“The mysterious Claudia?”

He smiles. “Ahh, Claudia. No, Claudia is something else entirely.”

“Your spy?”

“Something like that.”

“So what do you want me to do about the brothers?”

“At the moment, I haven’t decided. On their own, they are just two Cuban instigators. I want to know if they are part of a broader network, if there are efforts to expand the Hialeah group, if there are plots in place that must be stopped. I want you to be my eyes and ears. I want to parlay your role in the Hialeah group into something greater. Do they trust you?”

“I don’t think so. They accept me because I am Cuban; I think they believe me when I speak of my hatred of Batista—that much is real, at least.”

“But they don’t trust you.”

“I am no communist.”

“No, you aren’t. Here’s a piece of free advice, Miss Perez. The best spies are the ones who can find a kernel of truth they can cling to, around which they can craft their covers. When their covers are threatened, their identities called into question, it’s that kernel they are able to cleave to in order to see themselves through.

“Yours is your brother. Make them trust you.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then I misjudged you. A good spy must be willing to do whatever it takes for the mission. To be frank, we’ve tried to get close to Fidel before with no success. I’ve learned from those failures. I will not send someone in who will bungle the job. You want your shot at Fidel? You must prove yourself first.”

chapter eighteen

Nick and I celebrate Valentine’s Day together in private. I purposefully avoid the society pages, knowing if I look, I will see a picture of him with his fiancée at the Heart Ball. I pleaded a cold to be excused by my family from the entire event. I thought my mother would insist upon my presence, but the fear of me out in public looking anything but my best dispatched with that problem.

Instead, Nick and I spend the weekend together, commemorating the occasion with my favorite champagne and moonlight swims when the beach is abandoned.

I wish I could say it was an entirely happy occasion, but as the weekend wears on, as Sunday afternoon looms before us, I sense a change in Nick; he is quiet when he would normally be flirtatious and affectionate, his expression grim. His mood is infectious, and a sense of melancholy descends upon both of us. I spend the weekdays looking forward to the weekends when he is home, but once we are together again, I can’t help but feel a sense of dread that our time together is far too short and will rapidly come to an end.

“What do you do when I’m gone?” he asks, trailing his fingers down my naked back as I lie on my stomach beside him in bed on Sunday afternoon.

“What do you mean?”

“When I’m in Washington. How do you fill your days?”

The nature of our affair doesn’t exactly lend itself to inquiring too closely about the other’s whereabouts. Is he jealous, or is it an innocent question, an attempt to envision my routine when we are apart?

“What are you asking me, exactly?”

“Nothing. I’m just curious.”

“Would you like me to ask the same of you? What you do when we’re not together? How was the Heart Ball, for example?”

“You knew I had to take her.”

“I did. And I didn’t ask you anything about it. Nor did I hold it against you.”

“You could have.”

I search his expression, attempting to figure out what is prompting this. Despite what he says, there’s more than simple curiosity in his tone.

“Are you jealous?” I ask, harkening back to my original guess. “Is that what this is, you’re worried I’m with another man?”

“No, I’m not worried about another man.”

“Then what are you worried about?”

He stops stroking my back.

“Why do you go to a house in Hialeah known for communists who are aligned with Fidel Castro?”

My stomach sinks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I sputter.

“Don’t you? I thought we didn’t lie to each other. I thought we had honesty between us, at least.”

“We do.”

“You’re lying to me now.”

I am, but doesn’t he understand how dangerous all of this is, that I am trying to protect him from the political scandal, trying to protect myself?

“This is Dwyer’s doing, isn’t it? Another plot you have going with the CIA. What do they have on you?”

“Nothing.”

“Then you’re just doing this out of what, the kindness of your heart? Please tell me you’re at least getting something out of it, that you aren’t so stupid as to risk your safety on Dwyer’s say-so.”

I bristle at the word “stupid.”

“They pay me.”

“How much?”

“Enough.”

The deposit is made into the account the CIA opened for me monthly, my nest egg growing to a comfortable amount. I’m not even sure what I’m saving the money for, only that the revolution has taught me the importance of having a safety net.

“Why are you so worried about having money?” he asks.

“Spoken like someone who has never had to worry about not having money.”

His family made their fortune in steel and railroads a long time ago, and by all accounts, Nick Preston could never work a day in his life and remain a wealthy man.

“And if someone paid you more to stop?”

I reel back as though he’s slapped me.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Worry about you?”

“There’s a difference between worrying about me and treating me as though I am for sale.”

“We’re all for sale, Beatriz. It’s just a matter of finding the right price.”

“And what’s your price?”

“Have you really not figured it out by now?”

“Political ambition.”

He almost looks disappointed by my answer. By me. “Hardly.”

“Well, you can’t afford my price.”

“And Dwyer can?”

“For the moment, Dwyer and I are on the same side.”

“For the moment,” he agrees. “But you seem to forget we’re on the same side, too.”

“Are we? It doesn’t seem like it.”

“I’m trying to be on your side. I’m trying to understand. But it isn’t easy. You’re exhausting. You act as though your indignation makes you superior to the rest of us, as though you can look down your nose at everyone for not being Cuban, for not taking the risks you take. Not all of us have the luxury of setting the world on fire, simply because we’re angry. We must work within the confines of the system, must make changes where we can.”

“These are people’s lives at stake. I can’t stand by and watch what’s happening over there. It’s killing me day by day. It’s time to fight back.”

“Isn’t that the whole problem, though? You wanted a revolution, and you got one. Now you’re unhappy with what the revolution wrought.”

“I didn’t want Fidel.”

“But he’s what you have now. So let’s say you get rid of him. Then what?”

“We have a chance.”

“Do you really think that’s what the CIA is fighting for? To give Cubans a chance? Do you think they’re overthrowing him out of the goodness of their hearts? You’re smart, Beatriz. How can you not see the deal you’ve made?

“They want Fidel out of the way because he has nationalized their sugar companies and threatened their businesses. They want to remove him because he won’t play ball with them like Batista did. Because they don’t want the Soviets to have an ally in our backyard. Because they don’t want communism to spread to the rest of Latin America and the world. This isn’t altruistic, and it isn’t about Cuba. No one cares about Cuba, not really. They care about America’s position in the world. And they’re willing to sacrifice you to achieve their goals. You’re going to get yourself killed. All because you can’t see past your anger. All because you take risks no sane person would take.”

“If I’m so reckless, why are you here with me? Why don’t you walk away? Why don’t you go back to your fiancée and your comfortable life?”

“You don’t think my life would be a million times easier if I weren’t here with you right now? If I were in Washington D.C. doing the job I’m supposed to be doing, the job I was elected to do, rather than here, fighting with you? Do you think I’m proud of the man I’ve become? That I don’t feel sick every single time I look in the mirror? I’ve broken my vows before I’ve even made them.”

“Then go.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be here with you. I want to be here with you more than anything else. And at the same time, you’re never going to stop pushing me away, are you? You’re not going to give us a real chance. You’re just biding your time until you can return to Cuba. I’m what—a convenient distraction?”

“Of course not. And I hardly think I’ve been pushing you away.”

“I’m not talking about your body, Beatriz.”

There’s a sharpness to his tone I’m not used to hearing when he speaks to me.

“I’m talking about everything else. The secrets you keep. The double life you lead.”

“You have everything else.”