? Did he keep up with her legal career? The human rights cases she was involved with? Did he wonder about her other career, the one she lived in shadows, blacked-out reports crossing his Senate desk?