Is it the swaying palms?
What if can’t convince someone to smuggle me out of Havana?
What has happened to Eduardo?
Silence fills the night.
I keep digging.
My gaze drifts to the Rodriguez house as I dig. Are our neighbors and old family friends still in residence? I yearn to see Ana once more, even though it would be too risky to embroil her in our affairs.
Cuba is perhaps now more dangerous than it ever was.
The shovel hits something solid beneath the ground.
I fall to my knees, the dress I bought to seduce Fidel covered in dirt. My fingers brush the wooden box my father used to keep in his study. I recognize it instantly. He hid money there sometimes, too, and after Alejandro was disowned, I used to steal cash from the box to give to my brother. My father always replaced the money, and even though we didn’t speak of it, he had to have known.
I pull the box from the ground, lifting the lid and flipping through the contents.
My father is not one for sentimentality, and at the moment, I am grateful for it. The box is filled with jewelry, money, things that were once our family legacy, valuable items we couldn’t take with us when we were forced to leave Havana.
It’s enough to convince someone to risk their life to take me back to Florida.
There’s a brief instant when I hesitate, the thought of using our family heirlooms to save me a painful one.
And yet, the truth is, at the moment, I can’t think of a better use of them, and I’m fairly certain my father would agree. What we once held as so valuable no longer seems to matter anymore.
I gather the box in my hands.
The rustling sound is back, the palm trees, I imagine.
The moonlight shifts.
A man steps in front of me, a gun pointed at my chest.
chapter thirty-four
The box slides from my hands, hitting the metal shovel with a clunk as I stare down the barrel of the gun, and face the man holding it.
We haven’t seen each other in over two years, but it only takes a moment for me to place him.
We’ve both come a long way since those meetings in Hialeah.
“Javier, isn’t it?”
He grunts in acknowledgment.
“Did you come here for me?” I ask.
“I’ve been in Cuba for some time now. And then I heard you had shown up.”
“Who told you that?”
“Does it matter, really? The CIA thinks they’re so good at keeping secrets. Their arrogance prevents them from realizing that others are good at learning them.”
“Fidel won’t let you get away with this,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “He wants me to carry a message back to the Americans.”
Javier shrugs. “He won’t know what happened to you. It’s not like there will be a body to find.”
“What will you do with me?”
“Shoot you. Throw your body in the ocean.”
“Why?”
“Ramon was my cousin.”
So that was the connection between Claudia and the Hialeah group. It would have been helpful for Dwyer to give me a little warning, though at this point the secrets have become expected.
“He was a murderer.”
“Claudia had it coming. She was a traitor to her people.”
“I suppose it’s all a matter of perspective.”
“She worked for the CIA. Like you. She was a traitor, like you.”
I laugh. “And you’re what, exactly? A hero to the Cuban people? That group you were involved with was a joke. A bunch of kids playing at revolution who knew nothing.”
“Like your Lee Harvey Oswald?”
A chill slides down my spine.
“It’s so easy to inspire these Americans when they’re desperate to belong to something bigger than themselves. So easy to recruit them to the cause when you fill their heads with notions of glory in battle. I imagine it’s not that different than the approach the CIA took when they recruited you. What was it, ‘a chance to save Cuba’? The CIA has no problem involving themselves in Cuba’s affairs, sending agents to meddle in our national sovereignty, attempting to destabilize our government. Why shouldn’t we do the same to them?”
My eyes narrow. “Were you the one who blew my cover?”
“Ramon contacted his handler with questions about you the night before he disappeared. He saw you at some party, talking to a Soviet colonel. My aunt asked me to look into what happened to him. I recognized your name from our meetings in Hialeah.
“Ramon was my aunt’s only son,” he adds. “I made her a promise that I would see his killer dead. Given what I’ve heard about you, I would think you would understand that.”
“So this isn’t just about Cuba. It’s personal for you, too.”
He cocks the gun in response.
I reach for the shovel, swinging it in the air, high above his head.
It’s unlikely I will escape death twice, but I have to try.
I bring the shovel down, but before it can connect with his head—
A shot fills the night air.
The shovel drops to the ground, and I brace, but where I expect to feel pain, there is nothing.
No blood.
Javier crumples to the ground in front of me.
Eduardo stands behind him, a pistol in hand.
* * *
• • •
“Did you kill him?” I ask, a tremor in my voice.
“I hope so.”
Eduardo checks the body.
My legs tremble.
He nods. “He’s dead.”
“What happened? Where were you? I looked for you when I left the hotel.”
“We got hassled by some officers. By the time they let us go, you were already gone. I guessed you might come here.”
“He was going to kill me.”
“You had it in hand.”
“Not this time.”
“What happened with Fidel?” Eduardo asks, his voice grim.
“He knew. Before we came, he knew. My cover was blown. He met with me because he wanted me to pass a message on to the CIA. It’s over. It’s all over. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” Eduardo’s gaze sweeps over the backyard. “Someone will have heard the shot. We need to get out of here. Now. We’ve missed the boat that was scheduled to get us out, but—”