“Then what do you hope for with this meeting?”

“We want you to draw his attention. Like Fidel, you and your brother were critics of Batista and his policy. We want you to engage Fidel, to convince him you are open to the future he envisions for Cuba. Between your past, and your not inconsiderable charms, we hope that will be enough for him to be interested. After all, Fidel enjoys his women.

“Once you’ve made the initial contact, the next phase will be to send you to Cuba at an expedient time and arrange for him to meet with you there. After you’ve gained his trust, well, then you can remove him from the equation.”

It sounds so simple, and yet, so very ambitious. The CIA’s plan depends on a myriad of factors, each one contingent upon my ability to play the consummate actress.

“And how am I to convince Fidel I harbor no rancor over my brother’s death? That I trust him? I may be able to sell a great many things, but no one in Cuba would believe I would cozy up to my brother’s murderer.”

“There was never any proof tying Fidel to your brother’s death. Who’s to say it wasn’t one of Batista’s men left behind when the president fled the country? That your brother’s murder wasn’t an attempt to strike back at the revolutionaries? Your brother wasn’t involved with the 26th of July Movement, but there were so many groups of young, disaffected men. In the chaos, perhaps your brother was mistakenly targeted?”

Dwyer smiles at me, the effect somewhat chilling.

“We can make the truth be whatever we need it to be, make Fidel believe whatever we need him to believe. It really is quite simple.”

“When it comes time . . .” I swallow. The words stick in my throat.

“To kill him?” Mr. Dwyer finishes for me.

“Yes. Will you help me? I don’t know . . .”

It seems such a silly thing to speak aloud, because of course I don’t know how to kill a man.

“Yes. We will. It will need to be done carefully. We will guide you.” He cocks his head, taking my measure once more. “This is it, Miss Perez, the chance you wanted to take back your country and to avenge your brother. Do we have a deal?”

I clasp his outstretched hand.

“We have a deal.”

chapter nine

I put away my summer dresses and floral prints, the casual shifts I have begun wearing as a concession to the Palm Beach heat, in preparation for my trip to New York. I raid my closet—and my mother’s and sisters’—for the most elegant pieces I can find. I even have a dress made by a seamstress I discovered on one of my shopping expeditions on the mainland. It is sleek, sexy, and if anything will catch Fidel’s attention, this will be it.

Mr. Dwyer has devised an invitation to the Hamptons with one of the many prestigious families his wife is acquainted with as my cover for the weekend. My mother is overjoyed at the prospect of me traveling in such prominent circles, my father too busy to be concerned, my sisters bewildered by the surprise invitation and the friendship I’ve failed to mention all season, yet too caught up in their own lives to worry overmuch about my plans.

Elisa is distracted by her upcoming move to Miami, Isabel dating a local businessman, Maria busy with school and her friends. Their distraction is fortuitous indeed, and they are happy to help me shop and pack for my trip without it raising an alarm.

The flight to New York is pleasant enough. I land at Idlewild Airport and take a cab to the Midtown hotel Mr. Dwyer has arranged for me: an elegant enough structure a blush removed from the fashionable corner of the neighborhood. I’m unlikely to see anyone I know, but my reputation should be preserved should anyone learn I’m staying in the city alone.

Once I’ve checked in to my room and set my suitcase down, I head downstairs, where Mr. Dwyer is waiting for me in our prearranged meeting spot.

The hotel bar is a somewhat depressing place, filled with weary business travelers and men looking for a good time. A man sits in a corner playing the piano with little enthusiasm. There’s nothing unsafe about the hotel, just a tinge of wear to its edges, and while I value the anonymity it provides, part of me wants to head over to the Plaza, where I stayed when my parents brought us on a shopping trip to the city so many years ago, anonymity and budget be damned.

I slide into the empty seat across from Mr. Dwyer.

He doesn’t look up from his newspaper, folded to the crossword section, a black ballpoint pen in hand. He carefully, meticulously, fills a series of squares with block letters, his handwriting neat and just a touch oversize. When he finishes, he sets the pen down on the table, and looks up at me.

“Did you have a pleasant flight?”

“I did.”

“Good. He’s in Harlem.” Mr. Dwyer frowns. “At a place called the Hotel Theresa. We had him at the Shelburne a few blocks away from your hotel, but he stormed out of there with his entourage in tow.”

“What happened?”

“Something about a damage deposit. The press is talking about chickens. Who knows? Likely, he just wanted to thumb his nose at all of us. He claims we’re harassing him. Even complained to the United Nations about it.”

He mutters an invective about Fidel I can’t disagree with.

“He’ll look like a hero to the people,” I muse. “Leaving the comfort and elegance of the Shelburne for Harlem.”

“We’re aware. We tried to get him in at the Commodore, but he wasn’t amenable. The man’s been prancing all over New York City, people fawning all over him like he’s a damn celebrity. He’s receiving world leaders in his hotel room: Khrushchev, Nasser, Nehru.”

I almost feel sorry for the Americans.

“Fidel likes to cause trouble. His brand thrives on chaos, disorder, operating outside of the system. Don’t underestimate him,” I caution.

Mr. Dwyer shoots me a pithy look, conveying the distinct impression that at the moment he has little sympathy or tolerance for my countrymen and me.

“You leave the politics of this visit to me. You just worry about catching his interest.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night. He’s holding court at the Hotel Theresa in an effort to get back at us for not inviting him to the Latin America summit. There will be women there, and we’ll have one of our people put your name on the list.”

“Are you sure you want me to go in under my real name?”

“It will be part of the appeal for Castro,” Mr. Dwyer answers. “Besides, if you pretend to be someone you’re not, the risk is too great that a member of his entourage will recognize you, if not Fidel himself. It is hard enough to gain his trust; starting out with a lie could kill the operation before it even begins.”

Our waitress comes by with a new drink for Mr. Dwyer and asks me what I would like. I order a sidecar while she sets an old-fashioned beside his folded newspaper. The condensation from his drink has edged against the newspaper, blurring the letters in “two across.” He frowns at the smudged ink.

“Any questions?” he asks, once she’s left us alone again.

Only about one thousand.

“What happens next?”

“You talk to him. Flirt. Make an impression. Then you go home. Tell your family you had a wonderful time in the Hamptons. The money we agreed to pay you for this little jaunt will be in the account we opened for you in Palm Beach.”

We settled on five thousand dollars and all of the expenses paid for this trip, deposited in a secret bank account the CIA helped me open.

“Then we’ll look at more occasions to put you in Fidel’s path,” he continues. “It is unlikely he will return to the United States, so it will have to be in Havana. But that attempt will be much more successful if you’ve already established a rapport between you. We’ll be in contact when we have more information.”

Mr. Dwyer reaches into his pocket, pulling out a slim money clip and peeling off a few bills. He tosses the money—enough to pay for both of our drinks—on the table, sliding his chair back and rising. He picks up the newspaper and tucks it beneath his arm.

“It’s ‘fear to.’”

He pauses. “Excuse me?”

“Forty-seven across. The answer you were looking for is ‘fear to.’”

What might be a smile flashes across his face. “So it is. ‘Where angels fear to tread.’ Imagine that.” He winks, and with a quick “Good luck, Miss Perez,” he is gone.

I drain my drink, resisting the urge to order another. My mother drilled the risk of overindulgence into all of us, but then again, she never would have approved of any of this, so in for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.

The same waitress from earlier returns to the table, clearing away Mr. Dwyer’s drink.

“He’ll never leave his wife,” she says to me.