The newspapers tell the tale of people stocking up on supplies, of shortages and fear, the Washington Post describing the political climate in D.C.—men and women working late into the night, like Nick, the lights in the executive office buildings on far later than normal.

There is talk of people leaving Washington, and at the same time, life seems to go on as usual. When I walk in the mornings, after Nick has left, before the sun comes up, I am struck by the people going about their daily lives—heading to school and work—despite the specter looming before all of us, the sense that the world could end at any moment. There’s some comfort in this civility, in the enduring sense that people must carve out joys where they can, undertake the responsibilities to which they have pledged themselves.

I have heard nothing from London. Nothing from the CIA. Their silence, the unknown ramifications of me shooting Ramon, is just another trouble in a heap of them. We don’t speak of Ramon; Nick is carrying the world on his shoulders enough as it is.

And still—the dreams haunt me. Sometimes when I look down, I see my brother’s dead body. Other times when I look down, I see Ramon’s. Have I killed someone’s brother? A beloved friend? Am I the villain in their life as Fidel is in mine?

Nick’s eyes flicker open, staring up into my face, a faint smile on his lips, renewed interest in his expression.

I smile. “I thought you were tired.”

“I’m not that tired.”

I remove Nick’s tie, my fingers traveling to the buttons of his dress shirt, loosening the collar, undoing the line down his chest, exposing his undershirt.

He sighs again as my fingers trail down his abdomen.

In this moment, he is mine to care for, his worries mine to soothe, his aches mine to heal. It’s so very dangerous to fall into the false promise of this, and yet, in the face of the world ending before us, I cannot find it in me to care.

I’ll pay the bill for this dalliance when it comes due, but right now, I can’t regret one single moment we’ve spent together.

* * *

? ? ?

Four days have passed since the president addressed the American people. Four days of wondering if the Soviets will accede to Kennedy’s demands and dismantle the weapons, of waiting to see if I will hear from the CIA, if the microfilm I sent them was of any use, of fearing the police will show up on Nick’s doorstep to arrest me.

While war has not yet come, the threat is still present in all of our minds. Nick refers to ExComm meetings, speaks vaguely of talks with the Soviets, but the world he inhabits now is one I am not allowed to enter, and the toll it has taken on him is all too obvious.

I attempt to stay busy while he is at work, settling into a routine even as I long for my days in London spent attending classes, rather than this sitting and waiting for a man to come home. The moments when we are together are perhaps the happiest I have ever known, but in the moments when he is gone, when I am alone with my thoughts, the doubts creep in.

On the one hand, it seems foolish to worry about such prosaic things given the current state of the world, and on the other hand, I can’t not worry about them even as I lock the doubts inside me—our relationship is the last thing Nick needs to concern himself with in the middle of this mess.

And yet, I do worry.

I am not the sort of woman who is happy when relegated to the fringes of a man’s life—what woman is, truly?—and the uncertainty of our future together weighs on me more than I imagined it would, the insecurity of my future equally so. This life in Washington is not permanent.

In December, society will move south to Palm Beach for the season. Will Nick return to the big house on the beach, and if so, should I go with him? And if I do, how will I handle seeing my family again? I miss Elisa and Maria desperately, perhaps even Isabel, but my parents are another matter altogether, my inability to forgive my mother an emotion that has not lessened with time.

I turn down Nick’s street, offering a smile for a man passing by me, shuffling the bags of groceries I purchased from one hand to the other. I don’t know when Nick will return home from his meetings tonight, but I have a dinner planned regardless, even if my culinary attempts so far have been less than stellar. Somehow, I’ve become the housewife I never wanted to be.

I pull the apartment key Nick gave me from my purse, and when I look up, a man is in front of me, sitting on the steps outside the brownstone, his hat in hand, his face unmistakably familiar.

As I suspected, I didn’t need to go looking for the CIA.

They’ve found me.

chapter twenty-seven

There’s no point in engaging in pleasantries with Mr. Dwyer, and I have no desire to do so. We greet each other perfunctorily, and he waits behind me as I slip the key into the lock, a slight tremor in my fingers as I turn the key and push the heavy wooden door open, Mr. Dwyer trailing behind me. I set the bags down on the round table in the entryway. He closes the door.

“You can imagine my surprise when I learned you were here in Washington D.C., residing with our esteemed and virtuous young senator,” he drawls in a voice that is decidedly unsurprised.

I ignore that.

“What happened back in London? Did you find the—”

“Dead body in your flat? Yes, we did. Luckily for you, we disposed of it before anyone realized what happened there.” His gaze sharpens. “How exactly did you kill a trained Cuban intelligence agent?”

“I have no idea,” I answer honestly. “Luck, I suppose.”

“That, and I imagine he didn’t see you coming.”

“That, too. Did you get the package?”

“We did.”

“What happened to our scheduled drop?”

“World affairs.”

“What happened in my flat—”

“You did well. Did what you were supposed to do.”

“I killed a man.”

“It’s regrettable, but it happens. Based on your reports, I gather you were fairly convinced he had double-crossed us, that he was working for the Cubans, that he was the one who blew Claudia’s cover.”

“I thought he was, but I didn’t have any proof, didn’t—”

He huffs a little laugh. “Proof? What is it you think we do, Miss Perez? We don’t operate in the world of signed confession letters and guarantees; we trust our instincts, draw our own conclusions, make the best of the information we are given. You did what you were supposed to do. You did what we needed—the intelligence you got from the Soviet colonel will prove very useful in the coming days. I’m not here to litigate your decision to kill Ramon Martinez. It was the right call.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To appeal to your patriotic sense of duty.”

“Because of the nuclear weapons.”

“Partly. If it isn’t the nuclear weapons, it will be something else. Fidel has become a dangerous threat. If you have a rabid dog in the neighborhood, you put it down before it bites someone. We need to put Fidel down. After London, you’ve proved yourself to be more capable than I anticipated. We’re ready to send you into Cuba.”

“I thought the president favored diplomacy in this course.”

Nick speaks of international organizations and calls to world leaders, not assassination plots.

“There are factions within the Agency that do not share the president’s views on this matter. This is an opportunity to rid ourselves of this problem once and for all. Castro wants to export his particular brand of revolution to Latin America and the rest of the world. For obvious reasons, we cannot allow that to happen. Nor can we allow the Soviets to use Cuba’s proximity to the United States to antagonize us or the rest of the region. The Soviets wish to establish their dominance throughout the world, and they’ve brought the fight here in order to do so.”

“What does that mean for me?”

“We want you to go to Cuba. By our estimation, the majority of the island does not support Castro. If we can destabilize him, if we can kill him, then, well, it’s all over. You and your family can go home.”

“If I go now, won’t it look like it was an assassination attempt? I thought you wanted to avoid that.”

“This nuclear situation has changed everything. Fidel has shown how far he is willing to take this, and we can’t let such an action stand.”

“How soon do you want me to move against him?”

“It depends on how the negotiations proceed. We are willing to give the president a few more days to reach a peaceful solution, but if he cannot do so, we will send you in regardless of the appearance it conveys. And if he does reach a peaceful solution, we still have need of you. We all know it is only a temporary solution; another crisis will arise shortly. If you want your chance against Fidel, this is it.”

“What will I do? Will I receive training? How will I get close to him when I arrive in Cuba?”