The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(43)
I am more determined than ever to do my part to see this war to its natural conclusion, with the stakes for independence higher than ever. The Spanish have demonstrated what they will do if they’re given unfettered reign on the island, and the Americans have certainly been hesitant to intervene on our behalf.
Washing clothes for the city’s elite has turned out to be both the difference between us going hungry and being able to sustain ourselves, and has also provided the perfect opportunity to pass intelligence throughout the city. Through a referral from one of the women in the network Luz was acquainted with, I’ve begun laundering linens for some of the American diplomatic staff in their private quarters, and today I received a note folded in some sheets from one of the consular officers, asking me to meet an American who has a job for me.
The American is staying at the Hotel Inglaterra on the Paseo del Prado, in front of the Parque Central, the lodging reportedly frequented by the likes of Maceo and Martí when they were alive. The hotel’s café is a popular gathering place for artists and intellectuals who meet to discuss the war and Cuba’s future.
I travel to the hotel’s guest rooms on the second floor, following the instructions my contacts gave me.
I knock twice on the door, gazing around the empty hallway. In my current attire, everyone makes a concerted effort not to make eye contact with me as I pass by them. My appearance provides the perfect opportunity to work as a courier because no one, least of all the wealthy and privileged citizens of Havana, wants to confront the human face of this war.
When the door to the room opens, I am greeted by my past.
The man on the other side isn’t the American I expected, but the very familiar face of Carlos Carbonell, my father’s old friend and a banker in the city. I haven’t seen him since my marriage to Mateo all those years ago, and I certainly never would have envisioned him working as an intermediary between the revolutionaries and the Americans.
He smiles at me. “Marina. It’s been a long time. It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too,” I say cautiously, recovering from my initial surprise.
It’s clear he was prepared to see me again, but the connection to my past makes me nervous, stripping away some of the anonymity I clung to for safety. The stakes are high, the punishment for spying severe, and I cannot bear the thought that something might happen to my daughter because of my efforts with the revolutionaries, or the possibility that something will happen to me and Isabella will be left without both parents.
Carlos Carbonell is a complication I didn’t see coming. With his connections, he’s well-placed to pass information around, but I never took him for a revolutionary. My parents and their friends are far more concerned with keeping things as they are so as to not affect their wealth and power than they are with upending the system to make the world a better place.
Carlos moves away from the doorway, allowing me to enter the room.
My cheeks heat as our gazes connect. I’ve never been overly concerned with my appearance, but I’m uncomfortably aware of how much has changed in my physical appearance, manner of dress, and toilette since he last saw me. A rush of gratitude fills me at the respect he affords me and the lack of pity he allows to slip through his expression—he treats me as though I am the same person I was, as though he understands my pride.
Whatever Carlos’s involvement in this, it must be important, since clearly, he’s better informed on what to expect than I am.
I cross the threshold and wait while Carlos shuts the door behind me.
Another man sits in the room quietly, his gaze trained on me.
The American.
Carlos makes the introductions as I settle into one of the chairs in the room, and then the American man whom he introduces as Karl Decker takes over. There’s no time for pleasantries; meeting like this is already risky enough as it is. If we are caught together—
“I’ve heard you’re able to get messages to prisoners in Recogidas,” Decker says. “That you’re familiar with the prison.”
I nod. Doing some of the jail’s laundry has given me access to the women imprisoned there, and I’ve carried messages back and forth for a few of the political prisoners.
“Does this look correct?” Decker asks me, sliding a plan of the prison in front of me.
I scan the diagram contained there.
“Bryson got it a few months ago,” Decker adds. “He also has a list of the guards and the schedule for when they do their rounds.”
Is this Bryson another American? What’s their interest in Recogidas? I can’t think of an American prisoner there at the moment, but I don’t know everyone.
“From what I remember, this looks correct to me,” I reply.
“There is a girl in Recogidas—her name is Evangelina Cisneros,” Carlos says.
The name is familiar. I’ve heard the whispers about her, although I’ve never met her myself. They say her father was imprisoned as a revolutionary.
“We need to break her out of Recogidas,” Decker adds.
I gape at him. “That’s why you’re here?”
This has escalated from dangerous to deadly. Recogidas is a fortress.
For a moment, I contemplate getting up and walking out of the room. It is one thing to take risks when Cuba’s future is on the line, but I don’t see how breaking this woman out of prison serves Cuba.