He smiles. “This is your training, Miss Perez. Preparing you for bigger and better things. Now, what do you know about Fidel Castro’s father?”
“Not much beyond the salient points. Like my father, he made his fortune in land and sugar.”
“He did. Those boys—Javier and Sergio—their father worked for Fidel’s father. Fidel is older than they are, of course, but they knew him when they were children. They looked up to him. I believe they are loyal to him.”
“They’ve never mentioned knowing Fidel. Not once. The rest of the group speaks of him as though he is a messianic figure, but the brothers have never shared that they have a personal connection to him.”
Dwyer smiles. “It’s curious, isn’t it? You would think they would want to share their infamous connection with their newfound friends. And yet, they’re silent.”
“What do you think their aim is?”
“I think they’re recruiting for Fidel. Now they’re in the Hialeah group, but they’ve popped up in other places before. Fidel wants to spread communism through the world; what better place than to have it spring up in the United States, to have it infect our country.”
“If they’re recruiting for him, they’re doing so in a curious manner. They aren’t prone to flowery speeches or charismatic overtures. They don’t have the tools Fidel has used so successfully to sway people to his cause.”
“True. But what do they add to the group? A good spy sees everything, can peel back the layers to read a person’s motivations, and to understand how to achieve their aims.”
I consider this. “They tell stories of Batista’s cruelty, portray an image of what Cuba was before. They make it look as though things were terrible when Batista was president.”
“And is that image authentic?”
“You know it is. And at the same time, Fidel certainly isn’t the savior they make him out to be. His brand of politics isn’t much better.”
“So what do they bring to the group?”
“Authenticity,” I answer, thinking back to the youthful eagerness of the others.
“Exactly. They’re the rallying cry. The danger here isn’t that they have some secret connection to Fidel. You saw what happened with the president, the attempted assassination plot by that madman who was arrested in Palm Beach. All it takes is one man. They’re attempting to sew discord in this country, trying to radicalize American communists. And it’s not just the brothers. There are others, you know.”
“The mysterious Claudia?”
He smiles. “Ahh, Claudia. No, Claudia is something else entirely.”
“Your spy?”
“Something like that.”
“So what do you want me to do about the brothers?”
“At the moment, I haven’t decided. On their own, they are just two Cuban instigators. I want to know if they are part of a broader network, if there are efforts to expand the Hialeah group, if there are plots in place that must be stopped. I want you to be my eyes and ears. I want to parlay your role in the Hialeah group into something greater. Do they trust you?”
“I don’t think so. They accept me because I am Cuban; I think they believe me when I speak of my hatred of Batista—that much is real, at least.”
“But they don’t trust you.”
“I am no communist.”
“No, you aren’t. Here’s a piece of free advice, Miss Perez. The best spies are the ones who can find a kernel of truth they can cling to, around which they can craft their covers. When their covers are threatened, their identities called into question, it’s that kernel they are able to cleave to in order to see themselves through.
“Yours is your brother. Make them trust you.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then I misjudged you. A good spy must be willing to do whatever it takes for the mission. To be frank, we’ve tried to get close to Fidel before with no success. I’ve learned from those failures. I will not send someone in who will bungle the job. You want your shot at Fidel? You must prove yourself first.”
chapter eighteen
Nick and I celebrate Valentine’s Day together in private. I purposefully avoid the society pages, knowing if I look, I will see a picture of him with his fiancée at the Heart Ball. I pleaded a cold to be excused by my family from the entire event. I thought my mother would insist upon my presence, but the fear of me out in public looking anything but my best dispatched with that problem.
Instead, Nick and I spend the weekend together, commemorating the occasion with my favorite champagne and moonlight swims when the beach is abandoned.
I wish I could say it was an entirely happy occasion, but as the weekend wears on, as Sunday afternoon looms before us, I sense a change in Nick; he is quiet when he would normally be flirtatious and affectionate, his expression grim. His mood is infectious, and a sense of melancholy descends upon both of us. I spend the weekdays looking forward to the weekends when he is home, but once we are together again, I can’t help but feel a sense of dread that our time together is far too short and will rapidly come to an end.
“What do you do when I’m gone?” he asks, trailing his fingers down my naked back as I lie on my stomach beside him in bed on Sunday afternoon.
“What do you mean?”
“When I’m in Washington. How do you fill your days?”
The nature of our affair doesn’t exactly lend itself to inquiring too closely about the other’s whereabouts. Is he jealous, or is it an innocent question, an attempt to envision my routine when we are apart?
“What are you asking me, exactly?”
“Nothing. I’m just curious.”
“Would you like me to ask the same of you? What you do when we’re not together? How was the Heart Ball, for example?”
“You knew I had to take her.”
“I did. And I didn’t ask you anything about it. Nor did I hold it against you.”
“You could have.”
I search his expression, attempting to figure out what is prompting this. Despite what he says, there’s more than simple curiosity in his tone.
“Are you jealous?” I ask, harkening back to my original guess. “Is that what this is, you’re worried I’m with another man?”
“No, I’m not worried about another man.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
He stops stroking my back.
“Why do you go to a house in Hialeah known for communists who are aligned with Fidel Castro?”