My family, my sisters, they’re all in Florida, ninety miles away from Cuba. And in Cuba—there are family and friends there, too, Eduardo languishing in a prison somewhere, so many innocent people in jeopardy.

What will the United States do in retaliation for Fidel allowing the nuclear weapons in Cuba? How many lives will be lost as a result of the escalating tensions between our two countries, politicians threatening war and posturing with little regard for the potential destruction on both sides?

I wanted a war, wanted the Americans to do something, but not this. Nothing good can come of this. We learned about the bombs the Americans dropped on Japan in school, about the devastation it wrought, and it terrifies me to think of the same kind of destruction battering our shores.

Will Cuba be caught in the middle of a war between the United States and the Soviet Union?

“They think the Soviets are going to use the weapons to attack the United States?”

“I don’t know,” Nick answers, his expression grim. “I hope the Soviets know better than to employ the weapons, but even the threat of them—that they moved them to our backyard—well, it’s extremely worrying, to say the least.”

What is on the microfilm? It can’t be a coincidence that Dwyer asked me to get it at this time.

“What will the president do?”

“He’s planning on addressing the nation. He’s meeting with his advisors, the Executive Committee of the National Security Council. I need to go home.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, absolutely not. If the Soviets do attack, you’ll be safer here.”

“And the body I’ve left behind?”

A blistering curse leaves his mouth as he remembers that particular complication.

“Besides, my family is in Florida. You’re going to Washington. I don’t want to stay here. If there is to be war, I want to be in the United States. Close to those I care about.”

“It’s not safe, Beatriz.”

“When are we going to stop having this fight? Either I go with you, or I go on my own, but either way, I’m going. My sisters might need me. You might need me.”

The CIA might need me.

He hesitates. “If things get really bad, promise me you will go somewhere safe.”

“I will.”

I’m not sure either one of us really believes me. I don’t say the rest of it, because I can easily imagine his response, but it occurs to me there are many solutions to this problem—not just military.

Mr. Dwyer wanted to use me as a weapon against Fidel. Here’s his chance.

* * *

? ? ?

Nick arranges our travel with an efficiency and expediency only copious amounts of money and influence can facilitate. I slip the microfilm into a padded envelope, the urgency of world events no longer allowing for me to wait to possibly hear from Dwyer again before I act. Nick insists on accompanying me, as I follow the backup procedure we’ve established if a drop ever collapses.

I return to the Ritz with Nick while he finalizes our travel arrangements. I take a proper shower, the remainder of the blood scrubbed away, little to be done for the cuts and nicks on my skin from where Ramon and I fought for the knife. Then I busy myself with repacking the clothes I threw into my bag earlier, and count the money I grabbed from my secret hiding place in my flat for a day such as this. My father taught me the lesson of preparing for emergencies, quick exits and exile, of always having cash on hand for whatever life throws my way.

My hand brushes a lace dress as I shut the bag, and a memory takes hold, of my last night in Havana, as I packed for a trip that has turned into a never-ending exile. The tenor of our days is defined by this madness, as we rush from one crisis to another, from revolution, to crushing defeat, to the brink of nuclear war.

Perhaps it is my recklessness that causes me to go with Nick to Washington now. Perhaps it is a folly best forsaken, and yet, when the last four years of your life have been defined by war and conflict, it is impossible to feel as though you’re not living on borrowed time, as though you shouldn’t eke out every last moment of pleasure before the things you love most are once again seized from you.

Nick hires a car to drive us to the airport as we leave London. We sit in the back, our hands joined, resting on the seat between us. Everything happened so quickly; thankfully, I had the foresight to bring my passport with me when I left my flat.

Have the police found the body? Or did Dwyer’s people get to the flat in time?

“You could be considered an accomplice, you know,” I warn Nick in a whisper, grateful for the privacy window separating us from the driver. “Once we get on that plane together—”

“Haven’t we been through this already? I don’t care.”

“You should care.”

“And yet, I don’t. What does it even matter in the face of what we’re up against with the Soviets? Besides, we’ve heard nothing to give the impression that a body has even been found. It’s just as likely the CIA was able to dispose of your Cuban spy. I imagine Dwyer has plenty of experience in these matters.”

“How well do you know him?”

“Dwyer?”

I nod.

“Personally? Not at all. But in certain circles, his reputation precedes him. I had a feeling you were here for him when I learned you’d come to London.”

“He helped me register for school. It was my cover, of course, to get close to the Cuban operative, but I liked it. A lot.”

“Politics?”

“Of course.”

“I’m glad you’ve had that opportunity.”

“I suppose I’ve just screwed everything up.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that yet. You have time to figure it out. You might be able to take a leave of absence; you might not even be gone that long. You can always return whenever you want. If Dwyer’s people disposed of the body, you might have nothing to worry about at all.”

“Perhaps.”

At the moment, it seems foolish to worry about such mundane problems under the threat of nuclear war.

We speak little on the flight to D.C., our relationship taking a back seat to politics, the threat of the moment, and the things Nick cannot speak of in public. Surprisingly, though, I sleep, Nick’s arm draped around my shoulders as I make up for the hours of rest I lost in his hotel room.

I dream of Nick, of his arms around me, his hands on my body, his lips on mine. I dream of the struggle with Ramon, the gun in my hands, the pop of the gunshot, only this time, when I look down, my hands are covered in my blood.

When I wake with a jolt, Nick kisses my forehead, worry etched all over his face, in the furrow of his brow, in the tension that radiates from his hand to mine, our fingers linked together. We don’t bother with pretense surrounding the nature of our relationship; there hardly seems to be a point with the threat looming before us.

We arrive in Washington, and Nick takes me to the apartment he keeps in Georgetown, pausing to change his suit for a fresh one, leaving me with a brief kiss before he is gone to work.

Once I am alone, I call Elisa and explain the situation to her with as little detail as possible.

At first, she peppers me with questions about my relationship with Nick, how we saw each other again, what happened, why I decided to accompany him to Washington. I say nothing of my extracurricular activities, of course, nor do I say much about the current diplomatic crisis, other than to warn her to be on alert.

The buildup of Soviet weapons has been monitored for the past week now, but the news that they are capable of launching a nuclear strike on American soil is grave indeed.

“You’re scaring me, Beatriz. What are you suggesting?” Elisa asks.

“Just that you might want to get supplies. The president is addressing the nation tonight.” I swallow as I think of my little nephew, whom I have not seen in a year and a half now. How much has he grown? How will we survive this? “Just get some supplies. And think about where you could go if you needed to leave Florida quickly.”

It takes little convincing to get Elisa off the phone so she can call the rest of the family, so they can prepare for the coming days. We have lived through enough horrors to know better than to take such warnings for granted. We were caught off guard once; let it never happen again.

I occupy my time exploring Nick’s apartment, running my fingers over the suits in his closet, the scent of his cologne on the fabric, learning this part of his life. We slip into domesticity each time together with an ease that simultaneously thrills and terrifies me.

There’s a market a few blocks away where I buy some groceries with the money I exchanged when we landed in D.C., grateful once more for the independence my arrangement with the CIA has provided to me.

I return to Nick’s apartment to cook dinner, sitting down in front of the television for the president’s announcement.

* * *