The journey has been fairly uneventful, no run-ins with the Coast Guard, the waves not too choppy, the stars and moonlight breaking through the inky dark night. Minutes ago, the sun receded over the horizon, bathing Havana in its glow for one beautiful moment before night came.
In an hour or so, I will be on my way to see Fidel.
* * *
• • •
Eduardo and a Cuban man who greets him with a quick smile whisk me through the city in a blue Buick, no names exchanged between them, the entire mood of the evening one of urgency. I yearn to linger, have to remind myself this is not the time to explore, that if I am successful in my mission, we will have plenty of days and nights in Havana.
Our destination is the Habana Hilton, now renamed by Fidel to the Habana Libre, a ridiculous moniker if there ever was one.
The capsule of poison Eduardo handed me when we left Palm Beach is tucked securely in my bra. My heart beats against it erratically.
I thought the time spent living in London as a spy had better prepared me for this, imagined that after my experience with Ramon, little could rattle me.
I was wrong.
“You have the plan down?” Eduardo murmurs to me.
I nod, my gaze on the city as it passes us by. If I’m to die in a few hours, let me enjoy these last few moments in Havana.
We arrive at the hotel quickly, and I am ferried in through a service entrance in the back, where another man in a hotel uniform meets us. He doesn’t offer his name, either, merely tells me to follow him up to the leader’s room.
I can’t tell what either of these men think, if they believe I am another one of Fidel’s women and they’re merely arranging a romantic tryst, or if they are also affiliated with the CIA. In the absence of such knowledge, I opt for silence.
“This is where I leave you,” Eduardo says, his words reminiscent of the first time he took me to meet Mr. Dwyer at the restaurant in Jupiter so many years ago.
How far we’ve come.
“You’ll be fine,” he whispers, although I get the sense he is saying it more for himself than for me, and at the moment, I don’t need his reassurance.
I’ve had this date for a long time, and just as when I was a young girl, afraid of the dark and the monsters I imagined loomed beneath my bed, there is power in facing this horror head-on.
With a quick kiss on the cheek, I leave Eduardo behind me, and follow the man in the hotel uniform to an elevator bank, where Fidel’s security men stop us.
I stand still as their hands run over my curves, checking me for weapons, their movements more perfunctory than anything else.
They ask my name, a few more questions, their mood jovial, and I do my best to answer them, to keep my voice steady, relying on the experience I gained from my time in London.
And then we’re boarding the elevator, going up, up, up until we reach Fidel’s floor and the doors slide open, revealing more security men.
They pat me down once more, and then the door at the end of the hall opens, and I cross over into Fidel’s inner sanctum.
* * *
• • •
I’ve imagined this moment for so long, run over the possibilities of how it would transpire hundreds of times, and now that it’s here, I want to savor the moment, but it runs by me too quickly, flashes registering before they’re gone.
Fidel lounges on one of the couches, a customary cigar in hand, flanked by security men.
I stiffen at the sight of them.
Eduardo mentioned Fidel would be alone, that he often entertains his women in the privacy of his suite, this whole evening arranged by a spy embedded in Castro’s government.
Why isn’t he alone?
“Beatriz Perez, we meet again.”
I walk toward Fidel on shaky legs, attempting to steady myself in my heels, a smile affixed on my face. A drink sits in front of him on the coffee table, and my gaze sweeps over it as I run through the possibilities in my mind of how I can slip the poison into the glass.
Why isn’t he alone?
“Sit.” Fidel gestures toward a chair opposite the couch. “You can leave us,” he says to his security personnel. “We won’t be long.”
My legs tremble as I sink down into the chair. Was Eduardo’s intelligence wrong? Is Fidel interested in me as a woman or not? And regardless, will there be an opportunity to slip the drug into his drink?
“It seems we have friends in common, Miss Perez,” Fidel says smoothly when we are alone.
I can hear the sound of his security personnel talking just outside the door. According to Eduardo, the drug should take effect in minutes, giving me a narrow window to escape before they capture me.
I had envisioned an opportunity to take my clothes off, to slip my hand inside my bra and remove the pill. How do I get Fidel to turn his back to me?
“Do we?” I ask, my pulse jumping.
“We do. Two childhood friends of mine who found their way to Miami to escape Batista’s cruelty.”
And just like that, I know. Like a line of dominoes falling into place, it comes together.
Mr. Dwyer wasn’t wrong to be suspicious of the communist group in Hialeah. The Cuban brothers were indeed the ones to watch.
“Javier and Sergio.”
Fidel nods.
The lingerie I carefully chose, the seductive gown, the time spent perfecting my hair and makeup, none of it matters. The plan was over before it began. All along, Dwyer said Fidel’s espionage was formidable. Apparently, more so than even we imagined.
It appears I am to die in Cuba at the hands of the same man who killed my brother.
Fidel takes another puff of his cigar. “The Americans sent you to kill me, didn’t they?”
I don’t answer.
Everyone warned me not to get involved. Told me this was dangerous, that I was in over my head.
They were right.
“You’re hardly the first they’ve sent to kill me. I imagine you won’t be the last.”
Should I take the pill myself? What will Fidel do to me? Throw me in prison? Sell me back to the Americans? Will Nick pay my ransom?
Will Fidel hurt me to teach me a lesson?
“I wondered why they sent you,” he continues. “Besides the obvious physical charms, of course. And then I remembered that there once was another Perez, remembered you mentioning a brother when we met in New York.”
“His name was Alejandro,” I say, my voice growing stronger. “He was with the Federación Estudiantil Universitaria.”