The Obedient Assassin: A Novel (24 page)

J
acques, do you realize that today is Saturday?”

Sylvia looked into the bedroom, where his trunk stood open, waiting for the stacks of shirts and sweaters and jackets laid out on the bed. Seeing that the door to the bath was closed, she went to the desk in the living room, stopping to open one of the windows to let in the fresh morning air. She was glad their suite was at the back of the hotel, protected from the sound of the traffic on Reforma. She sat down at the desk and began to make a list of all the things she needed and wanted to do before leaving Mexico. She still had gifts to buy. She wanted to see the Diego Rivera mural at the Bellas Artes that everyone in New York invariably asked about. They had tickets that night to see Carlos Chávez conduct the French Symphony. And of course, they would have to go back out to Coyoacán to tell the Old Man and everyone goodbye.

She was still writing when Jacques came into the room, freshly shaved, slipping into the jacket of his suit. “I was just wondering when we should have the hotel ship your trunk.”

“My trunk?”

She got up and went back into the bedroom to survey the stacks of clothing on the bed. “Yes, it would cost a fortune to take it on the plane. Have you looked at what's going into the trunk?”

“Not really. I trust your judgment.”

“Well, please come and look. Once we send the trunk, you won't see any of this again for two or three weeks.”

She stood in front of the bed, pushing her hands through her short blond hair as she surveyed her work. “You've seen these.” She picked up a small, toylike shadow box. Three sides of the box were made of some cheap wood painted chrome yellow, the front a piece of glass. Inside, a trio of skeletons played a trumpet, guitar, and violin. Jacques looked over her shoulder.

“I found these in the market and thought they would make nice gifts.”

“Won't they seem morbid?”

“I don't know. I think the skeletons are cheerful in a strange sort of way.”

“You see that sort of thing all over Mexico. Skeleton toys for children, candies shaped like skeletons.”

“I do wish we were sailing. It would be easier and so much more relaxing to go by ship.” She put the toy down and picked up a stack of shirts, going through them as if looking for something. “Is there anything here you'll miss?”

“What do you mean?”

“Something you don't want shipped?”

“No, I'm sure it's all fine.”

“By the way, what are you doing with your car?”

“My car?”

She smiled indulgently. “Yes. You know, the yellow Buick.”

“I hadn't thought of it.”

“Well, you can't leave it at the airport.”

“No, that wouldn't do. I guess I could give it to the Old Man.”

“I don't know how he would feel about accepting that sort of gift.”

“I could give it to the Fourth International. Or if they don't want it, I'll just drop the car at the agency where I bought it and let them sell it.”

She put the shirts down and turned to him. “Speaking of skeletons, darling, you look like a scarecrow in that suit. It literally flops on you.”

“All my clothes do. It can't be helped.”

“I know, but we'll get you fattened up in New York. I'm arranging to have Clemmy come in to cook for you, and I've made an appointment with Dr. Blumenthal on Park Avenue. He'll know the best tropical disease man in New York. We'll spend a few days in the city, then we can go up to the lake for Labor Day.”

Jacques picked up his gabardine raincoat and his gray fedora.

“Are you going out?”

“Yes, an errand for Mr. Lubeck.”

“So late in the day?” She frowned. “I wish you could tell me what you're doing. You've been so nervous, I keep expecting you to jump out of your skin.”

“I'm sorry. You know I can't talk about it.” He hesitated. “It's just this last deal that has to be closed.”

“Is it terribly important?”

“Yes. A mistake was made that has to be corrected.”

“That is upsetting. What time do you think you'll be back?”

“Oh, by six anyway. Before the rain starts.”

She put her arm through his, walking him to the door. “What about tomorrow? Can we drive to Cuernavaca? Have lunch at one of the hotels, go for a swim? You must give me a little incentive to keep me working. And it would be so good for you to get away.”

“I don't know why not.”

“You're taking your hat? You never wear a hat.”

“Yes, but I thought I might make a habit of it.”

A
s he got into his car, he felt a flicker of cramping deep in his gut. It was a little after four and his appointment with Trotsky was at four-thirty. Sitting behind the steering wheel, Jacques looked through the article once more that Ovakimian had had written for him in New York. He'd copied it in longhand, dropping a few sentences, changing the order to be certain that it would require a second draft. He worried that he had changed it too much, that Trotsky would reject it outright, but now it was too late and there was nothing he could do.

Taking a deep nervous breath, he folded the pages and pressed the car's ignition. He was going through the motions, putting one foot in front of the other. He stopped the car in front of Edificio Ermita, tapped the Buick's horn, and waited until Eitingon came down the front steps, wearing a hat, a raincoat folded over his arm.

“I could go alone,” Ramón said in French as the older man got in the car.

“Of course, but you won't mind the company? I thought I'd stroll around the plaza while you go to the house. Coyoacán is such a charming little village. I might buy a few souvenirs while you're seeing Trotsky.”

He settled into the passenger seat as Jacques pulled the Buick away from the curb. Having Eitingon along signaled a change, that he was being watched, wasn't quite trusted.

“You have the paper ready?” said Eitingon.

“Yes, I worked on it a bit more. I think it's right but it's rather a fine line. If the paper is too bad, he'll tell me not to bother and that will be that. And if it's too good, then there wouldn't be a reason for a second meeting.”

“Yes, you have to have the second meeting.”

Ramón pressed the lighter and felt for a cigarette without taking his eyes from the road. “It would be easier if it were spontaneous.”

“How is that?”

“If I didn't have to think about it so much. If I didn't have to wait.”

“But if you're going to get away a car has to be waiting, a plane. You're not going in with a weapon today?”

“No, of course not.”

“That's good. We've made our plan and we don't want to deviate from it. We must trust our plan.”

As they came up behind a large horse-drawn wagon, Ramón slowed the Buick, remembering with a twinge of anxiety that he still had to get the
piolet
. The Shirleys' son had one, but he had to call and arrange to borrow it. He found his cigarettes and lit one, stepping on the gas to pull around the wagon. He felt another flicker of cramping in his gut as they entered the village, the cobblestone street bound by stone walls and lined with cypress trees.

He dropped Eitingon on the zocalo, then followed his usual route past the Rivera house until he saw the eucalyptus tree rise up over the walls, which always made him think of the sails of a schooner. In the distance, storm clouds roiled against the volcanoes. He felt detached turning onto Viena, as if he were watching a film. Two of the Mexican policeman stood in front of the brick
hut as a peasant was coming from the riverbed leading a burro. A breeze rippled through the patch of corn across from the house.

Remembering Sheldon, he looked up at the wall, but no one was there. Where were the guards? How could they be so lax, so blind? How could they not see through him? Surely they would notice that he was wearing a raincoat and fedora. Surely that would tip them off.

As he got out of the car and slammed the door, the sound of hammering and sawing came from the opposite side of the wall. He pressed the buzzer; after a moment, Jake Cooper opened the door.

“I'm here for my appointment at four-thirty,” Jacques announced stiffly.

Cooper smiled. “You have an appointment with the Old Man?”

“Yes, at four-thirty.”

“Well, no one told me.” Cooper consulted a clipboard, shaking his head. “There's nothing here about an appointment for you.”

Jacques felt panic rising. “I called and spoke to Otto Schüssler about the appointment. I've driven all the way from the city.”

“Take it easy. If the Old Man said he'll see you then he will. He doesn't always tell us about appointments if it's someone he knows.”

Jacques squared his shoulders and passed through the garage into the brilliant sunlight, where Trotsky stood, watching as Joe Hansen and a Mexican covered the French doors to his bedroom with heavy steel shutters.

“Ah! Mr. Jacson!” Trotsky extended his hand, his blue eyes smiling. “You see what they're doing—turning my house into a prison. I think it's a waste of time. The GPU won't try the same thing twice.”

“Yes, I'm sure you're right,” Jacques agreed.

“I've never owned a house before and hate to see this one ruined, since I've rather come to like it. Hansen, will those hinges hold the shutter?”

“Yes, sir, I believe so, but we'll know for sure in a moment.” Hansen and the Mexican lifted a long metal shutter and settled it in the frame. “There you go,” Hansen said, moving the shutter, which made the hinges squeal.

Trotsky shivered. “That sounds like some of the prison cells I lived in.”

“Where was that?” said Jacques.

“Before the revolution under the Czar. Prison isn't so bad if you can read and write. Your mind is free.” He considered Jacques, the blue eyes attentive. “And how is your health today? Are you feeling any better?”

“Yes, much improved.”

“And how is Sylvia?”

“She's well. The climate doesn't bother her. And your wife? Is she well?”

“Yes, she's gone out on errands. I'm afraid you will miss her. Well, let's go in and look at that paper you've written.”

He put a hand on Jacques's shoulder, his grip strong, his hand reassuringly warm. They went through the library and dining room into the office, Jacques observing that Trotsky closed his door even when the outer rooms were empty. The office was at the dead center of the house, exposed on all sides. The sound of the men's voices came from the garden. The desk, a large wooden table, faced into the room so that Trotsky sat with his back to the dining room door, looking through the French doors to the front garden. There was a day bed covered with an Indian blanket in the opposite corner of the room, two chairs for guests, a Dictaphone machine, and a long, low bookshelf behind the desk that contained volumes bound in red and blue. Orderly stacks of periodicals sat on top of the bookshelf. The desk was bare except for a large black fountain pen, an inkwell, a clay cup sprouting sharpened yellow pencils, and a .25-caliber automatic pistol.

Trotsky rubbed his hands together in an agreeable way. “Well, shall we?”

Jacques had removed his hat when he entered the house, but now, encumbered with the raincoat over his right arm, he put the hat back on and reached into his coat pocket for the manuscript. “I'm afraid this isn't very good,” he apologized.

“Don't worry,” said Trotsky. “When you write you have an opportunity to see what you've done, then make it better. I'm sure we can solve any problems we encounter.”

Trotsky frowned as he unfolded the pages. “You didn't have your secretary type it?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't have the opportunity.”

“It's much easier to edit a document that has been typed. You can see what you're doing.”

Trotsky sat down at the desk, squaring the paper before him—a habit of work—and started to read. Jacques saw that the situation was impossible. The room was too small. There was no place for him to stand, no place to put his hat. He couldn't pull the
piolet
from his coat while standing in front of Trotsky. The voices of the Mexican women came from the kitchen, the sound of the men working outside. He lingered by the door to the dining room, then, as if trying to look over Trotsky's shoulder, edged behind the desk, so close he could smell Trotsky's hair tonic, see the shine of his scalp.

Trotsky read for a few moments, then hunched his shoulders with irritation. “Mr. Jacson, do you mind?” He looked over his shoulder and for a moment their eyes met. Jacques felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck as he watched the expression in Trotsky's eyes change, as Trotsky saw through him.

Then, in some unaccountable way, the moment between them passed. “Your hat,” said Trotsky. “Would you please remove your hat and take a seat?”

He read for a few more minutes, turning the pages before looking up again. “Well, you have some interesting statistics,” he said, the warmth now gone from his voice. “You need to state your thesis at the beginning, and define your terms. You do that in your second-to-last paragraph, but it should happen at the beginning.” He went through the pages, marking suggested changes.

“I see. Of course,” Jacques kept saying. “Yes, I understand what it needs.”

Trotsky folded the paper vertically, a conclusive gesture, then handed it to Jacques.

“May I bring it back? I'll make these changes and have it typed, as you say.”

Trotsky hesitated. “If you must.”

T
rotsky was sitting on the patio reading a newspaper when Natalia Sedova returned from her errands. “Do we know who Mr. Jacson is?” he asked.

“Why, he's Sylvia's husband. Did he come for his meeting?”

“Yes, he left before you arrived.”