I give them my real name, talk about my activities in Havana prior to Fidel taking power, expound on my dislike of Batista, my wish for Cuba to be independent from American influence. The Americans’ eyes are wide when I mention my brother was involved in planning the attack on the Presidential Palace. I very much doubt they’ve been anywhere near the kind of violence we lived through during the revolution.
There’s a look of understanding between the two brothers, though, as if they were intimately familiar with Batista’s personal brand of hell. That Batista is living out his days in lavish exile in Portugal without answering for his crimes, the men he killed, his role in delivering us to Fidel, is yet another injustice we’re forced to tolerate.
Once the introductions are complete, and I am somewhat assured Claudia isn’t going to appear and denounce me as an impostor and a spy, the conversation shifts to other topics: namely, the new trade embargo on Cuba.
President Eisenhower has restricted all American exports to Cuba except for a few humanitarian essentials like medicine and some foods. For a country that relies on so much of its foreign goods coming from the United States, it will be a blow to Fidel. But is it enough to destabilize him?
The Hialeah group rails about the embargo for nearly an hour, offering little in the way of meaningful plans or suggestions, and I still struggle to see the danger Dwyer alluded to. The Cuban brothers are largely silent through this discussion, and I follow their lead, contributing little, taking the time to get the lay of the land in an attempt to understand the inner workings of the group.
We agree to meet again in a month, and I head back to Palm Beach.
* * *
• • •
When I arrive at my parents’ house, Eduardo is parked outside, leaning against his snappy red convertible.
“Have you been waiting long?” I ask as I step out of my car.
“Not too long,” he answers.
Eduardo kisses me on the cheek, his gaze running over my appearance, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m just taken aback, that’s all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dressed so . . . austerely?”
“Very funny.”
He’s not wrong, but even in my plainest outfit, I still felt ridiculously overdressed at the communist meeting.
Eduardo trails a finger along the sleeve of my top. “Dare I ask, or are there some things I’m better off not knowing?”
Despite the fact that he’s been my initial contact with the CIA, Dwyer stressed secrecy on the spying front, and the fact that he hasn’t mentioned any of this to Eduardo gives me the impression I shouldn’t, either.
“Better off not knowing,” I reply. “Let me guess, you’re here to whisk me away to acquire more explosives.”
I’ve heard nothing of the dynamite we picked up that evening months ago, of his plans for it, or whether they’ve come to fruition.
“You’re hilarious. I actually wanted to talk to you.”
“Do you want to go for a walk on the beach?” I ask.
It’s become a routine of sorts between us when he’s in Palm Beach, and I’ve missed the time together.
“Of course.”
I follow him down the path, exchanging small talk.
When we arrive at the beach, we both remove our shoes and walk barefoot in the sand.
“How was New York?” he asks.
“Confusing.”
“Was it hard? Seeing Fidel?”
“Harder than I imagined it would be. In the beginning, he looked so ordinary sitting there with everyone else. I suppose I let my guard down a bit. And then it all came rushing back to me: Alejandro’s death, the violence in Cuba, the fear we all felt. La Cabaña, everything. It was like a scream kept building inside me while I sat there staring at his smug, smiling face, and then I couldn’t take it anymore and I had to leave.”
“I heard it went well. That he was interested.”
“I hope he was interested. It was difficult to tell.”
“I have a hard time believing he wouldn’t be interested. You’re beautiful, Beatriz.”
“He was interested as any man is interested, but will that be enough for me to get close to him at a later date? I don’t know.”
I am tired of waiting, of making incremental progress like going to the meeting in Hialeah, while the world around us shifts, Cuba drifting farther and farther away.
“Hopefully, you won’t have to pretend much longer,” Eduardo says.
“Did Dwyer tell you anything about their plans to send me to Havana?”
“No. At the moment, the CIA is preoccupied with other things, not to mention the American presidential election.”
“And you? You’ve been absent quite a bit lately. What’s kept you preoccupied? A woman?”
He laughs. “Not even close.” He reaches out, tugging my hair affectionately. “Don’t you know you’re the only woman in my life?”
I snort. “Hardly.”
“Would you believe I’ve missed you, then?”
I smile. “Perhaps that.”
“I came back to see you. To see how you were doing. I was worried after New York.” He stops walking, and turns to face me, his gaze turning serious. “I heard other rumors about your time in New York.” His eyes narrow slightly. “Did you go to dinner with him?”
I struggle to keep my expression blank. “With who?”
How does he know about this? Was the CIA watching me while I was in New York? I confess I didn’t even think of it, figured I was too far beneath their notice for them to exhaust their resources on someone like me. Did someone else see me and Nick together?
“I heard you looked beautiful. That he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
Is this it? Have I finally ruined my reputation beyond repair? Do people know Nick Preston and I stayed in my hotel room together?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
“So after everything, all the secrets we’ve shared, this is how it is to be between us?”
The disappointment in his eyes strikes a chord within me, but then again, it’s not just my reputation I’m protecting; it’s also Nick’s.
“It was nothing,” I lie again.
“Be careful. He’s a powerful man.”
“Are you really one to lecture me about being careful?” I ask. “Where do you go when you leave Palm Beach? What did you do with the dynamite we picked up that night? Who are you working with? What’s your plan in all of this?”