“It seems we have friends in common, Miss Perez,” Fidel says smoothly when we are alone.

I can hear the sound of his security personnel talking just outside the door. According to Eduardo, the drug should take effect in minutes, giving me a narrow window to escape before they capture me.

I had envisioned an opportunity to take my clothes off, to slip my hand inside my bra and remove the pill. How do I get Fidel to turn his back to me?

“Do we?” I ask, my pulse jumping.

“We do. Two childhood friends of mine who found their way to Miami to escape Batista’s cruelty.”

And just like that, I know. Like a line of dominoes falling into place, it comes together.

Mr. Dwyer wasn’t wrong to be suspicious of the communist group in Hialeah. The Cuban brothers were indeed the ones to watch.

“Javier and Sergio.”

Fidel nods.

The lingerie I carefully chose, the seductive gown, the time spent perfecting my hair and makeup, none of it matters. The plan was over before it began. All along, Dwyer said Fidel’s espionage was formidable. Apparently, more so than even we imagined.

It appears I am to die in Cuba at the hands of the same man who killed my brother.

Fidel takes another puff of his cigar. “The Americans sent you to kill me, didn’t they?”

I don’t answer.

Everyone warned me not to get involved. Told me this was dangerous, that I was in over my head.

They were right.

“You’re hardly the first they’ve sent to kill me. I imagine you won’t be the last.”

Should I take the pill myself? What will Fidel do to me? Throw me in prison? Sell me back to the Americans? Will Nick pay my ransom?

Will Fidel hurt me to teach me a lesson?

“I wondered why they sent you,” he continues. “Besides the obvious physical charms, of course. And then I remembered that there once was another Perez, remembered you mentioning a brother when we met in New York.”

“His name was Alejandro,” I say, my voice growing stronger. “He was with the Federación Estudiantil Universitaria.”

He nods. “Some of my men were with the FEU. They remembered him. Said he was a good man.”

He was a great man.

“I never had the opportunity to meet him. But I want you to know that I didn’t kill your brother. Or order his death.”

White noise rushes through my ears as I attempt to reconcile his words with every single thing I have held to be true, with the sight of my brother’s dead body, the sound of a car screeching down the road.

“I don’t believe you.”

He shrugs. “Believe what you want. The truth is, it never happened. Maybe it would have eventually, but it had nothing to do with me.”

Even as everything in my nature tells me not to believe him, that he is a man not to be trusted, there is something in his manner, in his voice, in his eyes, that gives me pause.

“I’m not going to believe the word of a murderer and a traitor.”

“That’s your choice. But ask yourself this, why would I lie? What do I have to lose? I’m not afraid of your family, of your father’s reputation. His power isn’t what it once was, is it?”

He takes another puff of his cigar. “In war, these things happen. Men die.”

“At your hands.”

“Do you forget what it was like under Batista? How many Cubans he killed? I did what had to be done. But I didn’t kill your brother. And I didn’t kill your President Kennedy. And because I did not, because your government must know that I did not, I will let you go back and tell them so. I will give you your life.”

I gape at him.

“You will tell them that Cuba had nothing to do with this.”

“I doubt my word will count for much. They suspect Cuban involvement. They’re still going to be looking for answers, trying to understand who did kill Kennedy.”

“Perhaps they should look closer to home then.”

My eyes narrow. “What are you saying?”

“I’m merely suggesting your CIA might have a motive behind Kennedy’s death. That there are groups within your country that viewed the president as a traitor and might have desired to strike at him because of it. I’m sure you don’t know any people like that, do you, Miss Perez?

“I don’t know who killed President Kennedy, and I am sorry for his loss. But it wasn’t on my order.” Fidel gestures toward the door. “Go back and tell the men who sent you what I told you. And don’t come back again. If you do, I won’t be so generous.”

* * *

? ? ?

I exit the Habana Hilton alone, my stomach in knots, bile in my throat, the poison pill in my bra. My gaze darts around the street looking for Eduardo, for the blue Buick.

It’s nowhere to be found.

I can’t stop trembling, the adrenaline crash ripping through my body.

I’ve spent years preparing for this, sacrificed so much, and for what? I spent five minutes in Fidel’s presence and then it was all over.

So much for saving Cuba. So much for avenging my brother.

A lump forms in my throat as I glance down the street, looking for Eduardo, for the blue Buick.

Where is he?

Eduardo is responsible for the connection at the boatyard, for getting us out of here.

Has something happened to him?

A car whizzes past me, and I flatten my body against the wall, my gaze darting around the street once more.

The streets of Havana no longer look so friendly now that Fidel is in power.

And then I remember my father’s words, the family secret he passed on to me.

It’s about two miles from the Habana Hilton to Miramar, but I spent years sneaking out of the house at night, know the streets of Havana better than anyone.

I could sit here and wait for help, or I could—

I head home.

* * *

? ? ?

My childhood home is still much as I remembered it, the windows of the big house dark.

I cross the street in a hurry, glancing over my shoulder, once, twice.

I don’t even know who lives here now. The staff is long gone, the house likely taken over by Fidel’s cronies.

It feels as though I’ve time-traveled, back to the days when I used to sneak out and meet Eduardo and Alejandro at political meetings. It’s both familiar and completely foreign to me.

I walk toward the house. When I reach the gate, I still. This is where I found Alejandro. This is where they dumped his body. This is where it all started.

My brother’s blood is now stained in the gravel, soaked in the earth, and while there are no longer Perezes in the house where we lived for generations, a part of him is here, watching over it for us.

I push the gate open, wincing at the creak of metal.

My gaze darts around once more. I almost expect to see Fidel’s men burst out of the darkness, come to take me away.

The street is silent. The house looms before me.

In the darkness, I travel by memory.

Does the painting of the corsair still hang on the walls? He was the first Perez ancestor of note and we used to make up stories about him when we were children; I think Elisa fancied herself a bit in love with him. Is the painting of his wife still there beside him—the woman who sailed from Spain to marry a man with a fearsome reputation, whose blood runs through my veins now?

Is the house just as we left it the morning we left Havana nearly five years ago, or have the new residents changed it?

There’s a shed near the back of the property where the gardeners used to keep their supplies. I walk over to it, stumbling over the uneven ground, the changes in the landscape since I left.

I still once more.

The palms sway in the breeze, the bushes and grass rustling around me.

I have an hour or two at most before the sun rises and I lose the cover of darkness. The current climate in Cuba is one of fear and uncertainty, and I don’t trust that anyone who finds me back here won’t turn me in to the police. If my life rests on Fidel’s word, I’d rather not take my chances.

I open the door and quickly riffle through the items in the shed, my hand gripping the handle of a shovel.

I close the door behind me.

I follow my father’s instructions, stopping in front of the old palm tree where we used to play when we were young girls, where I first snuck a kiss from Eduardo when we were children.

I stake the shovel into the ground, digging out a plot of dirt. I freeze at another sound in the distance, struggling to remember the noises the estate used to make.

Is it the swaying palms?

What if can’t convince someone to smuggle me out of Havana?

What has happened to Eduardo?

Silence fills the night.

I keep digging.

My gaze drifts to the Rodriguez house as I dig. Are our neighbors and old family friends still in residence? I yearn to see Ana once more, even though it would be too risky to embroil her in our affairs.

Cuba is perhaps now more dangerous than it ever was.

The shovel hits something solid beneath the ground.