The Obedient Assassin: A Novel (23 page)

E
itingon nodded encouragement as Ramón brought a spoonful of the clear golden broth from the bowl to his mouth. They were sitting side by side at one of the banquets on the patio at the Bellinghausen. Eitingon noticed the young man's hand tremble and worried about the color of his complexion. He'd known him as a boy, watched him mature, and was now relying upon him. For a moment, he felt that it must be Ramón who was his son rather than Luis.

“Some lime juice might improve the flavor,” he suggested. “That's what the Mexicans do.”

“I don't want much flavor.”

“Do you feel you're getting stronger?”

“Yes, the cramps come less often. It's only the nausea.”

Eitingon took a swallow of his vodka, then linked his thick hands on the white tablecloth before him. “You should have some red meat. Steak tartar on toast.”

“Or ground horsemeat with cognac?”

“Yes, something like that.”

“I don't think so.”

Eitingon's eyes drifted to the far side of the patio, where a famous Mexican comedian was arriving, causing a ripple to pass through the restaurant, heads turning, hands reaching out, waiters and mâitre d' bowing and scraping,

“You must eat something solid. I'll have them prepare eggs for you. Soft-boiled eggs and bread. Those Mexican rolls,
bolillos
, are quite tasty.”

“I had eggs for breakfast. I'll be having tea soon.”

“At four o'clock, you said.”

“At four-thirty.”

“That's good. You must observe everything. You know the physical structure. Now you must learn their habits. Does he close the door to his office?”

Ramón lifted his eyes to Eitingon's for a moment, then had another spoonful of broth.

“How long does it take to walk from his office out to a car on the street? Unimpeded, ten seconds? Silence will be critical. It's a large house but there are people all around him. This afternoon, talk to him about the article you're writing. Tell him that you will need his help. That will give you the opportunity to schedule an appointment. Perhaps two.”

“I worry about being there with Sylvia. Before she left last time, she made me promise I wouldn't go to the house without her.”

“But she knows that you are known there, that you often went to the house for the Rosmers. It's unlikely anything specific will be said.”

“I
'm afraid I'm dreading this,” said Sylvia as Jacques parked their car at an angle to the wall.

“Why? You were so eager the first time you came.”

“I know but Trotsky will want to argue politics, and I don't feel like an argument. Or politics. Marguerite says they haven't any money, that they're wearing the same clothes they arrived with in Mexico. Do you think Mr. Lubeck could do something for them?”

“Mr. Lubeck?”

“Yes, couldn't he include them in a deal?”

“I suppose if they have something to invest. Should I ask?”

“No, not today. They're so formal, they would probably find it improper to discuss business.”

Jacques went around to open Sylvia's door, noticing the lightning flicker in the dark clouds bunched up against the volcanoes. The machine-gun turret was empty. The garage door rolled open as they approached. “Just come through here,” said Jake Cooper, “I'm taking the Dodge out.”

Cooper greeted them, then they followed the flagstone path up to the house, entering the library beneath the canopy of bougainvillea. Otto Schüssler, Walter Kertley, who was one of the secretaries, and Ellen Reed stopped their work to say hello, asking about Sylvia's sisters and the Rosmers in New York.

“We're having tea on the patio,” said Natalia Sedova, coming in from the dining room, drying her hands on a dish towel. She embraced Sylvia, kissing her on both cheeks. “And Mr. Jacson,” she said, offering her hand. “My husband is waiting for us outside. I think you'll find it pleasant.”

A small round table had been laid with a blue-and-white cloth, cups, and saucers. “Ah, Sylvia!” Trotsky said, getting up to embrace her. “You are a welcome sight and an unexpected pleasure.” He cocked his head quizzically when he looked at Jacques. “And Mr. Jacson, I understand you haven't been well. Goodness, your color is poor and you've lost weight. What medicines has your doctor prescribed? You have to be so careful with the water here. That's the first thing we tell our guests. We never drink water without boiling it first.”

“I have something for Seva,” Jacques said, touching the breast pocket of his suit. “Is he here?”

“He's in his room, the one at the end,” said Natalia Sedova. “He'll be happy to see you.”

Leaving Sylvia to answer questions about New York, Jacques walked to the three steps leading to the boy's room. “Esteban,” he called. “I brought you something.”

The boy came out, looking pale and shy, still wearing his school uniform. Jacques withdrew the long narrow package from his jacket.

“A glider,” Seva said as he unwrapped the paper.

Jacques sat on one of the steps and lit a cigarette while the boy broke the thin pieces of balsam wood apart, inserting the long fragile wing into the slot cut into the body of the plane.

“Seva, what's that you have?” Trotsky asked as he joined them.

“A glider. Mr. Jacson gave it to me.”

“Did you say thank you?”

“Yes, Grampa, of course. Thank you, Mr. Jacson.”

Seva attached the tail wing and rudder, then threw the plane, which soared for a moment, defying the force of gravity. The two men stood watching as the boy chased after the plane. A breeze moved in the eucalyptus tree, the shadows swaying on the ground. The hens clucked softly in the chicken coop, the raft of dappled shade floating beneath the tree.

“I believe I've thought of something to write about,” said Jacques.

Trotsky turned to him, his crystal blue eyes focusing, trying to recall what his guest was talking about. “Oh yes, tell me.”

“I thought it would be interesting to look at how the war in Europe is driving up commodity prices in Latin America and discuss the issue of profit taking as opposed to profiteering.”

“That sounds promising,” said Trotsky as he gravitated toward his rabbits and chickens, Jacques following in his wake

“I've never written anything like this so I'll need your guidance—if you're still willing to help me.”

“Of course,” said Trotsky, peering into the rabbit hutch. “Bring me your rough draft. We'll go over that together. I can make suggestions then you can bring it back for a final read. That's the usual procedure.” He placed his hand on Jacques's shoulder in an affectionate way. “This is a splendid development. I'll be happy to help you.”

S
he took a cigarette from the pack of Lucky Strikes on the table and pushed it to him. “It's time.” She lit her cigarette, squinting against the smoke. “You don't need Sylvia here. Get rid of her.”

Ramón lit his own cigarette, exhaling, not bothering to answer. Eitingon sat in a chair beneath a lamp to one side of the room, where he was going through a document.

“She's a distraction, and it's dangerous for you to be sleeping with her now. You could slip up, say something in your sleep. You shouldn't have brought her down here again.”

Ramón's eyelids tensed slightly. “I was sick. I needed help.”

“You could have gone to a hospital. That's what you should have done.”

“I can't simply dismiss Sylvia.”

“Of course you can. We're finished with her. You no longer need to worry about what she thinks or how she feels. We no longer need her. She's a distraction.”

Ramón studied his cigarette, contemplating the smoke, the gray ash, the cinder slowly burning as if it were a very slow fuse. Against his better judgment, he had trusted his mother in Spain. He'd followed her to Paris and then to Mexico. She'd led him into the worst possible dilemma, a treacherous impasse with no feasible escape. He wasn't sure what he was going to do, only that he would have to find his own way and that he had no intention of sending Sylvia home to New York.

He raised his head, meeting Caridad's eyes. “I find that her presence keeps me calm.”

“Leonid! Are you listening to this?”

Eitingon looked up from his document. “If she makes the boy feel better, what difference does it make? It's like putting a goat in with a racehorse. Ramón, when are you going back out there to show Trotsky your article?”

“On Friday.”

“That's good. The Germans started air raids over England today. In a week or ten days, they'll start bombing London. We should do it before then. The timing will be perfect.”

“Have you decided on the weapon?”

“I have an idea but I'm not sure.”

“If only there were a way to silence a pistol,” said Caridad. “Have you considered a garrote? You could conceal a piece of wire in your clothes.”

“He would struggle. He's old but strong. If he kicked something over, the guards would come rushing in.”

“There's always lead pipe,” Eitingon suggested. “It's available in any hardware store.”

Jacques grimaced. “I was thinking of something less crude.”

“Yes?”

“A
piolet
, the kind I used climbing in Europe.”

“A
piolet
?”

“It's an ice ax. The head has a sharp prong on one side and a blade on the other. I can cut the handle down and conceal it under my raincoat.”

“It sounds like a grubbing hoe. You're thinking of going into his office with a farming implement?”

“No, it's very elegant and precise. Climbing in the Pyrénées, I shattered enormous blocks of ice with the prong.”

“It would be easy to trace. Do you want to leave your calling card at the scene of the crime?”

“What difference does it make? They're going to know I did it whether they catch me or not.”

“Do you have one of these elegant implements?”

“No, but I know where I can get one.”

Caridad placed her hand on Jacques's forearm, gripping it firmly. “You must think positively about this. Use whatever weapon you want. You must take a pistol as well.”

“Do you want a cyanide capsule?” asked Eitingon.

“No!” Caridad snapped. “This is not a suicide mission! That is not an option.”

Eitingon gazed at her through the cloud of cigarette smoke undulating slowly in the room. After a moment, he sniffed audibly, then reordered the pages of the typescript. “Let's go over the letter again.”

“I know it by heart. I'm Jacques Mornard, a Belgian aristocrat. While living in Paris, I joined a group of Trotskyists. One of the members asked if I would like to go on a special mission to Mexico, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Ramón, there is no et cetera,” said Eitingon, getting up from his chair. “You're going to be under tremendous pressure. They'll grill you again and again.”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

Eitingon leaned down into his face. “Who approached you about coming to Mexico?”

Ramón felt his fury come boiling up. He wanted to grab Eitingon by the ears and slam his face into the table.

“Who? Who approached you?”

Ramón took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “A member of the Fourth International. He said they would pay all of my expenses, but I had to assume a new name and travel under a forged passport.”

“What was his name?”

“I don't remember. He never told me.”

“What did he look like?”

“French, an intellectual.”

“What were his instructions?”

“I was to keep my distance when I first arrived to avoid suspicion. After I met Trotsky, I became disillusioned. I saw that he was scornful of his own followers and despised the working class. He was a maniac who cared only for power. He wanted to send me on a secret mission to the Soviet Union to assassinate Stalin. When I realized that he had ruined my life by having me come to Mexico under false circumstances, I had no choice but to kill him.”

“A secret mission?”

“Yes, he was going to send me to Shanghai, where I would meet with other undercover agents.”

“And you swear your name is Jacques Mornard?”

“Yes.”

“Where does your family live in Brussels?”

“They have a house in the city and an estate. A country estate.”

“What is the address in town?”

Jacques looked to Caridad.

“She doesn't know. She won't be there with you. You're going to be alone. You'll be exhausted, desperate for sleep. You may be in pain, and they will come after you again and again, demanding answers, challenging everything you say. If you are an aristocrat, you know where your family lives. They don't move houses once a year.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you expect me to be captured?”

“We don't. We expect you to walk out of that house and fly with us to the United States. But you have to be prepared because, given the chance, they will hammer at you, tear you apart. You must be able to do this in your sleep.”

“Remember,” said Caridad, “if the worst happens and you are caught, you will have the full support of the GPU. Sudoplatov has given me his personal promise that I will get all the money and men it takes to free you. This is Mexico, where everything is for sale. We can bribe the judges and prosecutors or, if worse comes to worse, we'll break you out of prison.”

“But,” said Eitingon, “you have to stick to the alibi. If you implicate the GPU, then you deprive Sudoplatov of a motive to rescue you.”

“But that won't happen because you will be prepared. We will go over this again and again. I will not abandon you here in Mexico. Do you understand?”

Jacques nodded, taking a deep, nervous breath of air.

Caridad leaned close, her eyes a mirror of his, moving slightly, searching. “The way out is to go forward, son. You will walk into that house with confidence. It is a delicate operation but not impossible, no more difficult than threading a needle. Now, let's go over it again.”

She unrolled a floor plan of the house on the table between them. “Here,” she said, placing her finger on the plan where Trotsky's office was located. “The moment you strike him you turn and walk out the door. You don't run. You walk to your car and drive to here.”

She switched to a map of the village, tapping her finger on an intersection two blocks from the house. “I'll be waiting for you with a driver in another car. You abandon the Buick and we drive to here.” She tapped once more on an intersection at the edge of the village. “Leonid will be waiting here with yet another car. The driver will take us to the airport, where a pilot will have a plane ready to take off. By the time Mexican authorities realize what has happened, we will be out of Mexico.

“Do you see?” she asked, waiting for him to look at her. She held his gaze for moment, her green eyes intent, unmoving.