He smiles. “You would be compensated for the work you do for us, of course. In addition to what we’ve already paid you. You’re becoming a wealthy woman, Miss Perez.”

It appears I’m headed for London, not Madrid.

* * *

? ? ?

NOVEMBER 26, 2016

PALM BEACH

In truth, the champagne does not taste as good as she’d imagined it would. It is a fine bottle, of course, an exceedingly expensive one, an exquisite vintage of one of her favorite brands. And still—when this moment had played out in her mind, hundreds, thousands of times, she’d drained the champagne flute under different circumstances, in different company.

Time has tempered the taste of victory, lessening it somehow as each bubble tells the tale of how much she has sacrificed to reach this point.

After so many close calls, near misses, assassination plots and attempts, Fidel Castro is dead. Time has accomplished what she and so many others like her failed to do.

And perhaps, if she is really honest, the champagne does not taste as fine because every other time she has drunk it she has been in excellent company, and this time she is alone. Victories aren’t nearly as fun without the right person to celebrate with, and the lure of her youth is bright and sharp, the memory of champagne-soaked afternoons a siren song.

She glances at the clock, marking the time, hoarding the last few private moments she has left with her memories. Her family will be calling soon, friends from all over the world.

She sweeps into the master bedroom, heading for the walk-in closet, thumbing through the dresses there, the bright, colorful prints, settling on the perfect one for an evening like this.

He always did like her in red.

She dresses carefully, meticulous in her selections, as exuberant in her fashion choices as she was when she was a girl of twenty-two. She is equally deliberate with her hair, her makeup. She’s never taken much stock in those ridiculous articles advising women to “dress their age.” Everyone knows a woman should dress as she damned well pleases.

The phone rings as she dabs perfume on her neck, behind her ears, as she slips the diamond bracelet onto her wrist to complement the canary diamond ring that has sat on her finger for so very long.

She knows, of course, when the phone rings who is on the other end of the line, has been expecting his call for decades.

She smiles at the sound of the familiar voice.

“Hello, Eduardo.”

chapter twenty-two

OCTOBER 1962

LONDON

Dwyer keeps me updated on the status of the Bay of Pigs prisoners as the months drag on, until a year has passed since I left Palm Beach, then a year and a half. Reportedly, President Kennedy is working on securing the prisoners’ release. There is nothing we can do but wait as the two governments negotiate, as these men are moved around like pawns on a chessboard.

I never realized how lonely spies must be, how difficult it is to wear a mask each day you go out into the world. And even as it is lonely, as it is difficult, I like it. Like what it has made me—

Brave, strong, independent.

There is likely no better place for recovering from a broken heart than London. In the time since I arrived, I’ve settled into my new life, taking up residence in a cozy flat in Knightsbridge, adjusting to university, my courses as interesting as I once imagined they would be, my classmates equally so.

The anonymity I have craved for so long is finally available to me here, and I can just be Beatriz, politics student—and occasional CIA spy.

My parents were surprised by the news that I had settled in London rather than Madrid, likely more so by my announcement that I had no need for their money. I imagine they both think I’ve been pensioned off by Nick and the like, but we do not speak of such things, and quite frankly, it’s none of their business anyway.

The chasm between my parents and me has never felt greater, in part, perhaps, due to the physical distance between us, but also a result of the fight between my mother and me. Now that we’ve aired our true feelings, now that we’ve said too much, we cannot go back to the way things were, and so we exist in a state of détente, largely ignoring each other, the ocean between us welcome.

Elisa sends me photos of Isabel’s wedding, writes letters imploring me to return home, inviting me to stay with her and her family. I have little to say to Isabel besides a cursory note congratulating her on the wedding.

I write back to Elisa, and I tell her of my classes, the fun I’ve had perusing the markets on the weekends for pieces to decorate my flat. I tell her about my classmates, the friends I’ve made, the nights out at bars and restaurants where no one cares what my last name is, where no one is trying to marry me off.

I don’t tell her about Ramon Martinez, Claudia’s ex-boyfriend, or the signals I receive from Dwyer. If the phone I’ve installed in my flat rings three times, I’m to go to a drop in Hyde Park where a stranger will pass me a note from Dwyer. If I prop a plant in my windowsill, we are to meet in Hyde Park the next day, the information ferried to Dwyer by random assets with whom I never exchange more than a cursory “hello.”

There are other ways I earn my paycheck from the CIA. I go to parties, observe persons of interest, and report back. The skills one adopts as a socialite—the art of making polite conversation while attempting to discern another’s secrets, the art of observing those around you and using those observations to your advantage—have provided a nearly seamless transition to spy.

If there are hiccups in my life here, they are of a personal nature.

I don’t read the American papers. In my weaker moments, when I lie alone in bed, staring up at the ceiling, I imagine Nick is married now, that they have a child together. That he’s forgotten me.

There are men, of course. Men who take me to dinner, take me dancing, men I meet at the parties I attend. There are men, and the occasional kiss, and my never-ending faux flirtation with Ramon, but it is as though there is a hole in my chest where my heart used to be. There is laughter, and parties, and freedom. And there is homesickness—not just for Cuba now, but for Palm Beach, for my sisters.

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.