The Obedient Assassin: A Novel (10 page)

“I never thought of it that way.”

“Is she still working for the Soviets?”

“Yes. I as well.”

“And how is that, working for the Soviets?”

“It's limbo. You never know where you are, always waiting.”

“I won't ask what it is you're doing.” He filled their glasses again. “Well, the alternatives … You must be hungry.”

“I haven't had much for the last day or so, being on the road.”

“Marta made tuna with vinegar and onions.”

“She still comes in?”

“Not so often now.”

“Do you mind?” Ramón asked, going to the old icebox and opening the door.

“Of course, you are the chef. Make what you like. I'm afraid you won't find much to work with.”

Ramón removed a saucer from the top of a bowl to examine the tuna. “This will be fine. You must have crackers.”

“Yes, there in the bread box—where they always are.”

He ate from the bowl, scooping the tuna onto crackers with a fork.

“You're going to Ripollet?”

“Ripollet?”

“To see Montserrat and your brothers.”

“No, I hadn't thought of it, but I will now that you mention them. I've come to see Lena.”

“Ah, the young Miss Imbert. You still feel that way?”

“Yes, of course. Some things don't change.”

“And what about her?”

Ramón grimaced. “I'm not sure; that's why I had to come. She sent a postcard in March to say she had survived and didn't want me to worry about her. But she had almost stopped writing before then and nothing since.”

“Ah, and so you worry.”

“I would have gone to her tonight, but I needed a bath and a change of clothes. I hope I can find something here.”

“Look in the cupboards in your old room. I'm not sure what's there.”

Ramón finished the tuna, then went down the hall through the parlor where there were framed wedding photographs, the ugly vase that never broke, the heavy green sofa where his father pretended to sleep when Ramón was a boy, letting him riffle his pockets for coins and draw faces on his bald head. The air was heavy with the Mediterranean, the sounds of the docks. The room he'd shared with his brothers was filled with mementos of the past, discarded books and games, old clothes and photographs; a home that had been shattered, then, in bits and pieces, became a refuge for the children. Pablo Mercader, so much older than Caridad, was like a grandfather to his children.

Ramón opened the cupboard. One of the shirts folded and stacked on a shelf looked as if it would fit, as did a pair of trousers that he held up to his waist. He went back to have another sherry with his father, then lit the hot water heater and took a long bath, scrubbing his nails, lying in the milky water until it grew cold.

In the morning, he went to a barbershop for a shave and haircut, then bought a single red rose from a woman selling flowers from a tin bucket. Smelling of talcum and hair tonic, carrying the rose, he walked toward the Eixample, the grid of streets where the corners of the blocks were rounded off, making octagons rather than rectangles. Before the war, sidewalk cafés with awnings and umbrellas had made the intersections seem like little parks, but many of the storefronts were boarded up and trash littered the sidewalks. As if it were a winter morning with a cold wind blowing, people walked quickly, hurrying from the disaster. On every block or so, families loaded furniture and household belongings into old trucks and cars. A gull perched on a pile of rubble.

The Imbert family lived in Passeig de Gràcia, one of the more affluent sections of the Eixample. He climbed the steps to their building but stopped as he was about to press the bell to their apartment. Someone was playing a piano, somewhere in the building. He stared at the name Imbert next to the vertical column of buttons. Then he went back out and down the steps to the street, where he lit a cigarette and leaned against the fender of a car, looking up at Lena's window. He would will her to come out. He would send powerful thoughts that she couldn't resist.

The time passed slowly. He thought of Sylvia in Paris and wondered what she was doing. He smoked a second cigarette, then a third. A church bell rang nearby. A flock of nuns moved down the sidewalk, medieval in black robes and starched white wimples. He wondered if they were from Sagrado Corazón de María, the convent where Caridad had acquired her perfect penmanship. She and Eitingon would be furious with him for disappearing, which gave him a delicious feeling of satisfaction. Let them rant. Let them rave. He was in Barcelona to see his
novia
. He paced around the intersection, keeping a constant eye on Lena's door. Then, finally, when he thought it would never happen, the door opened and Lena appeared.

She stopped when she saw him, her eyes lighting up. “Ramón!” His name came in a dramatic rush, as if someone had struck the strings of guitar. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought you a rose, but you must mind the thorns. The woman didn't have tissue to wrap it in.”

“But why didn't you ring the bell? When did you get here? You're supposed to be in France.”

He smiled, giving her the flower.

“Why didn't you let me know you were coming?”

“I didn't know. I was driving to Lyon and suddenly I had to see you. I didn't stop or turn back. I didn't have a change of clothes. I just kept coming.” What he claimed for his credit, following his heart, was what he would pay for with Caridad.

“Has something happened?” he asked. “You stopped writing and then, when I got here, I was afraid you wouldn't see me.”

“Why wouldn't I see you?”

“I don't know. Perhaps I wanted to surprise you.”

Looking up, she studied his face in her earnest way. Her dark chestnut hair was parted on the side like a schoolgirl's. She had gray eyes, long lashes, and thick black brows. Her lips were a deep rose color, a bluish touch of lavender. Putting his arms around her, he could smell soap and the freshly ironed starch in her white cotton blouse. Her silky hair against his cheek was fragrant. Her body, her flesh was softer than Sylvia's. These were older and more familiar sensations that threaded through his life, linking present and past, making sense of his history. They embraced for a moment, then she took a deep breath, pushing away. Looking up at him, she squinted as if trying to adjust her vision.

“Lena, has something happened?”

She compressed her lips, shaking her head. “No, Ramón. Not here. I can't do this.”

“But we have to talk.”

“Do you want to come in?”

“No, there's that café around the corner. Is it still there?”

“But I can't stay,” she warned.

They walked to the café. Anxious, his mouth gone dry, he couldn't think what to say. Sitting down at the table across from him, she shook her head in a puzzled way.

“Lena, I …” he began.

“Ramón, you've been gone for months and months. And before that …”

“Yes, the war, it's a terrible time.”

“But you're in France now.”

“The war is bigger than Spain.”

“You're there with your mother?”

“Yes.” He had to send a telegram.

“What do you want from me?”

“What I've always wanted—to marry you.”

“Do you want me to come to Paris with you now? Is that why you're here?”

He hesitated. There was Sylvia to think of, Eitingon and Caridad. “No, not now. That wouldn't work.”

“No, of course not.” She looked away as if for a moment she had thought of someone or something else.

“But when the war is over …”

She shook her head. “Ramón, you're”—she paused, looking around and lowering her voice—“you're working for the GPU. Isn't that true?”

“Yes.”

“Don't you understand what that means? I can't leave my family. We're too deeply rooted here. This is my life.”

“But after the war.”

“We would never be able to come back. When the Republic falls, Franco will start rounding up Stalinists in Catalonia to march them in front of firing squads. It's already happening in the South.”

“I'm not a Stalinist.”

“Then why are you working for the GPU?”

“It's an important mission, an opportunity.”

“In the end, it won't matter why or what you believe. You won't be able to come back to Spain. Not openly. Not to live.”

“There are places where we could live.”

She bit her bottom lip, then let it go with a little fluttering puff of exasperation.

“Magdalena, is there someone else?”

“No. Yes. It has nothing to do with you. I had to stop living in the past.”

“Who is he?”

“You don't know him and it wouldn't matter. He would be a good husband, a good father. I'm not in love with him, not yet, but I hope someday I might.”

Lowering his eyes, he noticed her hand on the table beside the rose, her chubby fingers with the long, rounded nails. As he reached out, her hand curled up and pulled away.

S
ylvia felt she was entering hostile territory when she stepped off the train in Brussels. Moreover, she felt lost without Jacques. He would know where to go, the perfect little hotel, a charming café. But without him, the city was stale and dreary, sweltering in the August heat. She checked into a commercial hotel near the train station, washed her hands and face, then sat down on the side of the bed and gave the hotel operator the number Jacques had given her for Madame Gaston. As she waited for the call to go through, Sylvia imagined Madame Gaston as a kindly, pleasant-looking woman, a faithful family retainer, perhaps the nanny who had raised Jacques.

She sensed something wrong the moment she heard Madame Gaston's voice. Rather than French and genteel, she spoke English with a German accent that was curt, even suspicious. “Jacques Mornard?” she said as if she were confused. “Jacques Mornard?”

After muffling the phone to confer with another person, Madame Gaston came back on the line and told Sylvia to meet her at a café near Sylvia's hotel.

The woman who arrived had sallow skin, gray, oily hair, and was carrying a big cheap handbag. “So, you are Miss Ageloff,” she said, sitting down at Sylvia's table. “You look like you might do him some good.”

“I'm sorry. I don't understand what you mean.”

“You know what he's like. He's a rich playboy. You're not exactly his sort, are you, dearie?”

Sylvia's felt the blood come to her face as if she had been slapped. Was the woman remarking that Sylvia was a Jew? Sylvia chose to defend Jacques and disregard the slight.

“He has good qualities. Are you a friend of the family?”

“A friend of his family? Oh no, they're far too grand for the likes of me. He's a friend of my son. They trained together.”

“Trained for what?”

“Officer training. Jacques didn't tell you he was in the army?”

“No, it never came up. He's been writing to me but suddenly the letters stopped. I started to worry that he wasn't well. He said I could call you if I needed to see him.”

“And you took the train all the way to Brussels to find him?”

“I needed to get out of Paris.”

“Well, he's not here. He went to London on family business. How long will you stay?”

“Just tonight.”

“He might return tomorrow. Call me tomorrow and I should know something. I will investigate.”

“What time should I call you?”

The woman observed Sylvia in a shrewd way, her arms wrapped around the large handbag resting in her lap. “I don't know. In the afternoon.”

S
ylvia walked to the main square but the soaring Gothic arches failed to lift her spirits. She returned to her hotel room, where she spent dismal hours trying to read, thinking how different Brussels would be with Jacques. That night, when she finally slept, Sylvia had frightening, fleeting dreams that left her exhausted and uneasy. She ate breakfast in the hotel dining room, where the coffee was weak, the rolls stale. She watched the clock until it was time to check out of the hotel, then telephoned Madame Gaston.

“Sorry,” Madame Gaston said in her curt way. “He's still in London and won't be back anytime soon. I don't know when he'll return.”

After the line went dead, Sylvia placed the receiver in its cradle. She sat on the edge of her bed, feeling lost and confused. Nothing made sense to her. She had to consider the possibility that Jacques was lying to her, but she couldn't understand what possible motive he might have. She wanted to talk to her sisters or to someone she knew and trusted. She finally stood up and looked around the room to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything, then picked up her small suitcase. She had come looking for Jacques. Now, she understood that he had disappeared. She left the key at the desk and walked to the train station.

R
amón watched the front of the building for a few minutes from the car, then got out to cross the street, letting himself into the heavy timber doors with his key. He noticed the curtain move slightly in the concierge's window, then he switched on the light in the stairwell, which did little to dispel the gloom or his mounting sense of dread as he climbed the stairs, the stone treads scooped out by the passage of time, the countless passage of footsteps. As he reached Caridad's landing, the light went out. He hesitated for a moment, then found the light switch for the next landing and went up to his apartment. He was empty-handed except for a rumpled brown paper bag that held the razor, toothbrush, and toothpaste he'd bought, an old shirt, and a pair of trousers he'd brought from his father's flat. He inserted his key into the lock, felt the bolt move, then swung the door open to a scattering of notes on the floor, a mute blast of Caridad's anger and frustration.

Moaning, he squatted down on his heels to gather up the pieces of paper marked with the distinctive penmanship, the letters perfectly rounded. The rooms were warm and stuffy with the summer heat. He opened a window, pulled the shade, then went into the kitchen to draw a glass of water. Sitting down in the living room, he lit a cigarette as he read through the messages.

Hijo, where are you?

Ramón, has something happened? C

Ramón, what is happening? Let me know where you are.

The messages built to a crescendo of anxiety and anger, then they stopped. Reading through them, despite their hectoring tone, he almost felt sorry for her, but then his twinge of guilt reignited a flash of anger. He sat still for moment, finishing the cigarette, gazing around the flat, then, facing the inevitable, got up to go downstairs to her door.

He listened for a moment to the din of her radio, then tapped the signal they had agreed upon—two quick knocks, then a third. He heard scrabbling at the lock then she flung the door open. “Oh, my God! It's you. Finally. I've been insane with worry.”

He flinched as she tried to embrace him. “Don't,” he said. “Don't do that. You're angry. Go ahead!”

She stepped back from the door. “Come in!” she said, closing the door. “Where have you been? Where in God's name?”

“Barcelona. Home.”

“Barcelona? You went there? What were you doing?”

“I did as you said. I disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“I followed your orders.”

“You were supposed to disappear to that girl, not to me!”

He shrugged.

“Give me that cheek, and I'll give you the back of my hand.”

“I'm here. Isn't that what matters.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I wasn't really thinking, not at first. I was sick of all this, waiting, following Sylvia around. I went for a drive and just didn't stop.”

“And the car?”

“It's outside on the street.”

She turned away from him, going to the ashtray beside her rocking chair where a cigarette was burning. Windows were open but the room was choked with smoke. She was wearing a housecoat, her gray hair loose, her face bereft of makeup. Turning back upon him, she asked, “What was in your mind?”

“Nothing. I didn't plan to go, but then I was on the road going south and wanted to see Lena.”

She brought both hands to her face, rolling her eyes heavenward. “You fool! You idiot!”

“I'm back. I'm here now.”

“I had to fight Leonid tooth and nail to keep him from reporting you.”

“Report me to who?”

“Our superiors, the GPU. Sudoplatov. You were AWOL.”

Ramón blinked. “AWOL?”

“You've taken money, a great deal of money. The clothes, the car—you're living like an aristocrat. Do you think the GPU would let you walk away?”

“Eitingon wouldn't report me. He likes me. He always acts as if I'm his son or something.”

“He does like you, but he follows orders. He only sticks his neck out so far. He has to make this mission work. Don't you understand what's happening in the world? Can't you look around and see? Spain is a small taste of what's coming everywhere. We're on the brink of catastrophe. Franco is nothing compared to Hitler. The Fascists will crush us like fleas. Eitingon knows this very well. He's scrambling to stay upright, to find his footing. He won't let you endanger that. This mission is what he has. It's all that any of us have. You, me—without this mission, we have no place in the world, no work, no money, nothing to do. Do you understand? Are you listening?”

“Yes, I'm listening.”

“Rudolf Klement? You know what happened to him. They opened his veins and drained his blood in his bathtub. Then they carved him up like an animal, like a pig, packed him up, and threw him in the river.”

She stabbed out her cigarette and lit another. “I know you blame me for not saving Pablo but I'm only a woman. I don't have much power. I can't protect you. And now I see the same thing happening again. Pablo wouldn't give up that girl. Alicia. He didn't follow orders. And now you go chasing after Lena.”

“No more. That's over.”

“Why?”

“Doña Inez convinced her she has to marry a rich man.”

“That Fascist bitch.”

“She's not a Fascist. No more than your mother was. She wants Lena to have a good life.”

“And Sylvia? What about Sylvia? You know she went to Brussels?”

“She did what?”

“She called Madame Gaston, and, of course, Gaston sent us a wire. Sylvia showed up in Brussels, looking for you.”

“And what happened?”

“Gaston met her at a café, told her you had gone to London on family business. She's back in Paris. We're keeping tabs on her.”

Ramón lit a cigarette of his own, then went to the window to look down at the Citroën waiting on the street.

“What are you going to do about Sylvia? You have to put this right. You can't lose her. She's your way in.”

He felt a kind of sadness thinking of Sylvia, a tenderness in his heart. “Yes, Sylvia. I'll make it right.”