“CIA? MI6?”

He’s going to kill me. Just like he killed his girlfriend Claudia. My great battle with Fidel has now come to this—me dying at the hands of one of his spies, a traitor to our country.

“It doesn’t matter, I guess. We both know why you were there last night.”

I scan the little flat, looking for salvation, for something to get me out of this mess.

“I’m going to need the microfilm now.” His expression hardens to flint; he holds his hand out to me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I don’t have to feign discomfort as I stumble over the words, my fear all too genuine. “I told you why I was at the party. That man—we were together when I lived in the United States. We’ve been involved for a long time. Our affair is why my family sent me to London in the first place.”

I walk toward the table, setting the purse containing the microfilm on one of the chairs.

Ramon’s gaze follows the motion as I’d hoped it would, my bright red clutch like a cape before a bull.

I glance at the gun.

Leave it on the table. Go for the microfilm. Give me a chance—

He doesn’t.

Ramon strides toward my clutch, the gun dangling from his free hand with the insouciance of a man who can switch from idle to killer with a moment’s notice, and who doesn’t view me as very much of a threat at all.

My gaze darts to the knife block sitting in the kitchen I never use, the blades still sharp. There’s a sliver of time, a heartbeat of opportunity, and the odds that I will be able to overpower him are slim, if I fail—

What does it matter? I’ll die anyway.

Ramon opens my clutch.

I lunge for the knife block.

He turns as my hand wraps around the largest handle, pulling it from its wooden sheath, adrenaline crashing through me.

In a flash of speed, he’s in front of me, his hand on my wrist as we wrestle for the knife.

If he were a bigger man, I’d be dead by now, but with his slight build, we are on a more even playing field, even if he maneuvers me with a level of skill in which I am outmatched.

As quickly as it began, it’s over, my hand empty, the knife tumbling to the floor.

I’m going to die.

I’m not sure if it’s my life that flashes before my eyes, but it’s something. Moments flicker.

The Malecón. A Havana sunrise. The ocean lapping over my skin. Nick’s mouth on mine. My sisters’ laughter. Our nanny, Magda, telling me there are untrustworthy men in the world, and that if I ever find myself in a situation where one tries to take advantage of me, I should hit him where it hurts, her voice low to avoid my mother overhearing her.

I bring my knee up as hard as I can, connecting with Ramon’s groin, our gazes meeting, surprise and anger in his eyes—pain—as he doubles over, as his hand comes up, my fingers finding his, wrapping around cold metal, grasping—

We both grab the gun a moment before it fires.

chapter twenty-five

I slip my hand inside the pocket of my coat, hiding the cuts from the front desk receptionist, the spot of blood near my fingernail I missed when I scrubbed my skin earlier.

My old clothes were disposed of, the beautiful red gown ruined by Ramon’s blood and mysterious pieces of body matter best left unexamined. I chucked my outfit in the bin after I called my contact and told them I needed a cleanup in my flat, the blood pooling around Ramon’s dead body. His gun had a silencer on it, but still. It will only be so long before the neighbors investigate the sounds of our struggle.

How long before a dead body starts to smell?

I didn’t bother waiting around for questions, or give myself time to contemplate how lucky I was, the sheer fortune of my finger reaching the trigger before his did, the fortuitousness that it was pointed at him and not me at that exact, precipitous moment.

Instead, I changed clothes quickly, scrubbing the bits of flesh and blood off my skin with a detached efficiency.

And I ran.

To the Ritz. To Nick.

Are the police waiting for me in my flat? Or did Dwyer’s people get there before me? And why didn’t anyone meet me in the park?

The microfilm is on my person now, tucked in the cup of my bra, against my pounding heart.

I ask the receptionist for Nick’s room, wishing I’d paid attention to the number earlier, attempting to calm my voice as much as possible, my expression a blank mask.

I cannot stop the shaking in my hand.

The woman behind the front desk calls up to his room, and I listen to her side of the conversation, as I try to guess Nick’s reaction on the other end of the line.

Will he be surprised I have returned? Was he angry when I left him this morning without a word? Or did he wake to my absence with a sense of resignation? The understanding that we are still, as always, an impossible match?

“I’ll send her up, sir,” the receptionist says into the phone and relief floods me. I didn’t just run here because I’m in trouble; I ran here because I need him.

The receptionist gives me Nick’s room number with a polite smile, gesturing toward the elevators. I gather the small bag I hastily packed when I fled my flat and board the lift, declining the offer to help with my luggage, nerves filling me.

The operator presses the number for Nick’s floor for me, the carriage empty save for the two of us.

The doors slide open, and I step off the lift.

When I’m standing outside Nick’s door at the end of the long hallway, I knock on the door. The speck of blood I missed earlier stares back at me, a stain on my skin.

I’ve killed a man now, and I don’t know how I feel about it.

The door swings open, and I jump. Nick stands on the other side of the threshold, his appearance uncharacteristically disheveled—his white dress shirt only partially tucked into his trousers, his blond hair tousled, a harried expression on his face.

I open my mouth to speak, to apologize for leaving early in the morning without a word for him, but he doesn’t give me the chance.

Nick steps forward, wrapping his arm around my waist, hugging me against his body.

His mouth seizes mine in a swift, fierce kiss, the hotel room door slamming shut behind us as a sob builds in my chest, my knees buckling.

I killed a man.

As quickly as Nick kisses me, he releases me.

“Beatriz—”

His eyes narrow as he looks over my appearance.

“What happened?”

“I killed a man,” I whisper. “There was a Cuban man, he was with their intelligence service. I was at the party last night to meet someone, to make an exchange, and he noticed. He was waiting in my flat when I went home.”

Shock flashes across Nick’s face for a moment, and then it’s gone.

“Are you in danger? What happened to the body?”

“I don’t know. I left word with Dwyer’s people to clean it up. I was supposed to meet someone from the CIA this morning—that’s why I left so early—but my contact never showed up, and I went home, not sure what I should do. The man, Ramon, was waiting for me with a gun. We fought.”

I tell Nick the rest of it, no secrets left between us. With each word, I wait for his censure, to watch the love dim in his eyes. Instead I see calm, as though he always expected it would come to this, the truth behind his words, his warnings about the CIA, his fear for my safety, finally resonating.

Nick wasn’t wrong; I have gotten myself into an intractable mess, and in this moment, I know—

I killed a man, and I don’t feel guilty at all.

I am immeasurably glad he didn’t kill me.

When I’ve finished with my tale, I apologize for the trouble I’ve brought to his doorstep. “If you want me to leave, I understand. This would be a problem for you if it got out.”

“Don’t ever apologize for coming to me. I am here for you. Always.”

Tears well in my eyes. “Thank you.”

I slip a hand into the front of my blouse, pulling the microfilm out of my bra.

“I need to get this to my contact. There’s a mail drop I can use.” I take a deep breath, trusting him with all of it. “I got the microfilm from a Soviet colonel at the party last night.”

Nick’s entire expression changes. “From a Soviet colonel?”

“Yes.”

“I was just packing before you knocked. Something has happened, and I have to go back to Washington.” He hesitates. “A U-2 plane found evidence the Soviets have installed nuclear-capable ballistic missiles in Cuba.”

chapter twenty-six

“How bad is it?” I ask.

“It’s bad. The weapons can reach the United States. I need to return to Washington, in case—” Nick wraps his arms around me, and I allow myself to lean into him, the world around us spinning madly out of control.

Was the colonel trying to prevent such an attack? The idea of nuclear war—

Will Fidel use the weapons? Will the Soviets?

I need to get the microfilm to the CIA immediately.