The Obedient Assassin: A Novel (14 page)

S
í, claro! Claro!”
said David Siqueiros. Sitting at a desk, telephone receiver resting on his shoulder, he had his boots propped in a bottom drawer. Rather than his cavalry uniform, he was wearing a brown leather jacket smeared with paint, an olive-green turtleneck sweater, and a pair of rough canvas dungarees. His dark hair had grown longer; parted in the middle, it emphasized the length of his face, his pale skin and full lips. Listening, amused, his green eyes moved from Eitingon to Caridad to Ramón, then settled upon Antonio Pujol, who conveyed a Mayan patience, his face a mask, the nose flattened, the cheeks pocked, the thick lips slightly curled as if pressed up against a window pane. Siqueiros held up two fingers to Pujol and tipped his mouth toward him. The younger man shook a Lucky Strike out of a pack, stood to pass the cigarette to Siqueiros, rattled a wax match out of its box, and struck it.

They were in an apartment Siqueiros kept in the Zona Rosa. He'd given the place to Caridad and Eitingon to use as an office, but he behaved as if it were still his. And he had taken a telephone call during a meeting.

Caridad, her lips pressed in a straight line, looked down at her quickly moving knitting needles, giving the black thread an angry pull. Jacques sat on a battered green leatherette sofa.

“Amilcar, te aviso tan pronto que sepa, pero la comisión es segura. Voy a pintar esa pared.”

Siqueiros continued speaking, lighting the cigarette, blowing a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “I'm sure the commission will come through, and as soon as it does I'll give you a ring. You will be the first to know, I promise.”

Caridad gave Eitingon a pointed look and stubbed out a cigarette as Siqueiros rang off.

“What is it?“ Siqueiros asked in French, dropping his jaw and shoulders in an expression that was entirely Gallic.

“My dearest David, was that a reporter?” Eitingon asked in French.

“Yes, Leonid, the arts editor at
La Opinion
, Amilcar Lopez.”

“Given the secret nature of our mission,” said Caridad, “might it not be wise for you to avoid the press?”

Siqueiros smiled at her. “Contrary to what you might think, if I suddenly dropped from sight, it would only arouse curiosity. The best camouflage I have is to stay in the public eye.”

“But perhaps you can avoid giving interviews while we're working,” Caridad suggested.

Siqueiros leaned back in his chair, comfortable with his position. He had the lease to the apartment. The telephone was his. He was the one who knew where all trip wires were hidden in the Mexican Communist Party—who was a Stalinist, who was Trotskyist, who hated whom. Siqueiros was the one who had the charisma to recruit and lead a group of men into an illegal armed assault. “If you like I can have the telephone disconnected. That way reporters won't bother me here.”

“No, no, no!” Eitingon said, holding up the flat of his palm. “It would take far too long to get another.”

“Surely the Party has some pull at the telephone company,” said Ramón.

“Of course, the Party runs the unions for both telephone companies.”

“Never mind,” said Eitingon. “Even with all of David's influence, it could take months to get another line.”

“As it is, we're behind schedule,” Caridad complained. “We don't have a schedule. I don't like being the scold, but if we don't set deadlines and work diligently we'll never accomplish anything.”

“Where is the plan for the house?” asked Siqueiros. “How many guards are there, how many policemen, how many machine guns? Is there a siren? We can't plan an attack without this information.”

“Ramón is cultivating Frida Rivera and thinks she will help.”

“Fridita,” Siqueiros scoffed, looking at Ramón. “What do you make of Señora Rivera?”

Thinking, Ramón lit a Lucky Strike, dropping the wax match in a cup. “She knows everything. And everyone.”

“But will she
do
anything?” Siqueiros smiled. “No, my young friend. I've known Frida since she was an adolescent. When Diego was a Stalinist, Frida was a Stalinist. When he was a Trotskyist, she was a Trotskyist. She has no political beliefs of her own, no conviction.” Siqueiros laced his fingers together, letting his eyes rest upon Ramón. “Why don't we just shoot the old man?”

“No, the Kremlin has very clear guidelines,” Caridad lectured. “We have to wage a campaign in the press to convince people that Trotsky is a terrorist and a traitor. You know Stalin's philosophy: first the moral assassination, then the physical. We have to shift the blame away from the Kremlin.”

“It was a joke,” said Ramón. “He was making a joke.”

“What about the wall around the house?” Siqueiros mused, bored with the political discussion.

“A few sticks of dynamite will do the trick,” Eitingon suggested. “Blow a hole and send your men in before Trotsky's guards have recovered from the shock.”

“We still have to know who's inside, how they're armed.”

Eitingon glanced at Ramón. “What about Sylvia? I trust you've kept her on the string.”

“Yes, of course.”

Eitingon frowned, thinking for a moment. “Get in touch with her to see how soon she can come. She may be the only way you get into the house. She's the key we need.”

W
atching Sylvia come down the stairs of the Pan Am plane, Jacques felt a wave of pleasure, which he saw reflected in her face, the eager wave, the kiss blown from her fingertips. She was wearing her sunglasses and carrying the possum coat over her arm. He was delighted to see her; he couldn't deny his feelings. Caridad and Eitingon might despise Sylvia for being gullible, but the possum coat summoned another story, a history he had with Sylvia, the reality that she considered him her husband. She cared for him and the things he had given her. Eagerly and happily, he moved toward her, putting Caridad and Eitingon out of mind. To play this role, to make love to Sylvia, to share a bed, he joined her in her innocence.

“You didn't really need to bring your fur,” he said as they went to claim her luggage. “It's not that cold here.”

“But it's cold in New York. I had to wear something going out to Idlewild, and it will probably be cold when I go back.”

“Let's not think about that,” he said, putting his arm through hers.

After claiming her bags, he led Sylvia and a porter to the yellow Buick roadster, explaining how he had traded in the black Ford sedan. Driving into the city, Sylvia observed the small, somber people with swarthy skin, jet-black hair, and sharp features. Wearing sandals, straw hats, and what appeared to be white pajamas, the men drove horse-drawn carts and burros loaded with towering bundles of sticks and great sacks of charcoal. Women in heavily embroidered dresses appeared to be cooking on open fires along the road.

She had heard a great deal about the city from both of her sisters, and from artists in Paris and New York who rhapsodized about the light and colors in Mexico. Jacques pointed out the snowcapped volcanoes, saying he had climbed Popocatépetl, the one shaped like a pyramid.

“It looks enormous, and such a terrifying name.”

“Yes, it's Aztec. I didn't quite make it all the way to the top,” he confessed. “The altitude is something here, and I wasn't acclimated. The other one is Iztaccíhuatl, the sleeping woman.”

Jacques made a point of driving down Reforma, which, but for the occasional burro, looked Parisian. They passed the American Embassy on their right, made a U-turn at one of the big traffic circles, and pulled beneath the porte cochère of the Hotel Montejo. “Remember, you're Mrs. Jacson,” he said as they walked into the hotel, which seemed very Mexican to Sylvia. The floors were red tile, the walls white stucco, the ceilings crossed with heavy, darkly stained beams.

Knowing that Sylvia would want time to bathe and collect herself, Jacques said he had to run a quick errand for his chief, Mr. Lubeck. He walked the three blocks to Calle Hamburgo, which ran behind the hotel through the Zona Rosa, and climbed the stairs in the Edificio Ermita to Siqueiros' apartment. He tapped on the door, slipped his key into the lock, and let himself into the office, which was dense with smoke. Eitingon was on the phone, speaking Russian. Caridad looked up, closing the file she'd been reading. “And did your little blond bird appreciate the yellow Buick?” she asked.

“Yes, the Buick is a great success,” he said, sitting down on the green leatherette sofa, wondering if his Mother was jealous of Sylvia.

Caridad's eyes narrowed. “Is something the matter?“ she asked.

“No, nothing.”

“Leonid, Ramón's wife has arrived,” Caridad announced as Eitingon hung up the receiver.

He smiled at the younger man, his eyes alive with interest. “What are your plans? Your immediate plans.”

“The usual—show her the city, sweep her off her feet. I thought I might take her dancing at Ciro's tonight.”

“Ciro's?” Caridad repeated. “Isn't that a bit glamorous for someone like Sylvia?”

“I don't know. She might enjoy it.”

“Where is she now?”

“At the hotel. We're going to the Bellinghausen to dine. It's nearby. She can stretch her legs a little.”

“And what about Trotsky?” asked Caridad

“I have to wait till she says she wants to see him. I can't suggest it.”

“No, of course not,” Caridad agreed. “What if she doesn't want to go?”

“She will. Sylvia never wants to miss anything. Both of her sisters have made the pilgrimage. It's a family ritual.”

Eitingon cautioned him not to show the slightest interest in Trotsky. “That's something about Jacques we established in Paris. You don't want to pressure her about anything.”

Ramón reminded Eitingon and Caridad that there were still a few details they hadn't worked out. Sylvia would want to know where his office was and a telephone number where she could call.

Eitingon grimaced. “These little details, we don't want them tripping us up. Now that she's arrived you must be careful about coming here.”

“She thinks I have a normal job. I'll have to come here more than ever.”

“Perhaps it's a mistake to keep her in a hotel so close,” said Eitingon,

“Would she follow you here?” Caridad asked.

“No.”

“Give her the address but change one digit,” said Eitingon. “It won't matter if she telephones. I never answer in Russian.”

***

J
acques walked back to the hotel, stopping in the lobby at the house phone to call Sylvia. “Are you starving?” he asked.

“Yes, but I'm not quite ready. Why don't you come up?”

“I need to take care of something at the desk. I'll see you down here. Hurry! I'm famished.”

When Sylvia stepped out of the elevator, Jacques was standing near the front desk looking at a newspaper. “There you are!” he smiled. “The restaurant's just a few blocks from here. I thought you'd like to walk.”

He led her out the front doors to Reforma then around the corner and into the Zona Rosa, explaining that in Mexico, the main meal, dinner, was served between two and three and that afterward, everyone took a siesta. Stores and offices closed and didn't open again until five, when workers returned to their jobs and stayed until nine or ten.

Jacaranda trees covered with purple blue blossoms lined the narrow streets in the Zona Rosa. Two ragged little boys with shoeshine boxes fell into the step with them, saying,
“Señor, dejenos lustrar los zapatos! Señor, porfavor! Un pesito, un pesito
.”

An Indian woman sat on the sidewalk, her back against a building, a little girl at her side, her open hand out, propped on her knee.
“Limosna,”
she murmured as they passed, her eyes staring into space.
“Limosna!”

Jacques guided Sylvia into the restaurant and exchanged a few words in Spanish with the mâitre d', who led them briskly through a dining room of raspberry-pink stucco walls and white linen table clothes to a partially covered patio. Rafts of cigarette and cigar smoke floated up into the limbs of a ceiba tree along with the thrum of voices punctuated by the clank and clatter of forks and knives. An army of waiters in white jackets moved through the room. One held Sylvia's chair while another unfurled a white linen napkin to place in her lap. “I feel like we're in a movie about Mexico,” she observed, leaning forward happily.

“Yes, the restaurant is supposed to resemble a Mexican hacienda, very traditional. Famous bullfighters, film stars—all sorts of Mexican celebrities come here—politicians, stars of radio shows, and journalists.”

“Do you see anyone you know?”

He glanced around, his lips compressing briefly. “No. No one. I'm still too new to the city.” His opened the large menu before him. “I think we should have a daiquiri to start.”

“Will I be all right? What with the altitude?”

“One shouldn't hurt you.”

As Jacques summoned their waiter to ask for their cocktails, Sylvia opened her menu. She recognized a few of the words—
taco, tortilla, chile
—but the rest was indecipherable. “What's this?” she asked Jacques. “S-E-S-O-S,” she spelled the letters out.

“Sesos,”
he pronounced the word in Spanish, glancing at his menu. “Brains, calves' brains. They're very rich, sautéed in butter. I don't think you would like them.”

“Jacques, have you already learned Spanish?”

“Spanish?”

“You spoke to the maître d' when we came in and to the waiter.”

He realized that she was right and wondered if he was being deliberately careless. “Just a few words,” he answered. “If you speak French then Spanish just comes to you.”

Jacques offered Sylvia a cigarette which she declined, and lit one for himself. When their daiquiris came, Sylvia talked about the things she wanted to see—the Chapultepec Castle, the Palace of Fine Arts, the National Museum of Art, the Floating Gardens of Xochimilco, Teotihuacán and the Pyramid of the Sun. “I'd love to fly over to Acapulco for a weekend and lie on the beach. Wouldn't that be lovely, to swim in the Pacific and get a tan?”

“Yes, but remember, I'm a workingman. I don't know how many holidays Mr. Lubeck will give me.”

“Oh yes, Peter Lubeck! And when will I meet him?”

Jacques gazed at her, a slight frown flickering across his features. “Sylvia, I don't think that would be quite the thing.”

“But as your wife, I should meet your boss.”

“I'm sorry to tell you, but Mr. Lubeck doesn't approve of our marriage.”

“Doesn't approve?”

“He's very Catholic, very traditional. Someone told him we weren't married by a priest or judge. That and he thinks you're a Communist.”

“But I'm not. Didn't you tell him?”

“A follower of Trotsky, a sympathizer—it's all the same to him. But Sylvia, don't let this spoil anything. I must warn you that the support for Hitler is very strong here. But it isn't anti-Semitism so much as a dislike for the United States.”

“Mr. Lubeck isn't a Nazi, is he?”

“No, of course not. If he met you, I know he would see your virtues. It's the way we were married he disapproves of.”