The Obedient Assassin: A Novel (25 page)

“And how was the article he's writing?”

“Badly organized, the ideas commonplace. And he didn't bother to have it typed.”

“Oh, that is annoying.”

“But what do we really know about him?”

“Everyone met him in France. He's from an aristocratic family there. If I recall, his Christian name is Jacques, but he's traveling under a forged Canadian passport. Sylvia said he had some sort of problem getting a visa because of his military service in France. Why are you asking all of these questions?”

Trotsky recounted what had happened in his office. “I had the strangest feeling.”

“You've always hated someone reading over your shoulder.”

“It was more than that. He was wearing his hat.”

“His hat?”

“He was wearing his hat in my office. When I looked up and saw that he was wearing his hat, I knew he wasn't French. A Frenchman would never wear his hat in another man's office.”

“I believe he's Belgian.”

“It is the same thing, Belgian, French. It's not done. A Belgian or a Frenchman would never wear his hat in another man's office. And if he isn't who he says, then he could be anyone.”

“I see what you mean.”

“And who is this fabulously wealthy Mr. Lubeck he talks about? I think it's time we make some inquiries.”

O
pening his eyes, Jacques saw the trunk standing open on the far side of the darkened bedroom, rows of suits and jackets on hangers, sweaters draped over the open door. He felt cold beneath the covers. A chill entered his back between his shoulder blades and ran down into his body. He knew he was sick. His bones ached; his breath smelled stale against the pillow.

He turned on his side, trying to recapture a scrap of sleep, a moment of oblivion. He'd been lying there pretending, his eyes closed, his body clenched. He had nowhere to go. He had no money. He had no escape. He was a fraud. Everything in the room—the trunk, the clothes, the room itself—taunted him with his fraudulence. He had no passport. His true identity was long gone, a recurring memory.

Curling up, hands to chest, knees bent, he becomes Harte sleeping on his side in underpants and sweater. He brought Harte to the gate. He caused him to open the gate to a reality of demons swirling through. Did he feel the cold steel muzzle of the .22 against his forehead, the circle of metal enclosing the dark spiraling infinity? Did Siqueiros pull the trigger? No, of course not. An artist, he didn't want those images in his mind, knew better than to switch on the light and pull back the covers.

The sound of traffic came from the street. Light crept up the wall between the valances and the curtains. The morning was almost gone. Sylvia was out seeing one of her friends. She always knew someone to call wherever she was. She had waited for him that morning, begged him to get out of bed. She was resourceful, always kind and sensible. Her perception of him as a normal, civilized man was what they were both clinging to. She wasn't a fool or stupid. If she didn't love him, if the truth weren't unspeakable, she would know who he was, what he was doing.

A future with Sylvia in New York shimmered like a mirage in the distance, a happy life beckoning from beyond an impossible barricade. The house in Coyoacán, Trotsky—Ramón could not thread that needle. He couldn't walk through the gate, kill in cold blood, and walk out again. That was a problem without solution.

Beneath the sheets, the toes of his right foot touched the heel of his left as the previous afternoon's disaster returned to him, the smell of Trotsky's hair tonic, the grooves of age on the old man's neck, the sound of the men working outside. In that moment of silent communion between prey and predator, he watched the understanding crystallize in Trotsky's clear blue eyes, cognition becoming recognition too quickly to separate. Breath caught, Ramón waited for Trotsky to press the button for the alarm beneath his desk or reach for the pistol in plain sight. He knew Trotsky knew. Driving back into the city, he was certain Trotsky's men would call the police, that detectives would arrive at the hotel. He waited for the hand on his shoulder, the knock on the door.

But instead, silence, an echoing, ringing silence. What did it mean? That Colonel Sanchez was preparing a case? That he would be arrested during the day?

Ramón lay there, his eyes moving back and forth across the ceiling.

Trotsky knew and nothing had happened. Trotsky knew.

Then, Ramón understood that Trotsky, rather than an insurmountable problem, was the solution. Trotsky needn't do anything but close his doors to Frank Jacson. He would ring the bell and Cooper or Robins would say, “Sorry, the Old Man can't see you.” It was a drama with no climax.

He pushed the covers back, putting his feet to the floor. Switching on a lamp, he felt purged and lucid as after one of his fevers. He gazed at the wonderful clothes in the trunk, then went into the bathroom, the tiles cold against his feet. He had to go to Coyoacán. He had to be sure. If Trotsky knew, the order would have been given. He could go to Coyoacán unshaven, his hair matted against his head, but such theatrics weren't necessary. He would go to Coyoacán to remind Trotsky.

He showered and shaved, wiping the steam off the mirror. As he dressed, he called to the desk to bring his car around. He felt better, more optimistic. He was deviating from the plan, taking matters into his own hands. When he walked outside, wearing his dark glasses to protect him from the brilliant sun, he was struck by how empty Reforma was and remembered that it was Sunday. No one was out. Everyone was at family dinners. He started the car, pulled out onto the street, then found himself turning back into the Zona Rosa.

He parked in front of the Ermita Building and climbed the steps—not sure what he would say but compelled to see Caridad. When he knocked on the door, he could hear her chair squeak.
“Momento! Momento
!
Quien es?”

“Yo, Ramón. Abra. Quiero hablar
.
”

Dead bolts snapped back, a chain rattled. Caridad peered out, eyes narrowing. “What is it? You look like hell.”

“I want to talk.”

She pushed open the door and moved away, returning to her desk.

“You're working?”

She sat down, closing a file. “Yes, still cleaning up the mess Siqueiros left us.”

He nodded, taking a chair. He avoided looking directly at her, frightened by the anger she aroused in him. “Something important happened yesterday. I wanted to tell you.”

She listened as he described the encounter with Trotsky. “What do you mean, he knew?”

“He saw through me. There was this moment when we were both looking at each other and he understood what I was doing there.”

“How could he?”

“I don't know.”

She shook her head, squinting. “If he really knew, he would have done something. He wouldn't have let you walk out.”

“I kept thinking he'd call the police. Last night at the hotel, I kept expecting Colonel Sanchez's detectives to kick in my door.”

“Ramón, this is something you imagined. If Trotsky knew you were his assassin, you wouldn't be here now. You're letting your imagination carry you away.”

“My nerves are bad, that's true. I've seen too much of Trotsky. I've spent too much time with the people around him. If he were a total stranger, perhaps I could do it, but I don't think I can walk in there and kill him in cold blood. I'm not a thug, a hired assassin.”

“You can't back out now.”

“What if I go to the house and the gate is closed to me? He tells his men he doesn't want to see me. That's all he has to do.”

“Ramón, what are you getting at?”

“He's an old man. It's ludicrous to think that the Fourth International poses a threat to Stalin. I know those people. They're intellectuals. What will happen if I go to the house and am shut out? Will I be blamed? Siqueiros is still alive. How would you compare his failure to mine?”

“Ramón, you have to do this. There's no turning back.”

“Tipping off Trotsky's guards would be an easy matter, an anonymous telephone call …” He was speaking rapidly, feverishly, alarming his mother.

“Sudoplatov would know what happened. He would waste no time informing Beria and Stalin.”

“How could Sudoplatov know what happened here?”

“You don't think we're the only GPU agents operating in Mexico?”

“Is there someone in the house?”

“There could be and we wouldn't know. But you are talking about the kind of sabotage that would never go unpunished. Eventually the truth would come out.”

“If only there weren't all of this waiting! That's what's killing me.”

“It will be over before you know it, but stop thinking this way. Stop thinking about it.”

“But how can I, with all of the planning?” He stood.

“Where are you going?”

“To Coyoacán. I have to see if he'll see me again.”

“Tell them Sylvia wants to stop in to tell them goodbye. And don't do anything foolish!”

L
ike the city, the old villages Mixcoac, Tacubaya, and Coyoacán were wrapped in silence, somnolent, the streets empty. Ramón by now thought of Trotsky as the only person who could interrupt a terrible chain of events and save him from his fate. The boughs of the eucalyptus flew above the walls; the volcanoes stood in the distance, the snow blazing against the pure blue sky, a curl of smoke rising from Popocatépetl. The street in front of the house could have been a dirt road in the country, the policemen suspended in midday torpor. The guard tower above the street was empty.

Jacques rang the bell and a moment later Jake Cooper looked through the slot. “One minute! One minute!” he called as he opened the door.

“Mr. Jacson! Is someone expecting you?“

“No, I don't have an appointment, but I'd like to see the Old Man for just a minute.”

The guard shook his head. “He's resting. He's not seeing anyone today.”

“All day?”

“The doctor was here last night and ordered a full day of bed rest.”

“I drove out just to see him. I only need a minute. It's about this article I'm writing for him.”

“I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do.”

“Is she here? Can I see Natalia Sedova?”

Cooper hesitated, uncertain. “I think she's around on the patio. Why don't you follow me and we'll see. But you need to be quiet. His bedroom's right there.”

The dappled shade moved beneath the eucalyptus tree. A hen clucked quietly in the coop. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog barked. Natalia Sedova was sitting on the little porch above the patio just outside the dining room. She shaded her eyes when she saw the men, then stood and came toward them. “Mr. Jacson, I hope there hasn't been some mistake,” she said in a low tone of voice. “We weren't expecting you.”

“No, I was in the neighborhood and I wanted to see your husband for a moment.”

“He's resting. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I was here yesterday. He read the paper I was working on.”

“Yes, so he said.”

“I wanted to tell him that I'm making those changes. I'd like to show it to him tomorrow afternoon.”

“Tomorrow? No, I'm sure he's very busy tomorrow.”

“Then Tuesday afternoon?”

“I suppose that will be all right, but you need to call Otto or one of the other secretaries to make an appointment.”

“Yes, of course,” Jacques said, beginning to retreat.

H
e sat in his car feeling stymied and lost. He knew what had happened in Trotsky's office. The Old Man should have made a move. He wanted to go back, to bang on the door and insist that Trotsky see him. But instead, he pressed the Buick's ignition and started back through the village, slowing the car on Calle Londres. There was no one in front of the house, not a soul on the wide cobblestone street. On impulse, he stopped the car and rang the bell. The maid recognized him.
“Sí, la señora está. Que se espere aquí
.
”

Inside, the large papier-mâché Judases still waited in the shadows while through open doors the garden beckoned. She emerged slowly from the gloom, walking with a cane. She looked ill, her face drained of color and animation, her spirit drained of energy.
“Ay! Dios mio!”
she swore.
“Que quer
é
s conmigo?”

“I was passing by.”

“Did anyone see you come in?”

“No, the street was empty.”

“But that damned yellow car is out there. Now I'm fucked.”

“I only wanted to see you for a moment.”

“The police were here. They threw me and my sister in jail. They ransacked my papers.”

“I'm sorry. I heard Diego had fled.”

“What do you want,
muchacho
? Frida has nothing for you. You look sick, worse than me.”

“I've got amoebas. This country is the shits.” He laughed then he began to sob. “I knew you would understand.”

“I understand. I understand very well, but you have to leave. I can't do anything for you. You have to go.”

J
acques put off the errand till Monday, then, with the hours flying by and everything hanging in the balance, he drove to the Shirley Courts. He was well-known there, a respected Canadian engineer who always paid a week in advance and never caused the least trouble. A bell jingled on the door as Jacques went in, summoning Mr. Shirley to the counter that divided the small office from the lobby. “Mr. Jacson! Have you come back to stay with us?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Oh, too bad. We could give you your old room.”

“No, I'm here to see your son. I want to ask him a favor.”

“You want to ask Bobby for a favor?”

“Yes, I'm going for a climb and I've lost my ice ax. You just can't find them here in Mexico, and I was hoping Bobby would loan me his.”

“Let me get him. He's in his room.”

A moment later, the boy appeared in jeans and a plaid shirt. He was a sturdy fourteen-year-old with wide-set gray eyes and an earnest disposition. He smiled when he saw Jacques, who looked to be a rather ideal adult. “My
piolet
?” he asked.

“Yes, just for a day or two. I would offer to buy it from you, but I know you don't want to sell. I could give you a deposit in case something happened.”

“No, that's not necessary.” The boy retreated to the family's living quarters, returning a moment later with the ax.

“These are so well balanced,” said Jacques, taking it in his hand. The polished oak handle was two feet long. The steel head was eight inches from the tip of the prong to the edge of the blade. He patted the side of the cold head against his palm. “You know, with one of these I used to shatter big blocks of ice in Europe.”

“Yes, you told me that. Where are you going?”

“Ajusco. If it's a good climb perhaps you and I can go back.”

“That would be swell.”

Jacques took out his money clip and peeled off several hundred pesos. “Here, keep this in case something should happen.”

“But that's far too much.”

“Don't worry. You can give it back when I return the
piolet
.”

With the ax in hand, Jacques drove back to Reforma then out to Chapultepec Park, pulling over in an isolated area. He got out of the car with the ax and his raincoat, which he spread on the trunk of the car. The blade would fit easily within the folded coat, but the handle was too long. He turned the coat one way then another, holding it over his arm, experimenting, deciding that the lining of the coat needed something—a loop—to keep the ax from falling out.

Jacques left the park to drive back down Reforma toward the zocalo, veering off in the direction of the city market, where small artisan shops lined the surrounding streets. From a distance, the market had the squalid smell of rotting fruit, the deeper funk of raw meat, fish, live and freshly slaughtered poultry. Meat, chiles, and onions grilled over countless kerosene and charcoal fires. The sidewalks were thronged, the pavement littered with trash. He cruised along slowly in the Buick until he saw crude, newly made pine chairs stacked in a doorway. He pulled to the curb, paid an urchin to watch the car then walked back to the
carpintero
, carrying the ax beneath the raincoat. He would be remembered—a European, wearing a suit, driving a yellow car.

“Qué sería eso?”
the carpenter asked when he saw the ax.

“Soy alpinista. Es para montar las montañas
.
”
Using his thumbnail, he showed the carpenter where he wanted the handle cut.

“Pero no tendrá la misma fuerza.”

“Sí, pero suficiente.”
Yes, but enough.

The shop smelled of sawdust and wood shavings. The carpenter sawed through the handle slowly and methodically, then dressed the new edges with a rasp and sanded down the raw cut. Jacques asked the whereabouts of a seamstress and walked half a block to a similar establishment, where three women sat at sewing machines. A woman with thick glasses and an apron listened to what he wanted, a loop of sturdy cord attached inside the coat just below the collar.

The woman's eyes grew wider when he tested the contrivance by hanging the head of the ax in the loop, then hanging the coat over his right arm. “No, no, the cord is too short,” she fussed. “It doesn't leave enough coat to drape over your arm.”

She snipped away the first cord and sewed in a longer piece. “Now, that's perfect,” she said when he draped the coat over his right arm.

He paid the woman then turned away to light a cigarette, and strolled down the street until he came to a vendor of knives. He tried the switchblades before settling upon an ornamental looking ten-inch dagger with a curving blade. “Do you mind?” he asked the merchant, raising the hem of raincoat to see if it was wide enough for the knife to fit.

“Cabe?”
the man asked. Does it fit?

“Perfectemente
.
”

“No caiga?”
It won't fall out?

“Ojal
á
que no!”