For Nick.
* * *
• • •
Thanks to Mr. Dwyer’s intelligence, I’ve enrolled in two courses with Ramon. Fortuitously, we’re both studying politics, so it isn’t strange for our paths to cross, and given our shared nationality, I made it a point to seek him out when our program started a year ago, under the auspices of two Cubans alone in London.
Since I’ve been here, the summer of ’61 turning into the fall of ’62, I’ve become more convinced Ramon is guilty of deceiving the CIA and sharing the intelligence he gathers with Fidel, that he was the one who blew Claudia’s cover. I just need proof.
From the beginning, I built our friendship gradually, lest Ramon become suspicious, keeping my cover story as close to the truth as possible: my family left Cuba after the revolution, sent me to London to study due to a family estrangement. I alluded to the scandal in my background without naming it outright, knowing how easily he could place a call and discover I was involved in an affair with a prominent American senator.
If he truly is a spy, it galls a bit that Ramon has never made an effort to recruit me to Fidel’s cause, but his oversight is my gain. I’d rather him underestimate me and lower his guard.
Months of casual friendship have finally converted themselves into a flirtation that has proved most advantageous.
I almost think he’s beginning to trust me.
Silly man.
“Do you have plans for the evening?” he asks as we ride the Tube together after class.
We’re both on the Piccadilly line. I get off at Knightsbridge, Ramon a few stops later at Barons Court. The Cuban intelligence service, the newly formed DGI, Dirección General de Inteligencia, must not pay as well as the Americans.
“Just studying,” I answer as he wraps his arm around me, bringing me against his side. I’ve learned not to flinch, to pretend as though I enjoy his embrace, to mold my body to his.
“Do you want to come over for dinner tomorrow night?” he asks.
For a moment, I’m convinced I’ve misheard him. I’ve been trying to get into his apartment for months now, hoping for an opportunity to snoop around. The more he keeps me at arm’s length, the more convinced I have become that he is a man with secrets, and given the rumors that the DGI is now being heavily influenced by the Soviets, the more valuable his secrets have become.
“I’d love to,” I reply.
“Excellent. It’s a date then.”
I say good-bye to Ramon at the Tube station after we have finalized our plans for tomorrow night, and head home.
I shift my books from one arm to the other as I search my purse for the key to my flat. I live several Tube stops from the university’s campus on the east side of London, but I prefer the distance, the privacy my flat affords, the view of Hyde Park from my bedroom window.
I walk upstairs, stopping when I reach the second floor. I put the key into the lock and turn it, stepping over the threshold.
I freeze.
I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something feels off about my flat.
And then I see him—Mr. Dwyer sitting in the corner, in the big chair where I like to do my reading for classes.
I close the door behind me with a quiet thud.
“I apologize for the break in protocol.” His tone belies his words; he sounds very much like a man who isn’t sorry at all, but rather, is accustomed to people adjusting to the changes in his mood, in his eccentricities.
It’s been nearly a year and a half since we last saw each other.
“Something has come up, and there wasn’t time to go through the normal signal channels. Since I was in town on other matters, I thought it best if I came to see you myself.”
“And how did you get into my flat?”
He smiles. “Old habits. Have to make sure the skills are still sharp.”
“What’s happened?”
“Have you been following the news about the buildup of Soviet military arms in Cuba?”
“I have.”
“The situation has become more dire. There is a Soviet asset who possesses intelligence on that matter that could prove useful. He’s a colonel in the GRU, the Soviets’ foreign military intelligence service. He’s been funneling information to the United States and Great Britain. Due to his position in the Soviet government, we have to be careful how we connect with him. He travels to Britain as part of his job with the scientific delegation for the Soviets, and he’s in town at the moment. We want you to attend a party he will be at tonight. He will slip you the information we need. Tomorrow morning, you will go to Hyde Park and follow regular procedure to give us the microfilm.”
Dwyer slides a picture of a man in military uniform across the coffee table to me.
“You are to wear a red dress and to pin a red flower in your hair. We took the liberty of doing some shopping for you. The items are in your bedroom. The colonel will be on the lookout for you, and he knows what you will be wearing. He’s very, very careful, given his precarious position, but he’s also a professional. I know this is new for you, but we wouldn’t send you if we didn’t think you could handle it. You’ve done good work here, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
“Why me? Why not one of your more experienced assets? Someone who has actually received formalized training.”
“Because you aren’t experienced. He risks his life helping us; if the Soviets learned what he was doing, they would execute him. I don’t have to worry anyone has intelligence on you. Only a very small group of people I would trust with my life know what you do for me.”
“Speaking of the people you trust—”
“I haven’t heard anything about Eduardo. As far as I know, he is still doing well. Kennedy continues working on negotiating his release along with that of the other remaining prisoners.”
“It’s taking forever.”
Eduardo and the other men have spent nearly eighteen months in prison.
“Diplomacy too often does. I prefer my methods for that very reason.”
At the moment, I do, too.
“Will you go to the party tonight?” he asks me.
“Of course.”
* * *
• • •
I dress in the gown they selected for me, torn between amusement and embarrassment over the idea of Dwyer choosing my outfits. The dress is elegant, and red, certainly not the sort of thing one wears to blend into shadows.
I tuck the flower behind my ear. I glance at the photo one last time before I leave, attempting to commit the Soviet’s face to memory.