The Obedient Assassin: A Novel (21 page)

S
ylvia watched as the Pan Am plane taxied up to the terminal at Idlewild. She was wearing her prettiest summer dress, but it was always stressful meeting Jacques after a separation, seeing him in a crowd as a stranger, separate and self-contained, fearing that he had changed, that he might see her without the kindness of his love.

The plane came to a standstill, the engines were cut, then, as the blades of the propellers were becoming visible, two workers ran out with chocks for the wheels. Jacques came down the stairs, wearing a suit and dark glasses, carrying a raincoat over his arm.

“There you are!” he said, taking her in his arms, leaning down to kiss her. “You can't imagine how glad I am to see you. What a dreadful flight!”

“Was it rough?”

“Yes, some bad weather.”

Hand in hand, they went into the terminal, following the crowd toward the baggage claim. “Look at you,” he said. “Is that a new hat you're wearing?”

“Yes, do you like it?”

“Very becoming,
très chic
. How are your sisters? Have you seen Marguerite and Alfred?”

Sylvia suddenly stopped. “Oh, Jacques, I was so excited to see you I forgot the worst news. The Nazis marched into Paris this morning. The reporter on the radio said Parisians stood on the streets weeping.”

“Everyone knew this was coming,” he said, suddenly looking tired and worried.

“I telephoned the Rosmers but their line was busy.”

“At least they're out of it. I want to see them while I'm here.”

Jacques claimed his luggage and hailed a cab. It was a fine June day in New York. Soft white clouds floated in the blue sky. A pleasant breeze whipped through the windows of the taxi, the skyscrapers and bridges rising before them. Jacques told the driver to take them to the Pierpont Hotel on Fifth Avenue between Seventeenth and Eighteenth Streets. “I'm going to be slaving on Wall Street,” he told Sylvia. “Lubeck is already here and I have a meeting this afternoon.”

“So soon? I hoped we could spend the day together.”

“I'm sorry but not today. Lubeck says we're going to be in meetings all week. He's moving the business here and is setting up an office in New Jersey.”

“Here?”

“Yes, it's good news. I may be able to hire your sister.” He took Sylvia's hand. “And even better, you and I can finally get a place together, have a real life.”

At the hotel, Jacques registered as Mr. and Mrs. Jacson. They followed the bellman to an elevator; standing behind him in the car, Jacques put his arm around Sylvia's waist, drawing her to him gently, playfully. The bellman led them to their room, insisted on demonstrating how the radio worked and asked if they would require any other services. “No, no, no,” Jacques said, handing the man a folded bill.

“Finally!” Jacques exclaimed when the door closed. Loosening his necktie, he kissed Sylvia, pulling her close as he shed his jacket. “Do you want a shower? I have to wash. I must smell like a beast.”

“No, dear, not a shower. I've just been to the hairdresser.”

“We don't have time to draw a bath.”

“Go ahead,” she said. “I'll wait.”

“I'm starving! For you and for breakfast, an American breakfast—eggs, bacon, toast.”

“Should I call room service?”

“No, not yet. We might want more time.” He took off his shirt and pried off his shoes. Kissing her again, he began unbuttoning her blouse.

“Go on, you beast!” she said, pushing him away.

“That bad?”

“No, not at all. You smell lovely. I love the way you smell. Go on, I'll be making myself at home.”

He showered and shaved with the door open, calling to her, asking about her afternoon, her job, news of her family. When he came out, a white towel around his waist, smelling of soap and aftershave, she had turned down the bed and was propped against the pillows in her pale ivory slip. He sat down to face her and smiled as her hand reached out, stroking his chest. “I'm so glad to see you,” he whispered. “I've missed you so much.”

He began to lean forward but hesitated, suddenly distracted, his mind in another place.

“Jacques, what is it?”

“Oh, sorry. It's this meeting this afternoon. Lubeck is making a mistake. I know what he should do, but I'm not sure I can make him listen to me.”

“He must be a reasonable man. And you're persuasive.”

“We'll see. I don't want to think about it now.”

Jacques began to kiss her once more then, discarding the damp towel as he slipped beneath the sheet.

After making love, they lay in bed talking, listening to the maids in the hallway. “This makes me feel wanton,” said Sylvia.

“Wanton? I don't know that word.”

“Making love in a hotel room in the middle of the day.”

“It isn't the middle of the day.” He frowned, reaching for his wristwatch.

“No, not yet. But if you're going to have breakfast, you should probably call room service.”

After breakfast, a mood settled upon him as he dressed, a somber feeling of resolution.

“Which way are you going?” he asked as they left the hotel.

“I suppose I'll go home.”

“A taxi, uptown,” Jacques told the hotel doorman.

After seeing Sylvia into the cab, he asked for another going downtown. “Wall Street,” he told the driver when he got in. He let the driver go five blocks, then told him he had changed his mind. He wanted to go to Washington Square.

After getting out of the car, he walked under the arch into the park and sat on one of the benches, feeling anxious yet hopeful. He had found the solution to their problem. It was so obvious, glaringly obvious.

The packed gravel paths had been recently sprinkled and raked. The people in the park looked happy in ordinary ways, mothers pushing strollers, little boys spinning tops, old men playing chess. He daydreamed about living in New York, having a job, an apartment with Sylvia. Then, checking his watch, he got up and walked around the inner circle of the park as he had been instructed, and, after a moment, saw Eitingon and Caridad sitting together on one of the benches. Eitingon was wearing a white Panama hat. Caridad wore an olive green suit with a small, dashing hat that looked like a bird's wing.

Eitingon gave him a warning glance as he approached. “Sit down and keep your voice low,” Eitingon said in French. “We're probably being watched.”

Ramón did as told, making a point not to look around.

“Who is watching?”

“Our people. The GPU, the NKVD.”

“It's that bad?” Ramón said in French.

“The situation isn't good and could be much worse. We've been assigned to an NKVD agent here. We're going to meet him in a few minutes. Let me do the talking unless he asks you a question. Everything will work out.” Eitingon stood, checking his watch. “It's about time. We're just up Fifth Avenue.”

“But before we go, I have something to say.”

“Ramón, not now.” Caridad looked impatient. “We're going to be late.”

“But I think you should hear this.”

“You have all week to tell us.”

“Just one thing, a point of fact that should make a difference. At the house, after emptying his pistol in Trotsky's bed, Siqueiros didn't turn on the lights.”

Caridad looked to Eitingon.

“He didn't check to see if Trotsky was dead,” Ramón elaborated.

“That bastard!” said Caridad.

“How do you know this?” Eitingon asked.

“Marguerite Rosmer told me.”

“Did this come out in the Mexican press?”

“No. Not that I know.”

Eitingon shook his head. “It's disgusting but changes nothing,”

“It has changed everything,” Ramón insisted.

“Not now. Don't bring it up. Your mother and I will be blamed. We were in charge of the mission. They'll say we failed to adequately train Siqueiros.”

“But …”

“That's the way it works.”

“There's something else I want to say.”

“Later. This will be just the first meeting. I'm afraid this will last all week.”

T
he building was unremarkable. The gold letters on the frosted glass door said Smith & Klein. Beyond a small waiting room, there was an office with windows that looked out on the street three floors below. Gaik Ovakimian had thinning blond hair, pale blue eyes, a bad complexion, and steel-rim glasses. His nose was oddly formed, hooked, the nostrils so small they appeared to have been added as an afterthought with a paper punch. He was wearing a cheap, badly cut suit, and was clearly unhappy to see them.

Eitingon launched into Russian, his voice rising and falling, while Ovakimian remained impassive, occasionally shrugging slightly, tapping his long fingers on the table. Ovakimian finally said something conclusive and cleared his throat, taking a very small green spiral notepad from his shirt pocket and glancing through it a moment. “Not good. Not good,” he said in English, shaking his head back and forth, then giving them a baleful look. “Trotsky has already named David Siqueiros as his assailant.”

Caridad glanced to Eitingon.

“How could he possibly know?” Ovakimian demanded.

“Pure speculation,” Eitingon suggested.

“And David Siqueiros is giving Mexican newspapers interviews to make it appear he's still in Mexico City? What is the point of being so provocative? He's calling attention to himself.”

“It's his way.”

“Yet he remains in Mexico?”

“Yes, he's hiding in the mountains.”

“In a place that's secure?”

“He says he won't be found.”

“The Mexicans will find him unless they choose not to. He's involved too many people. We've had reports that two of the men who took part in the attack are here in New York. Leopoldo and Luis Arenas are going around the city, calling on expatriate Mexican artists and intellectuals as if they're on some sort of cultural tour.”

“They're David's studio assistants. He must have given them money.”

Ramón started to speak—he had been waiting for his chance—but Ovakimian inhaled sharply through his nose, a sort of snort in reverse. “None of this looks good by the light of day. Who in his right mind thought it would be a good idea to have a famous Mexican artist lead a secret mission?”

“Sudoplatov, Beria, and Stalin all endorsed that choice,” said Eitingon.

“Yes, and none of them will remember that in the end.”

He glanced at his notebook again. “And this American who was taken? Robert Sheldon Harte?”

“Siqueiros took him.”

“Why involve this sort of person. His family is rich. His father went to Mexico to look for him. They've called the American ambassador in Mexico. Next they will call the FBI.”

“The FBI would be helpless in Mexico,” said Caridad.

Ovakimian consulted another page in his little green notebook, shaking his head and biting his lips as if confronted with a formula he couldn't solve. “Well, and what now?” He looked at Ramón. “You stayed in Mexico after the May twenty-third attack. Do you think anyone suspects you?”

“No one. Far from it. They're trying to recruit me to their side. Trotsky wants me to write an article for their publication.”

“But that's very good, very useful.”

“Yes, I would like to say something.” Ramón looked from Caridad to Eitingon. “I've observed the situation in Mexico closely. And in Paris, I met the people who are running the Fourth International. At this point, I know Trotsky's organization better than anyone in the Kremlin. I know his guards and his secretaries. I have observed them closely.” Ramón hesitated, taking a deep breath. “I'm confident that Trotsky and the Fourth International pose no threat to Stalin or the Soviet Union. There is no reason to kill him.”

“Yes, very good. Fortunately, we have a contingency plan in place. We need to adjust to the current circumstances and make the most of what has happened. The Kremlin wants Trotsky to be the author of his assassination. The assassin will be one of his followers, a disillusioned Trotskyist.”

“But wait a moment,” said Ramón.

Caridad shook her head. “This isn't the time.”

“Plan B always called for an insider,” said Eitingon. “So this would be a slight refinement.”

“Yes, to take advantage of the current publicity,” Ovakimian agreed. “What we need to do is write a letter, an alibi for our agent that will be found on his body, placing all of the blame on Trotsky.”

“On his body,” Caridad repeated.

“On his person, in case he should be captured.”

Ramón looked from Caridad to Eitingon. “And who is this person, this disillusioned Trotskyist?”

Ovakimian's eyebrows went up.

Caridad met Ramón's eyes. “You understand what confidence we have placed in you. This is your great opportunity. Stalin, the Kremlin, everyone will be watching.”

He started to speak, but her eyelids tensed, that warning look he knew from childhood.

“We should also think about this article Trotsky wants you to write,” Ovakimian went on. “We must work on that as well while you're here.”

The conversation moved past Ramón, around him, his head buzzing. He, the assassin? And they had never bothered to even tell him. Caridad looked at ease. A breeze came through the open windows, the sound of traffic on Fifth Avenue below.

Ramón waited until he felt sure of his voice. “Now that the time has come, may I ask what the contingency plan is?”

Ovakimian made an empty-handed gesture. “What do you mean?”

“You're planning the propaganda, but how does the assassination happen? Has that been planned?”

Eitingon leaned across the table toward him, smiling encouragement. “You know the situation best. The final plan will come from you, but we will help you. This sort of operation can be quite simple. Operatives in Bulgaria recently eliminated an ambassador there. They went in as moving men delivering a rug, cracked the ambassador's head with a lead pipe, rolled him up in the rug, and carried him out. No one missed him till the end of the day.”