“I do. At the moment, though, I don’t have proof, and we have to be careful with these agents. We can’t risk burning bridges. We need them to turn against Castro and spy for us. At the same time, someone is feeding intelligence to Fidel. The sort of intelligence that caused the disaster at the Bay of Pigs. I need to know who I can trust.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“We want you to set up a life as a student in London. To cross paths with Ramon. Catch his interest. See if you can discern where his loyalties lie.”
“I would go to university for real.”
“You would. I imagined you would like to study politics.”
“And my living expenses?”
He smiles. “You would be compensated for the work you do for us, of course. In addition to what we’ve already paid you. You’re becoming a wealthy woman, Miss Perez.”
It appears I’m headed for London, not Madrid.
* * *
• • •
NOVEMBER 26, 2016
PALM BEACH
In truth, the champagne does not taste as good as she’d imagined it would. It is a fine bottle, of course, an exceedingly expensive one, an exquisite vintage of one of her favorite brands. And still—when this moment had played out in her mind, hundreds, thousands of times, she’d drained the champagne flute under different circumstances, in different company.
Time has tempered the taste of victory, lessening it somehow as each bubble tells the tale of how much she has sacrificed to reach this point.
After so many close calls, near misses, assassination plots and attempts, Fidel Castro is dead. Time has accomplished what she and so many others like her failed to do.
And perhaps, if she is really honest, the champagne does not taste as fine because every other time she has drunk it she has been in excellent company, and this time she is alone. Victories aren’t nearly as fun without the right person to celebrate with, and the lure of her youth is bright and sharp, the memory of champagne-soaked afternoons a siren song.
She glances at the clock, marking the time, hoarding the last few private moments she has left with her memories. Her family will be calling soon, friends from all over the world.
She sweeps into the master bedroom, heading for the walk-in closet, thumbing through the dresses there, the bright, colorful prints, settling on the perfect one for an evening like this.
He always did like her in red.
She dresses carefully, meticulous in her selections, as exuberant in her fashion choices as she was when she was a girl of twenty-two. She is equally deliberate with her hair, her makeup. She’s never taken much stock in those ridiculous articles advising women to “dress their age.” Everyone knows a woman should dress as she damned well pleases.
The phone rings as she dabs perfume on her neck, behind her ears, as she slips the diamond bracelet onto her wrist to complement the canary diamond ring that has sat on her finger for so very long.
She knows, of course, when the phone rings who is on the other end of the line, has been expecting his call for decades.
She smiles at the sound of the familiar voice.
“Hello, Eduardo.”
chapter twenty-two
OCTOBER 1962
LONDON
Dwyer keeps me updated on the status of the Bay of Pigs prisoners as the months drag on, until a year has passed since I left Palm Beach, then a year and a half. Reportedly, President Kennedy is working on securing the prisoners’ release. There is nothing we can do but wait as the two governments negotiate, as these men are moved around like pawns on a chessboard.
I never realized how lonely spies must be, how difficult it is to wear a mask each day you go out into the world. And even as it is lonely, as it is difficult, I like it. Like what it has made me—
Brave, strong, independent.
There is likely no better place for recovering from a broken heart than London. In the time since I arrived, I’ve settled into my new life, taking up residence in a cozy flat in Knightsbridge, adjusting to university, my courses as interesting as I once imagined they would be, my classmates equally so.
The anonymity I have craved for so long is finally available to me here, and I can just be Beatriz, politics student—and occasional CIA spy.
My parents were surprised by the news that I had settled in London rather than Madrid, likely more so by my announcement that I had no need for their money. I imagine they both think I’ve been pensioned off by Nick and the like, but we do not speak of such things, and quite frankly, it’s none of their business anyway.
The chasm between my parents and me has never felt greater, in part, perhaps, due to the physical distance between us, but also a result of the fight between my mother and me. Now that we’ve aired our true feelings, now that we’ve said too much, we cannot go back to the way things were, and so we exist in a state of détente, largely ignoring each other, the ocean between us welcome.
Elisa sends me photos of Isabel’s wedding, writes letters imploring me to return home, inviting me to stay with her and her family. I have little to say to Isabel besides a cursory note congratulating her on the wedding.
I write back to Elisa, and I tell her of my classes, the fun I’ve had perusing the markets on the weekends for pieces to decorate my flat. I tell her about my classmates, the friends I’ve made, the nights out at bars and restaurants where no one cares what my last name is, where no one is trying to marry me off.
I don’t tell her about Ramon Martinez, Claudia’s ex-boyfriend, or the signals I receive from Dwyer. If the phone I’ve installed in my flat rings three times, I’m to go to a drop in Hyde Park where a stranger will pass me a note from Dwyer. If I prop a plant in my windowsill, we are to meet in Hyde Park the next day, the information ferried to Dwyer by random assets with whom I never exchange more than a cursory “hello.”
There are other ways I earn my paycheck from the CIA. I go to parties, observe persons of interest, and report back. The skills one adopts as a socialite—the art of making polite conversation while attempting to discern another’s secrets, the art of observing those around you and using those observations to your advantage—have provided a nearly seamless transition to spy.
If there are hiccups in my life here, they are of a personal nature.
I don’t read the American papers. In my weaker moments, when I lie alone in bed, staring up at the ceiling, I imagine Nick is married now, that they have a child together. That he’s forgotten me.
There are men, of course. Men who take me to dinner, take me dancing, men I meet at the parties I attend. There are men, and the occasional kiss, and my never-ending faux flirtation with Ramon, but it is as though there is a hole in my chest where my heart used to be. There is laughter, and parties, and freedom. And there is homesickness—not just for Cuba now, but for Palm Beach, for my sisters.