The Obedient Assassin: A Novel (20 page)

O
h la!
The commotion you can't imagine! One minute we were sleeping soundly and the next I was sure we were dead.” Marguerite paused a moment as a waitress placed a flan before her. “The inside of that bedroom is riddled with bullets. How they survived is a mystery.”

She picked up her spoon and touched the surface of the pudding, the skin trembling beneath the metal. They were eating at Sanborn's, the same restaurant where Jacques took Sylvia not long after she arrived. The waitresses wore colorful Indian dresses with long full skirts. A crowd of men in dark business suits were pouring in for their large midday meal.

“You know,” Marguerite continued, “Natalia Sedova saved him. He'd taken an extra sleeping pill and couldn't wake up. He thought the villagers were setting off fireworks to celebrate another feast day. Somehow, Natalia Sedova managed to drag him off the bed and into a corner of the room. He says that she was trying to shield him with her body.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Yes, but that's what they say. And neither of them exaggerates; they are always factual, very precise. But oh, it sounded like a scene from hell. When the shooting stopped, the door opened to Seva's room where a fire had started. Trotsky knew what was going to happen. The man would switch on the overhead light and rip back the covers off the bed. And when he found Trotsky and Natalia Sedova, he would shoot them like rats. That's how it's done. But no, he didn't turn on the light. He emptied his pistol into the mattress, turned around, and walked out.”

“He didn't turn on the lights?” said Jacques, his voice filled with disbelief.

“Perhaps he feared the sight of blood.”

“Who knows that?”

“Knows what?”

“That … the assassin didn't switch on the lights.”

“Colonel Sanchez, I imagine. What difference does it make?”

“I can't believe it. To go that far …”

“Squeamish, I suppose. A squeamish thug. But if you saw the bullet holes, you could hardly fault his logic. It's a miracle those men didn't kill each other, firing from opposite sides of the room.”

“And Seva?”

“Just a scratch on his ankle. He was grazed by a bullet.”

For a moment, Ramón lost track of what she was saying. His mind was throbbing with the knowledge that Siqueiros, after months, years of preparation, had been so careless. Had he only looked, it would all be over now.

Marguerite tasted the flan. “Trotsky was so relieved afterward. Almost ecstatic. Stalin's thugs had made their play and shown what fools they are. They didn't even touch Trotsky's office, his precious manuscript of his Stalin biography. They made fools of themselves and Stalin would have mud on his face. But then that idiot Colonel Sanchez decided it was an inside job. I don't believe you know the Colonel.”

“I saw him one day at the house. He was in uniform, looked like a kind of martinet.”

“Lev Davidovich is in a state of fury with Colonel Sanchez. An inside job! What could be more preposterous? What
tonterias
!”

“Sanchez is in charge of the investigation?”

“Yes, he's head of the secret police in Mexico. He's known Lev Davidovich and Natalia since they arrived. It was his job to protect them.”

“What is he thinking?”

“Who knows? Who knows if he thinks at all? He arrested the maids. He threw poor Consuela and Lupita into some prison called the
pocito
.” Her nose and mouth wrinkled with distaste. “I gather it's some sort of jail where the police torture suspects. Mexicans hear the word
pocito
and their blood goes cold. If I'm not mistaken, it means ‘little well' or something.”

“Yes, that's correct,” said Jacques. “Almost the same as French.”

“Poor Consuela and Lupita, the two most vulnerable people in the house. The Colonel kept them for one night, long enough for them to recall that there were suspicious activities going on at the house before the attack. Then the inspector arrests Trotsky's secretaries, Otto Schüssler and Joseph Hansen, and throws them into the
pocito
.”

She looked up from her flan to Jacques, her eyes filming with tears, the lines in her face more pronounced. “Is it possible this Colonel Sanchez truly believes that Trotsky would organize an attack on himself as some sort of propaganda stunt? Perhaps he's a Stalinist?”

“The inspector?”

“Yes, of course. Who else?”

“He could be a Stalinist,” Jacques agreed. “It's difficult to know. But what about Schüssler and Hansen?”

“They're in jail. Trotsky spoke on the telephone this morning to one of President Cárdenas' secretaries. As luck has it, the president is in the city and will read Trotsky's letter this afternoon.”

She took another bite of the flan, gazing around the dining room. “And poor Trotsky!” she continued. “He was sure Stalin and the GPU were going to come out of this with a black eye, and now they're howling with laughter. Trotsky gets blamed for his own attack! Stalin couldn't be happier.”

“I doubt that Stalin is altogether happy.”

“Oh. I see what you mean. Trotsky isn't dead. I suppose that's some consolation.”

“A considerable amount, I would think. Particularly for Trotsky. But no one suspects Sheldon?”

“Trotsky insists the boy was kidnapped. He told the Colonel that if Sheldon wanted to kill him he could have done it weeks ago without so much trouble.”

Jacques took a deep breath, crossing his arms casually over his chest. He was about to speak, to say that he was sure Sheldon was innocent, when, with a loud and startling crash, a tray of glasses, plates, and silverware hit the tile floor, bringing the room to a momentary halt. A busboy in a white jacket scrambled to his knees, frantically shoving the shards together as one of the waitresses in her Indian costume stood over him angrily.

After the moment's pause, the conversation resumed. Jacques broke off a piece of
bolillo
left in the basket, then put it aside. “Did you hear that Diego Rivera has fled the country?” he asked.

“Yes, I read in the papers that he's hiding in California. Such vanity! He was afraid the GPU would target him next. Such foolery. And poor Frida! I couldn't believe the Colonel threw her and her sister Cristina in jail.”

“Frida?” He frowned. “I didn't know that. She was in jail?”

“For two nights.”

“I don't envy the jailer. Whatever for?”

“The Colonel suspected that she was part of the plot, I suppose because of the rift between Trotsky and Diego.”

“That's absurd! He's grasping at straws.”

Marguerite scraped off a bit more pudding. “Alfred and I feel terrible that we're leaving just after this happened.”

“Ah, that's right! You're sailing Wednesday.”

“We've stayed so long, and we can't afford to forfeit our tickets. We've no income except for the little Alfred makes from writing. But you needn't worry about driving us to Veracruz. We can take the train.”

“I want to. As I told you, I have to go to Veracruz at least once a month for my boss, so it's no trouble. Do you know what you'll do in New York?”

“What can we do but wait for the war to end? We can't go back to France.”

H
arold Robins waved from the turret, and the gate snapped open before Jacques had quite reached it. “One second,” Jake Cooper said as he moved the iron bar to open the door. “I guess you heard about the commotion here.”

“Yes, I read about it in the papers. And Marguerite filled me in.”

Cooper smiled. “Colonel Sanchez personally delivered Schüssler and Hansen to the house last night.
El presidente
must have given him a good ass chewing. He was bowing and scraping, begging the Old Man to forgive him for taking the boys. Trotsky was cordial, but Natalia Sedova made it clear how she felt. It was quite a little scene.”

“And Sheldon?”

Cooper shook his head. “Nothing. No news. They must be holding him hostage. At least that's what we hope. You can go on in. They're expecting you.”

Jacques followed the path up to the house. The library was empty, but laughter and the sounds of a celebration came from the dining room. Jacques glanced in at the gathering at the dining table, and, seeing Trotsky with a big scratch on his forehead, retreated to wait near the entrance. A moment later, Alfred came looking for him. “Come in! Come in! Lev Davidovich was just reading a letter from John, one of the American guards who was here. Come and join us!”

Jacques felt a slight internal lurch when Trotsky stood to shake hands. Man to man, the Russian was both larger and younger than Jacques imagined, as tall as Jacques and heavier through the shoulders and chest. The goatee and mustache made his mouth prominent, his lips protruding from the whiskers. With his silver hair and strong aquiline nose, he looked like an eagle, his eyes, behind the lenses of his tortoiseshell glasses, a penetrating blue. He clasped Jacques's hand. “Yes, Sylvia's husband,” he said in French. “I've heard about you from Alfred and Marguerite. And my grandson.” He smiled warmly. Unscathed but for the scratch on his forehead, he appeared to be in excellent spirits. “Natalia,” he turned to his wife, “perhaps Mr. Jacson would like breakfast.”

Jacques assured everyone that he had eaten, but accepted a cup of tea, taking a chair beside Marguerite.

“And Seva?” Jacques asked her.

“He had to go to school,” said Marguerite. “We said our goodbyes before he left.”

The feeling of celebration was suddenly dying away, the laughter. Jacques had come for Alfred and Marguerite. He was taking them away.

“
Alors
,” Marguerite said, “I should make the last preparations.”

As she started to push back from the table, Natalia Sedova grasped her hand, tears coming to her eyes. “Marguerite, I can't say goodbye!”

“Oh, my dear!” Marguerite replied in a sweet maternal voice, wrapping her arms around her friend. “I know we will see each other soon.”

“No, we don't know that.” Natalia Sedova shook her head. “We know nothing of the sort. I'm going with you to Veracruz so that we will have another day together.”

“But Nata,” Trotsky objected. “How will you return?”

“With Mr. Jacson.”

Frowning, Trotsky spoke to his wife in Russian.

“Then I'll come back on the train. Or Ellen and I will follow them in one of our cars,” she said, referring to an old-maidish American at the table. “Yes, Ellen and I can drive together.” Drying her tears she got up from the table. “Ellen, you don't mind, do you? I'll pack a small bag for the night. I will only be a moment.”

Jacques was waiting on the front steps with Alfred when Trotsky joined them. He placed a hand on Jacques's shoulder and smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. “Mr. Jacson, everyone here seems to know you, everyone but me, that is. When you are close to so many of these people, I begin to wonder why you aren't one of us.”

“I'm afraid I know nothing about politics.”

“But if you are in business, much of business is politics. Economics and politics are two sides of the same coin.”

“I'm sure you're correct.”

“We could use a man like you—someone who understands how the world works. I feel sure you could make an important contribution.”

“Do you mean with money?”

Trotsky laughed. “No, but that is always welcome. You might like to write something for our publication. Sylvia said you worked as a journalist in Paris. I don't believe in telling people what to think, but I always encourage everyone to write. As you know, when you sit down with pen and paper you see things in a different way. It might be something that you've observed, something that you've been wanting to say.”

“I don't know what to say.”

“You needn't say anything. But think about it. Perhaps something will come to mind.”

H
e's very possessive,” Marguerite explained. “And he's very proper. In his mind it simply isn't appropriate that his wife should travel alone with an attractive man and spend a night in a hotel. After all, what would people think?”

“I thought he didn't trust me,” said Jacques, looking into the rearview mirror to make sure that Ellen Reed and Natalia Sedova were behind them.

“No, no, he doesn't trust
her
,” said Marguerite. “Ever since he had that little dalliance with Señora Rivera, he's been wildly jealous of Natalia. Isn't that curious?”

“He doesn't trust himself,” Alfred suggested.

“When you've been married so long, isn't it the same thing.”

Jacques watched the old Ford in his rearview mirror. “Has he changed?”

“Trotsky?”

“You've known him a long time.”

“Oh, yes,” said Alfred. “When we first knew him in France, he was a charming young man who showed a great deal of promise. He became famous at a very early age, during the '04 uprising in Moscow.”

“I don't see that he's changed that much,” Marguerite differed. “He's always been the same person.”

“But his life changed so dramatically. To live for years as a political writer, an intellectual, then become the commander of the Red Army. To be one of the great leaders on the world's stage to become what you see now—an exile living in obscurity. Now that was a dramatic fall!”

“He was vain,” Marguerite interjected. “That was a problem.”

“Yes, vanity was his great failing,” Alfred agreed. “He believed, as did so many, that he was Lenin's only possible successor. When Lenin started having strokes, Trotsky did nothing. He wouldn't fight for power the way Stalin did. Whether Stalin poisoned Lenin is unclear, but there is no doubt that Stalin was always plotting, putting all of his people into key positions. No, for Trotsky to rise to the zenith of power then be driven into exile, that had to be a terrible experience.”

“But he isn't bitter,” Marguerite added.

“No, he's found a place in Mexico. He could have gone into hiding, completely disappeared, but he insists that he has to be able to speak out, hold his ground.”

“Where could he disappear?” asked Jacques.

“The United States, of course. That's the only place he could be safe. Friends of the Fourth International own great tracts of land in the West. It would be a simple matter to smuggle Trotsky and Natalia Sedova across the border.”

“He does seem different now,” Marguerite added. “Before, he had no interest in the people who worked for him, never seemed to realize that they had families and lives of their own. He didn't notice them in that way and wasn't interested. But he's very fond of these young Americans working for him. He still grieves for Sheldon. I think living in close quarters with these Americans has changed him.”

T
hey were on the highway to Puebla, and as they climbed the flank of the volcanoes, the monsters dropped out of sight. They stopped in Puebla for lunch, then headed south and east through the Sierra Nevada. The mountains reminded Jacques of the Pyrénées, green pine forests, the air crisp and fragrant. Having told Marguerite and Alfred that he drove to Veracruz once a month for his boss, he had to bite his tongue when a glowing white triangle appeared in the clouds like a kite that, as he stared, slowly revealed itself to be the peak of a massive volcano dominating the landscape. “It's so big,” he finally said. “It's bigger than Popocatépetl.”

“Pico de Orizaba,” Alfred commented.

With the snowcapped peak floating above the landscape like a remote ideal, the two-lane highway took them higher and higher until they began to drop down through gray clouds into the provincial city of Jalapa, wreathed in mist and gentle rain. Jacques found the zocalo, where there were two hotels. “I usually stay at the other place,” said Jacques as they unloaded their luggage, “but I've been told this one is better.”

After checking in, Jacques went for a walk in the gray mist, returning to the hotel to find Natalia Sedova and Marguerite talking on one of the sofas in the lobby. After an early dinner, they went to bed. The following morning as they were leaving, Jacques noticed a puddle of liquid on the garage floor beneath the Ford. After arranging with the manager of the garage to have the radiator repaired, they all continued in the Buick, the women sitting in back, Marguerite and Natalia Sedova happily chatting in French. Once again the drive was dramatic, the grades steep as they made their way down from the Sierra Nevada to the flat coastal plane, where, at the end of May, the air was already hot and humid. They drove through fields of sugarcane and saw rows of swaying palm trees.

Jacques had consulted a map of Veracruz before leaving Mexico City, but missed a turn coming into the city. Alfred and Marguerite grew tense as they circled through a sector of low adobe houses where vultures walked the streets as if they owned them.

“Finalement!”
Marguerite gasped when they slipped out of the maze to find the ship waiting at the pier. A breeze blew off the Gulf of Mexico. Gulls swooped and squawked over the gentle waves. The pier was festive, filled with travelers and vendors, a marimba band playing. Jacques helped Alfred with the tickets and luggage, then they followed the women to their cabin, a small compartment, stuffy in the afternoon sun.

“Why don't we go up on the deck,” Alfred suggested to Jacques. “We'll have a smoke.”

Standing at a railing, Alfred filled his pipe, then cupped his hands to light it. “I'll be in New York soon,” said Jacques. “We can spend time together there.”

“Coming for a vacation?” Alfred asked around the stem of his pipe.

“No, for good, I believe. My boss is finishing up his business here in Mexico.”

“That's good news. It will make Sylvia happy. And Marguerite! She feels very close to you, as do I. You know we never had children of our own. With the war and so much uncertainty …” His voice trailed off.

They walked slowly, companionably around the deck. “Do you remember that night you and Marguerite came to the hotel?” Jacques asked. “You were going to tell me something about Spain.”

Bemused, Alfred Rosmer smiled. “Spain? No, I don't remember talking about Spain.”

“We were talking about Trotsky and Stalin, what happened in Spain.”

“No, I don't know what I was going to say, unless it was my usual heresy.”

“What's that?”

“That the civil war in Spain would have been a revolution if not for Stalin.”

“What do you mean?”

“Spaniards wanted a revolution. It was exactly the sort of spontaneous uprising Marx predicted and wrote about. The Spanish people knew Franco would reinstate feudalism, that they would once more be under the heel of the church and the aristocracy. They were willing to fight and die for a cause. If you remember, the peasants and workers were seizing land, killing priests, and burning down churches. Peasants would get into taxicabs with sticks of dynamite and attack machine-gun nests.”

“But Stalin supported the people.”

“No, Joseph Stalin supported the Republican government, which was the status quo. And that wasn't worth dying for. Instead of a revolution, Spain got a civil war. And that was something very different. For Stalin, the only revolution is the Soviet Union. Comintern won't support revolution outside the Soviet Union. That's official policy.”

“But Franco won because Trotsky split the Left in Spain.”

“You've seen Trotsky's headquarters. He can't defend his own house. Do you think he was telling trade unions and anarchists what to do in Spain?” The older man drew on his pipe, exhaling a fragrant cloud of smoke. Squinting in a thoughtful way, he looked inland beyond Veracruz. “Funny you can't see it from here,” he said.

“See what?”

“Pico de Orizaba. I guess we're too close, but that's the first land that ships see way out on the Gulf before dawn. The snow catches the first light.”