Dwyer doesn’t look up from his newspaper and coffee mug as I walk toward him, and I sweep into the booth with the Perez charm that has served me well thus far. When all else fails, pretend your palms aren’t sweating, your knees not knocking beneath your skirts.
“Mr. Dwyer.”
He looks up from his drink. I’ve no doubt he knew the moment I stepped into the restaurant.
“Miss Perez.”
The waitress comes over and takes my order, bringing me coffee.
“Why did you call me here?” I ask once she leaves.
“Because I’ve spoken with others about your proposal.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “They find it intriguing.”
I lean forward in my seat, lowering my voice. It’s time for some intelligence gathering of my own.
“Where do things stand with Fidel?”
It’s hard to not be in Havana, to rely upon the word of others as to the mood of the country, the rumbles on the street.
“Not good,” Mr. Dwyer admits after a pause. “We tried to open a secure communications line between Washington and Havana. Didn’t take.”
The fear that the United States will legitimize the regime and leave us Cubans to our own devices has been a looming specter over our plans for quite some time now. At the moment, any attempts to remove Fidel from power hinge on American support, or at least the possibility that the Americans won’t come to Fidel’s aid. We learned the hard way under Batista that the United States is a formidable ally with a seemingly endless supply of resources behind them.
“No, it likely wouldn’t,” I comment. “Fidel is not the sort to welcome someone else interfering in his affairs.”
“In this case, he doesn’t get a vote.”
“Bringing him to heel will not be easy,” I warn.
There were those of us who thought it useful to allow Fidel to defeat Batista and then simply eject Fidel from power. Many of my brothers and sisters in arms believed he could bring about the change we yearned for. When Fidel failed to do so, his removal became a necessity. Unfortunately, he’s proven far more resilient than anyone ever imagined. Better the Americans learn the lesson now rather than later.
“He is an arrogant man,” I add. “They are all arrogant men. Serving on bended knee will not be in Fidel’s nature, and he’s not a man born to compromise, either. He cannot afford to lose face in Cuba, to be a puppet to the American regime as Batista was. I’m not sure the people would stand for it.”
“His arrogance is precisely why we need you.”
“So now you need me.”
“It would appear so.”
“Why now? You didn’t intervene last January when Cubans were being slaughtered in Havana. What’s your interest in all of this? What has he done to push you to the breaking point?”
“Sugar,” Dwyer answers.
The agrarian reform law. I should have guessed. The ground gives and Castro takes it away. The law is the final blow for my father, one he rants about over dinner and drinks, the unfairness of it a crushing defeat for all of us. Under the agrarian reform law enacted in the summer of 1959, the Cuban government nationalized estates and companies, restricting large-scale landholding, and prohibiting foreign ownership. While some of the land was distributed to the Cuban people, rumor has it the government kept the majority for itself.
“We’d hoped he would compensate the American companies he nationalized,” Mr. Dwyer continues. “That he would be open to discussion, but he is not to be reasoned with. And now with these murmurs of communism spreading, with him cozying up to the Soviet Union, well, we simply can’t bide our time anymore. He has become a thorn in our side, and we must remove him from power. And when fair means have failed us, well, we are not averse to foul ones.” He smiles. “I speak to the methods, not the instrument.”
“Of course.” I pause. “This isn’t just about sugar, though, is it?”
Wars have been waged over far less, but somehow I can’t quite envision the might of the American government this concerned with agrarian reform in Cuba, even if it does affect the fortunes of American companies. Nor can I envision them overmuch concerned with the well-being of Cubans.
“It’s complicated,” he answers. “Fidel has been speaking with foreign leaders, expressing his interest in helping them create similar discord in their countries.”
I’m hardly surprised.
“We must be careful,” Mr. Dwyer continues. “He is popular in Cuba. You’re correct. We cannot create the impression that the ills of Batista’s regime are being repeated through our intervention in matters of Cuban sovereignty.”
His point is not lost on me, nor is the irony that I have become a willing participant in an arrangement that I spent much of my adult life decrying. When the Americans propped up Batista, I viewed them as villains. Now we will join forces to remove Fidel.
Eduardo’s earlier allusion to his more secretive activities with the CIA comes to mind again.
“You have something else planned, don’t you? Beyond my role in all of this.”
“Effective diplomacy relies upon several contingencies. So yes, we have considered many options should this mission fail.”
There are rumors—little more than idle whispers, really—that they’re planning an attack of some sort, an attempt to wrest control away from Fidel.
“The Soviets are becoming a problem. This trade deal—it looks like there is to be friendship between Moscow and Havana. If Fidel gets his hands on enough of Khrushchev’s arms, everything will change.” Dwyer signals for the bill for our two coffees. “We’re working out the details now. I must return to Washington, so it’s likely we won’t meet again for some time. In the meantime, we’ll be in contact when we have something for you. Eduardo will work as an intermediary between us.”
“And if I do this, what do I get in return?”
“I thought you were doing this for love of country, Miss Perez.”
“Then you mistook me. I don’t do anything out of the goodness of my heart. If I’m going to risk my life, I deserve to be sufficiently compensated, and I don’t come cheaply.”
I learned a thing or two about doing business at my father’s knee.
Mr. Dwyer makes a grunt that almost sounds like approval.
“What do you want?” He pulls a shiny black ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket, sliding it across the Formica tabletop. He tosses a paper napkin to me, the restaurant’s name scrolled at the bottom.
My fingers tremble as I write my demand down. I’ve thought about this since the night we met in Palm Beach, tried to imagine what would restore my family’s position. You can’t put a price on avenging my brother’s death, but the rest of it—