The Obedient Assassin: A Novel (27 page)

H
e tipped the doorman, then got into the yellow Buick and started the engine, pulling out onto the tributary to Reforma, taking the first right, doubling back through the Zona Rosa to Calle Hamburgo. Arriving at the Ermita, he noticed two black sedans on the street and the two men in dark suits, strangers to him, waiting beside the cars. The trunk of the first car stood open, and, after a moment, Eitingon came out with a last suitcase, followed by Caridad dressed for travel in her olive green suit and her hat that looked like a bird's wing. She was carrying her handbag and a small overnight case. When she saw that Ramón intended to approach her, she raised her index finger, moving it slightly back and forth, a warning gesture he remembered from childhood, a gesture from Cuba.

Eitingon, his face gray, walked back to the Buick. “Are you ready?” he asked, shaking Ramón's hand.

“No. Not quite.”

Eitingon nodded. “You see we have company.”

“Yes.”

“Don't think, just follow the plan. That's all you have to do. You're going to walk in and walk out before anyone realizes what has happened. Just put one foot in front of the other. Follow the plan. And don't forget, when Trotsky is reading your article, wait until he gets to the end of the first page and is turning to the second; that's when he will be most distracted.”

Ramón opened the Buick's trunk where the
piolet
and dagger waited. He spread the raincoat flat on the floor of the trunk. He looped the ax through the cord inside the coat, then inserted the dagger into the horizontal seam of the hem. The coat, folded around the
piolet
, felt heavy but not cumbersome. Closing the trunk, he got in behind the steering wheel and placed the raincoat on the middle of the seat. Then, with the keys still out, he leaned forward to open the glove compartment, and took out his pistol, tucking it under the raincoat. So as not to confuse the two documents, he put the typescript of his article into one of the pockets of his raincoat. The alibi letter went into the breast pocket of his jacket.

Eitingon got into his car, which pulled away from the curb, followed by Caridad's, then the Buick. Jacques watched the back of his mother's head swaying stiffly with the movement of the car. She was smoking, her right hand going to the window at regular intervals. He felt angry and terrified. He wanted to weep with frustration. Caridad would not help him. She had led him into this trap and now had turned her back on him. His only hope was Trotsky, that the Old Man had seen through him, that the gate would be closed to him.

He lit a cigarette but his mouth had an unpleasant metallic taste. His body felt vile, his armpits damp, his stomach acid, his palms so moist they left prints on the steering wheel. He didn't see the road, just the car in front of him, his mother's head swaying back and forth. They passed through Mixcoac and Tacubaya, following the shoreline of the lake that was no longer there. On the outskirts of Coyoacán, Eitingon's car pulled to the side of the road. The Russian saluted as Jacques went by. Caridad's car led the way through the village, finally coming to a stop at an intersection three blocks from the house on Calle Viena. Jacques slowed to a halt beside her car. She met his eyes for a moment, pursed her lips in a kiss, then nodded, urging him on.

T
he eucalyptus tree came into view above the walls, then the volcanoes, a deep somber blue, the snowy peaks white against the enamel sky. The afternoon light was limpid, a touch of fall in the air, the smell of wood smoke from a fire burning somewhere in the dry riverbed. A donkey was braying in the distance, its ridiculous hee-haw, hee-haw making a mockery of laughter. A Mexican policeman slouched in the doorway of the brick guardhouse picking his teeth with the blade of a penknife. This was Mexico, where time stood still and nothing ever happened.

Rather than park in his customary way, Jacques made a U-turn in the street, pulling the Buick parallel against the wall so that it faced Coyoacán. He touched his breast pocket to make sure the letter was there, then slid forward on the seat so that he could shove the pistol into his back pocket. He put on his fedora and got out of the car, certain that the raincoat draped over his arm looked suspicious.

Joe Hansen, Charlie Cornell, and a Mexican were working on the roof next to the guard tower. Waving, Jacques called out, “Has Sylvia arrived?”

“No, but wait a moment,” Hansen called back.

Cornell pressed the electric switch in the guard tower; downstairs Harold Robins opened the reinforced door. “I have an appointment with the Old Man,” said Jacques.

“He's out at the ranch.”

“The ranch?”

“With his chickens and rabbits. Go on back if he's expecting you.”

Disappointed, Jacques looked from side to side as if he were missing something. “Is Sylvia here?”

“No, is she supposed to be?”

“She's meeting me, but I guess she's running late.”

He walked around the wing of the house intensely aware of the weight of the raincoat and the pressure of the pistol against his buttock. A breeze whispered through the boughs of the eucalyptus tree, the raft of dappled shade swaying on the grass below. Trotsky, wearing his blue denim smock and work gloves, stood at the rabbit hutch with his back to Jacques. The hens were clucking, pecking at the ground. The rabbits rustled against the wire of their hutch. The smell of smoke drifted over the walls, along with the muted sounds of the village.

“Good afternoon. How are your rabbits?”

Trotsky turned, a quizzical look on his face. “Oh, Mr. Jacson.” He smiled. “I worry about the rabbits. I can't find alfalfa here in Mexico that's been properly dried. If rabbits eat damp alfalfa, they get sick and bloat. I know there has to be a source for dry alfalfa but I can't find it. And how are you today?”

“Very busy,” he answered, his mouth going dry. “Sylvia and I are leaving tomorrow for New York, and we wanted to stop and say goodbye. She was going to meet me here, but it appears she's been detained.”

“You're leaving tomorrow?” Trotsky glanced toward the house, where his wife had come out on the porch

“Oh, that's you, Mr. Jacson,” Natalia Sedova called, a note of annoyance in her voice. “I didn't recognize you with the hat.”

“Yes, it's me,” said Jacques. Hearing the disapproval in her voice, he gravitated toward the porch. She was the true gatekeeper. Like Sylvia, she would be intuitive. “I'm frightfully thirsty. May I trouble you for a glass of water?”

“Perhaps you would like a cup of tea?”

“No, no, I dined too late and feel that the food is up to here,” he answered, pointing to his throat. “It's choking me.”

“Yes, you don't look well. Not well at all. Why are you wearing your hat and raincoat? You never wear a hat, and the sun is shining.”

“It's the rainy season. It always rains in the afternoon.”

She started to point out that the storm wouldn't start for hours. But then she let it go. “And how is Sylvia?” she asked.

“Sylvia?” He was still worrying about his hat and raincoat. “Sylvia? Yes, Sylvia. She's always well.”

“I'll get your water.” She went into the house and returned with a glass.

“Thank you,” he said, taking a long swallow. “I brought my article with the changes. I hope it's better.”

“Did you have it typed?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“That's good. Lev Davidovich dislikes illegible manuscripts.”

She took the glass then walked with him out into the garden. As they approached, Trotsky spoke to her in Russian. She looked sharply at Jacques. “I didn't know that you're leaving tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes, I forgot to mention it to you.”

“It's too bad that I didn't know, I might have sent a few things to New York.”

“I could stop by tomorrow.”

“No, no, thank you. It would inconvenience both of us. Lev Davidovich wanted me to ask you to tea. I explained that I had, that you didn't feel well and wanted water.”

Trotsky tilted his head, studying Jacques. “Your health is poor again, you look ill … That's not good. You should be in bed.”

“I'll rest in New York. Besides, I wanted you to read my article. I made all of the changes and had it typed. I think it's much improved.”

Trotsky started speaking again in Russian to his wife. Jacques heard something plaintive in his voice and understood that the Old Man didn't want to leave his animals to go in the house and read a paper. The garden was lovely, the afternoon sun filtering through the fragrant leaves of the eucalyptus tree. Feverishly, Jacques waited for Trotsky to say that he should leave the typescript. He would read it later at his leisure.

But then, reluctantly, Trotsky started removing his gloves. “Well, what do you say? Shall we go over your article?”

Why wasn't he resisting? Did he want to die? He had seen through Jacques. He knew he was a fraud.

Trotsky fastened the hutch and brushed off his blue blouse and started toward the house. Following, Jacques knew he was caught in some powerful chain of events pulling him inexorably forward. His heart throbbing in his ears, time slowed, then raced, his zone of vision narrowing to a cone just before him. Trotsky was holding his office door, then closing it behind them. He removed the smock to put on the worn jacket of his suit, and looked to see that Jacques removed his hat.

“Well, let's see how it went,” Trotsky said, holding out his hand. Jacques touched the crinkle of envelope in his breast pocket, then remembered that the article was in his raincoat. “I don't want to give you the wrong document,” he said, fumbling with his coat.

Trotsky sat down at his desk, squaring the typed pages before him. Men's voices and the sound of their footsteps came from the roof above. Through the open French doors, the strip of grass glowed a brilliant green, the bower of red bougainvillea dripping over the door. The office was tiny, claustrophobic. Trotsky's chair squeaked as he sat down. He cleared his throat once, twice, finally emitting a long sigh as he started to read.

The moment was rehearsed. Wait until he finishes the first page, Eitingon had coached. Wait until he is turning the page, when he will be most distracted.

His eyes misting, Jacques put his raincoat on the shelf of periodicals behind the desk and looked down at his hands, surprised they weren't trembling. Then, slipping the
piolet
off the cord, he gripped the handle of the ax in both hands and turned back to Trotsky, who would glance over his shoulder, who would reach for the pistol on the desk before him, and press the electric switch beneath the desk for the siren. But no, he began turning the page.

Jacques raised the ax over his head and brought it down with all his might, at the last moment shutting his eyes to imagine a block of ice shattering. He heard a nasty, wet popping sound, then felt the crunch of bone and something warm and sticky spraying on his hands. He opened his eyes to the horror of his hands on the ax, the prong buried deep in Trotsky's skull. The old man hadn't shattered like a block of ice, but sat upright and living, connected to Jacques in this ghastly moment.
The prong had to come out.
Giving the ax a jerk upward, Jacques unleashed a shriek of pure and unending agony. He froze as Trotsky rose up out of the chair like a wild animal, turning on him, grabbing the handle of the ax, grabbing Jacques's hand, biting down ferociously, breaking through the skin into the flesh. In a frenzy of blood, spittle, and sweat, he threw his arms around Jacques, grappling with him, until Jacques finally shoved him, the Russian sprawling toward the dining room.

Stunned, Jacques watched as the door opened and the old woman swooped down, wailing in Russian. She cradled her husband's head in her lap. The blood running down his face made his eyes look shockingly blue and naked without the horn-rims that had fallen aside. Holding his own wounded hand, trembling, Jacques stared at them, at what he had done. He heard voices, the sound of people running. He tried to remember what came next. He moved toward the French doors, thinking he would go over the little balcony. Natalia Sedova was muttering to her husband as she tried to wipe the blood from his face. She looked up at Jacques, an expression of profound consternation on her face. Frowning, trying to understand, she spoke to him in a language he didn't understand.

One of the guards, Joe Hansen, came in from the dining room to kneel on the floor beside the old couple. As he glanced up, Jacques remembered the pistol and pulled it from his back pocket as two more guards came rushing in. One knocked him to the floor, where they began beating him with their fists and the butt of a pistol. Sickening blows that broke his skin, his face, his eye, his mouth.

Sirens were wailing as he regained consciousness. The house was filled with people. Ambulance attendants gently lifted Trotsky onto a stretcher while his wife and Hansen hovered, assuring the Old Man he would survive.

When it was Jacques's turn to be taken out, a policeman handcuffed him and the attendants lifted him roughly. The house and the garden slid smoothly by, then he was in the back of the ambulance, the doors slamming shut. With sirens wailing, they made a parade through the city, a cortege. Through the windows, he could see people standing on the streets, staring. “He'll probably survive,” the ambulance attendant told the cop guarding Jacques. “With head wounds, there's always a quantity of blood. The blow wasn't fatal.”

Night, and the rain was falling. As they drove through the city, Jacques thought of Sylvia waiting for him.

A
t four o'clock, Sylvia was dressed, ready for Jacques to pick her up. It wasn't unlike him to be late. Everyone was late in Mexico City. She folded the last of their clothes that hadn't been packed, then made a list of the things she would need to do in the morning. She started a letter to her sister Ruth, then put it aside remembering that she would see Ruth the following day, or perhaps the next. From time to time, she looked at the scrap of paper where Jacques had written the name Alfredo Viñas, a telephone number, and two street addresses on Reforma. At a quarter to five, she considered trying the number but instead called the hotel operator to see if perhaps Jacques had left a message for her.

The last night in a foreign city was always stressful, getting away; catching a plane only made it more so. She had been worried about Jacques for days and now as the minutes ticked past she began to fear that something terrible had happened. She called the hotel operator a second time, then a third. After six o'clock she began to worry that they would be late to meet Otto and Trudy. They were Germans. They were punctual and wouldn't understand.

Sylvia thought of herself as a rational person and kept telling herself that there was some sort of simple misunderstanding for Jacques's delay. He had been so distracted, half the time he didn't know what she was saying. She checked her makeup again, applied fresh lipstick, studying her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Of course, she finally thought, they were meeting Otto and Trudy at La Blanca. That was the misunderstanding. Jacques, having been held up at his business meeting, would expect to find her at La Blanca.

Feeling relieved, she got her handbag and picked up her fur coat. It would be cold out even at the end of August. Just in case, she left a note,
Gone to La Blanca, See you there, Love S.

Downstairs, the doorman put her in a cab for the restaurant. She rarely went out alone at night in Mexico, but she sat back watching the city, thinking that in twenty-four hours they would be safely back in New York—the night, the missed connections a fading memory. The taxi followed the same route they took that morning, up Reforma, past the Bellas Artes and the Alameda. She paid the driver in front of the restaurant, and, adjusting her coat, went into La Blanca—really not the sort of place Jacques would like. Too modern, a bit garish, too big and modern. She smiled and waved when she saw Otto and Trudy sitting at a table near the door. Jacques wasn't there, no doubt because he would be trying to telephone.

“So sorry we're late! So sorry for the mix-up. We're sort of frantic, but Trudy, we wanted to see you.”

“Is your husband coming?” asked Trudy.

“Isn't he here?” Sylvia craned her head around. “He thought we were meeting here.”

Otto smiled. “No, we haven't seen him.”

“But I was sure he would be here.”

“We've been watching the door. We would have seen him coming in.”

Hands in her coat pockets, her shoulders slumped, she said, “That man! Where could he be?”

“Didn't you say you were going to Coyoacán this afternoon?”

“Oh my goodness! He must have gone to the hotel. He just missed me and is waiting for me at the hotel.”

“Did you call the house? Was he there?”

“Oh no, he would never go there without me. He's at the hotel. I'll call to let him know we're here.”

She opened her bag to sort through her coin purse, then went to the pay phone in a hallway leading to the toilets. She dropped the coins in the slot and waited for the Mexican operator. Not understanding what the woman said, Sylvia recited the numbers in Spanish she had learned. When the hotel operator came on, Sylvia, sighing with relief, asked to be put through to the room. She listened to the number ring and ring until the operator picked up again. “Yes, this is Mrs. Jacson. Is my husband at the hotel? Has he left me a message?”

She took a deep breath to steady herself. She had been so certain. Otto and Trudy looked concerned as she returned to the table.

“I simply don't understand. I was sure he would be at the hotel. Poor Miss Noriega! I think I'm driving her crazy.”

“Miss Noriega?”

“The hotel operator. I called her a couple of times before I left. I kept thinking Jacques had called or that something might be wrong with the telephones.”

“Why don't I call Coyoacán to see if he was there?” Otto offered.

“No, don't waste your time. Jacques would never go to the house without me.”

Otto cocked an eyebrow, skeptical. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, we have an agreement about that.”

“He might have left a message for you there. People from out of town sometimes leave messages for each other with the secretaries.”

“No, no, I don't want to panic. I must think. There's a logical explanation. This afternoon when he left the hotel Jacques said he was going to see a man at Banco Ejidal on Reforma to close a deal. It was a very important meeting. And I was so smart, I made Jacques give me the telephone number.”

She opened her handbag to look for the slip of paper. “I know it's here. I put it in my billfold. Yes! Mr. Viñas. I'll give him a call.” She excused herself and returned to the phone booth, which now held a plump bald-headed American, a salesman of some sort she was sure.

She waited impatiently, the slip of paper in one hand, rubbing two coins together in the other. When the man finally came out, she managed a crimped smile, then took his place in the booth. She picked up the receiver, dialed zero, waited till she heard the Mexican operator, then dropped a coin into the slot. Mustering her Spanish, she recited the first number that Jacques had written on the slip of paper. The line went dead for a few moments, then the operator came back, saying something in Spanish that Sylvia couldn't understand.

“Como?”
said Sylvia.
“Como
?
Ingles, por favor
.
”

Now another operator came on the line, a woman who spoke English. “I'm sorry,” she said, “but this number doesn't work.”

“Oh!” Sylvia sounded crestfallen. “But it's for a bank. The Banco Ejidal. The number must be good.”

“Miss Lopez said the number isn't good.”

“Could you try again?” asked Sylvia. “I might have said it wrong in Spanish.”

The line went dead once more and after another brief pause the operator returned to say that the number wasn't functioning. Sylvia asked the operator to try the second number Jacques had written on the slip of paper. After yet another moment of mysterious silence, Sylvia heard an electric hum and static on the line, then a man with an American accent saying, “The Shirley Courts. This is Robert Shirley.”

Jacques had gone to the Shirley Courts?

Confused, taken aback, she identified herself as Frank Jacson's wife. “I'm looking for my husband. It's our last night in town and I can't find him.” She laughed. “He doesn't happen to be there?”

“No, he's not staying here.”

“Yes, of course, we're still at the Hotel Montejo. But for some reason he gave me this number when he went out this afternoon. Do you expect him by any chance?”

“No, but he was here yesterday.”

“He was?”

“Or the day before. He came by to talk to Bobby.”

He muffled the telephone receiver to call his son, and in that instant, Sylvia imagined a little family room beyond the lobby of the tourist courts. After a few moments a boy's voice came on thin and a bit reedy. “This is Bobby,” he said. In the background, Sylvia heard the deeper voice of his father. “He was here yesterday,” said the boy. “He came by to borrow my
piolet
.”

“Piolet?”
said Sylvia.

“Yes, my ice ax. He asked to borrow it, but then he insisted on paying me for it. He was going to climb Ajusco.”

“Ajusco?”

“The mountain west of here.”

“Did he say
when
he was going?”

“Not exactly. But I thought it was today.”

Beginning to tremble, wondering if she were losing her mind, Sylvia thanked the boy and replaced the telephone receiver. She was blinking back tears when she sat down at the table once more. “I don't know what's happening,” she told Otto and Trudy. “The operator said that one of the numbers isn't good and the other number is for the Shirley Courts.”

“Do you think he was going there?” asked Otto.

“No.”

“He must have given you the number by mistake.”

“But he went there yesterday to get an ice ax. He told them he was going mountain climbing today.”

“There's some mistake,” Otto insisted. “Let me try the number for the bank. If it's for a bank, it must be a working number. The telephone companies here in Mexico are crazy, but I know how to deal with them.”

Sylvia felt suddenly weak as if she had started her period and her energy was bleeding away. She reached for her glass of water, then recalled she couldn't drink it. “Could I have a swallow of your beer?” she asked Trudy.

Trudy slid the glass across the table for her and smiled with sympathy.

“The Shirley Courts?” Sylvia shook her head then took a sip of the beer.

“Maybe he was sending you some sort of message,” Trudy suggested. “It would be like a clue, in a mystery.”

Sylvia clutched her arms and began to rock back and forth.

“Don't worry!” Trudy urged. “We will find Mr. Jacson.”

“Yes, I know, I know. I'm not being entirely rational, but this brings back the time in Paris when he disappeared. Oh, that was the worst time in my life! Frantic, I was frantic. He was gone for weeks, but of course he couldn't help it. I didn't know where he was or what to do. I wanted to go home but couldn't leave, not knowing what had happened. It was the same when he got sick mountain climbing. I thought I was having a nervous breakdown.”

Trudy smiled reassuringly. “These are such difficult times. So many are displaced.”

Otto returned to the table looking perplexed. “I don't know what this number is, but it's not for Banco Ejidal. I checked with information at both telephone companies.”

“It must be a separate line for the manager. Viñas is the manager.”

“Do you want to go to your hotel?”

She studied the slip of paper once more. “No, he won't be at the hotel. He gave me these street numbers on Reforma. Viñas must have another office. I'm going there. I have to look for him.”

“But how?”

“I'll take a taxi.”

“But you can't go alone,” Trudy protested. “We'll go with you. Otto, tell her.”

“Yes, of course.”

Outside, night had settled in the mountain valley, and the city had begun the process of shutting down. Stores were closing, metal grates rolling down in front of plate glass with ominous clattering. Office workers and clerks hurried to catch buses and trolleys; Indian women and children huddled on the sidewalks in front of buildings. The cold air was filled with the smells of exhaust fumes, kerosene, onions, and chiles frying. Traffic, pedestrian and automotive, eddied around the Bellas Artes on the corner of Avenida Hidalgo to flow past the Alameda. An age had passed since that afternoon in the blazing sunlight on the steps of the white marble palace.

At the bottom of the Alameda they turned on to Reforma, passing the Montejo and the American Embassy. Cars and taxis swirled around the Monument of Independence and past the Fountain of Diana. “There's the Banco Ejidal,” Sylvia chirped.

“But it won't be open, not now.” Otto asked the driver to stop the car. “What were those street numbers you had?'

Sylvia repeated the numbers, which he translated for the driver.

“Esta bien lejos! Mucho mas alla!”
the driver exclaimed.

“He says it's a long way.”

“Maybe Viñas has a private office,” said Sylvia. “That would explain why it's taken Jacques so long. Let's keep going. I don't care how far.”

Once Reforma entered Bosque de Chapultepec—the woods of Chapultepec, the city's great park—the mood of the traffic changed subtly, becoming domesticated and packlike, the cars filled with the affluent, the fortunate going home. A long river of red taillights streamed out through the night. Trudy began telling Otto something in German, and, after a few moments, he translated for Sylvia. “Trudy is saying this is like a story by Kafka. Do you know Kafka, a writer of German who lived in Vienna? His stories are very strange. You can read them again and again, and they never make sense. Something is missing or mistaken. There's a different logic to them.”

Sylvia sank deeper and deeper into agitation, her mind spinning with possible scenarios. It had to be Mr. Lubeck, something to do with him. That or Jacques had had some sort of mental breakdown.

They passed the entrance to the zoo and on the far side of the park came to Lomas de Chapultepec, once a great hacienda on the hills overlooking the city, now an exclusive suburb filled with houses reminiscent of haciendas. The driver would slow down to look at house numbers, then speed up. They seemed to be reaching the edge of the city. Development gave way to darkness, Reforma becoming a gravel road. Finally, the car stopped and the driver turned to speak rapidly.

“He says this is the end of Reforma.”

“Then we must have missed those addresses.”

Otto didn't answer and no one spoke in the car for a while. They were now going against the traffic, and, as they drove through the park, the river of headlights coming toward them was white. Sylvia seemed to give up hope but then announced that she had to call the hotel the minute they got out of the park.

“We're going that way. Wouldn't it be better to just wait till we get to the hotel?”

“No, I have to call. Tell him the first possible place.”