The Obedient Assassin: A Novel (8 page)

S
omewhere out in the woods, a cuckoo called, making a hollow knocking sound that underscored the silence of a country day, as did the clank of each cowbell and the buzzing of every fly. It was hot, almost three in the afternoon. Dressed in a suit and sunglasses, he stood next to a hedge of rhododendron, smoking cigarettes, mopping his face with a handkerchief as drops of perspiration trickled from his armpits down his side.

A large rumpled man was speaking in a heavy German accent, droning on about security threats to the Fourth International and rumors that GPU agents were attempting to infiltrate, while at his side stood Étienne, a boyish-looking man, with wide-set eyes and a sensitive mouth—the perfect face for betrayal.

“Who is the German?” Jacques whispered when Sylvia walked over to take his arm.

“Rudolf Klement,” she whispered back. “He's the secretary. He's in charge.”

“Ah!”

“You look restless.”

“Yes, this is tedious. You know how I hate politics.”

A man near the front raised his hand to ask a question. They were in the garden at the side of a stone farmhouse with a shingled roof. The gathering might have been a faculty party or a parish meeting. “Madame Rosmer asked if you were my fiancé,” Sylvia whispered.

“Who?”

“Jacques, you really must pay more attention. Alfred and Marguerite are our hosts.”

“I'm sorry. It's just so hot.”

“We'll leave for Paris soon.”

“It's getting so warm in the city. I want to get away.”

“Yes, we'll leave soon.”

“No, I mean get away from Paris. I was thinking how pleasant it would be in the Pyrénées, where I know a lovely little hotel run by a family. We could eat excellent food, hike during the day, and sleep under blankets at night.”

“That sounds divine,” Sylvia said, squeezing his arm. “Could we invite Walta and Manny?”

“We can, but do we really want them?”

“It would be easier for me to tell my family I was going if we were chaperoned.”

Jacques rolled his eyes.

T
he meeting was finally coming to an end. Marguerite Rosmer, a stout woman wearing a black straw hat and a black-and-white floral dress, approached them. She had a cheerful face, lively blue eyes, and a capacious bosom. “We're having tea and refreshments,” she said to Sylvia in careful, school English. “I hope you can stay.”

“I'm afraid we must get back to the city,” Sylvia answered.

The older woman turned to Jacques and spoke rapidly in French.

“What was that about?” Sylvia asked after Marguerite left them.

“Nothing, really. She was asking about my family.”

They started toward Jacques' car, collecting Walta and Manny along the way. Driving back into Paris, Sylvia told them about the Pyrénées—the villages, the food, the trout pulled from icy streams.

“Oh yes!” said Walta.

“That sounds fine, but we can't travel the way you do.”

“What do you mean, Manny? We'll drive down together.”

“Walta and I can't afford to stay in fancy hotels and eat in first-class restaurants.”

“Don't worry,” said Jacques. “The hotels are modest. You'll be our guests.”

“No, Jacques, you always grab the check, which is damn generous of you. But we need to pay our own expenses. If we go, we stay in hotels we can afford. You can't make all the decisions.”

“But I'll buy the wine. I can't stomach bad wine.”

B
ut has she fallen in love?” asked Caridad. She was knitting rapidly, now red yarn with the black.

Ramón helped himself to the pack of cigarettes on the table. Eitingon was sitting in an armchair, reading a newspaper. “No, I suppose not,” Ramón admitted. “Not yet, at least.”

Caridad pulled a strand of the black yarn impatiently. “You have to make her fall in love with you. If not, you can't control her. You need absolute control.”

“I hate to hurt her.”

His mother's lips curved into the slightest smile. “Hurt her?”

“Break her heart.”

“Don't be a fool. This is a war. Countless people are being killed. Countless more will die.”

“She's so unsuspecting.”

“You're giving her a wonderful time, a romance, something to remember Paris by.” She continued knitting, frowning at the needles and yarn. “It's too bad she wasn't a virgin.”

“I didn't think she would be.”

“Has she said anything about her lovers?”

“Not directly, but there is a professor in New York she talks about.”

Caridad pulled a longer strand of red, then held up what was becoming a small sweater with horizontal stripes. “It isn't gratification that seduces a woman, it's mystery. Isn't that right, Leonid? It's not what you give, but what you hold back.”

Eitingon glanced over from the newspaper. “Yes, of course.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Sylvia isn't a schoolgirl. She's an intellectual. You're going to have to do something interesting to get her attention.”

“Like what?”

“You could disappear.”

“Disappear?”

“As myopic as she is, that shouldn't be difficult. That would give her a puzzle, a mystery.”

“Do you mean leave Paris?”

“No, but make it look as if you did. You have to keep an eye on her. But you let her simmer, cook. When she's ready, you come back for her.”

“But how do I disappear?”

“You invent something. You have a family emergency in Brussels. You can write Sylvia from there through one of our comrades in Brussels. You'll know from her letters what she's thinking. You pay one of the clerks at her hotel to tell you what she's doing. You observe her at a distance. You follow her from time to time. It will be interesting, a little game to play.”

“That sounds cruel.”

“Yes, doesn't it?” She continued to knit as she gave the matter more thought. “But if you want your disappearance to have the greatest impact, you should prime her, set her up for it. Plan something special for her to anticipate.”

“I've been telling her about the Pyrénées. We've been planning to go away.”

“That should do it.”

“But what if I ran into her by chance? We'll be in the same city, the same arrondissement.”

“You know her habits, where she goes and when. You should be able to avoid her as easily as you can follow her.” Caridad shrugged her shoulders. “And if you encountered her, you would think of something. You had just returned and were coming to see her.”

“And if she looks for me here at our building?”

“She doesn't have a key to the door downstairs. We tip the concierge. She won't talk.”

“Well, I suppose.”

“Of course. Think of all the time and money you'll save.”

N
ow that Jacques and Sylvia had the mountains in mind, Paris was intolerable. The streets were hot and dusty. Parisians were leaving in droves. Getting away was the only sensible thing to do. Already dressed for a holiday—Sylvia in a loose cotton skirt Jacques had picked for her; Jacques in white cotton trousers and a linen shirt—they strolled down Boulevard St.-Germain to meet Walta and Manny and plan their journey.

Dusk had settled. Yellow lights hung in the trees over the café, a favorite gathering spot for the Fourth International. As they approached, they saw Walta and Manny and other familiar faces, then felt a distinct chill in the air.

“Oh, Lord!” said Walta. “You haven't heard. You didn't get the note I left at the hotel.”

“Heard what? We've been to dinner.”

“Rudolf Klement is missing.”

“Who?” asked Jacques.

“You saw him at the meeting at the Rosmers'. He's the secretary of the Fourth International.”

“He isn't missing,” Manny said angrily. “He's been kidnapped by the GPU.”

“We don't know that yet,” Walta objected.

“We're talking about Rudolph,” Manny insisted. “He's never late. He didn't show up at the office yesterday or today. Something happened.”

“He's not at his apartment?” asked Sylvia.

“Tom and I went by his place. The door wasn't locked and his dinner was waiting on the table. The evening paper was next to his plate, last night's paper. He never touched his food. It looks as if he was about to eat when someone knocked at his door.”

“The GPU snatched him,” said another man. “If he's not being tortured, he's already dead.”

“You've notified the police,” Jacques asked.

“There's nothing they can do.”

Perhaps it was their arrival, or perhaps it was mere coincidence, but the group began to break up. Feeling the presence of danger, Sylvia sank down into the chair beside Walta. Jacques took the one beside hers and signaled to the waiter.

“Well, what now?” asked Walta.

No one answered.

“Are you still going to the Pyrénées?”

Sylvia and Jacques looked at each other. He shrugged, tipping his head as if toward an exit. “I want to get away.”

“Yes, we might as well go,” said Sylvia. “All of us. There's nothing we can do here.”

H
er heart racing, Sylvia woke in the middle of the night certain that someone was in her room. Groping in the dark for her glasses, she was about to scream when she felt a man's hand cover her mouth and heard Jacques whisper. “Ssshh! It's me. Don't be afraid.” The mattress gave and the springs squeaked as he sat down beside her.

“Oh!” she let out a gasp of relief. “I was so frightened.”

“No, no, no. It's only me.”

“Jacques, what are you doing here?” Everything was blurred, soft with sleep—pillows, sheets, nightgown.

“Ssshh! I couldn't leave without telling you.”

“Leave? Where are you going?” she asked, reaching out for the lamp.

“No, don't turn on the light. I don't want to disturb you. I'll be gone before you know it.”

“Gone?” she said, pushing up on her elbows.

“Brussels. My parents have been in an accident. I have to leave immediately.”

“Jacques, were they hurt?”

“My brother came to get a surgeon and we're leaving now. It's very bad. The chauffer was killed, and my mother may have to have her leg amputated. Somehow, my father wasn't injured.”

“Oh Jacques!”

“I know, our trip to the Pyrénées …”

“That doesn't matter. When will you come back?”

“I'll write as soon as I can.”

“Do you want me to come there?”

“No, of course not.” He held her for a moment, then was gone before she was fully awake, the door closing behind him.

Later, when she woke again, Jacques's appearance and departure felt eerie and dreamlike.

“How did he get past the porter and the desk clerk?” Walta asked when Sylvia called to say they would have to postpone their trip.

“They must have been asleep.”

“But they lock the door to the street. And you lock the door to your room.”

“I don't know,” Sylvia answered. “Perhaps Jacques tipped the porter.”

“But why would his brother come all the way to Paris to get a surgeon if it was an emergency? There must be good surgeons in Brussels.”

“Maybe it was a special surgeon. Or perhaps their surgeon was here in Paris.”

“Why wouldn't his brother telephone or send a wire?”

“Walta, why so many questions?”

“It just sounds strange.”

“I know, but I'm sure Jacques can explain when he comes back.”

R
amón climbed into the car, deciding that it was perfect cover, an old gray Peugeot that gave him a clear view of the entrance to the Hotel St. Germain. The car smelled like the rotting raffia of the upholstery, and there was a suspicious-looking pint bottle filled with a golden liquid that proved to be motor oil. He sorted through the glove box and found a map of France tucked above the sun visor.

Waiting there, he felt invisible. Should Sylvia come his way, he would hold the map in front of his face—a strategy that was simple but effective. He had noticed, however, that city people like Sylvia rarely looked into cars to identify the occupants; whereas the natives of small towns, who expected to know everyone, always tried to identify the people in passing vehicles. Seeing was a function of habit and expectation.

Shortly after eleven, Sylvia and Walta came out of the Hotel St. Germain, Sylvia wearing a white short-sleeve blouse, the sleeves rolled up as he instructed, a small scarf tied at her neck. They stopped on the sidewalk to talk, then Walta reached out to touch Sylvia's shoulder and they both laughed. Observing them, Ramón experienced a surprising flash of resentment—that Sylvia was proceeding without him, that she showed no signs of needing him. He had felt the rupture of his daily life and missed the routines he'd established with her.

Glancing at his wristwatch, he guessed that she was going to the American Express office to get her mail. As Sylvia and Walta turned the corner, he got out to follow. He stood in a doorway when the women stopped to part ways, then Sylvia went on to the American Express office. Ramón slipped into another empty car—Parisians so rarely locked their cars—and was waiting when Sylvia came out, carrying her mail. He knew that she would go to her favorite café. There she would sit at one of the shady tables fronting on the sidewalk, order a café au lait, and read her mail.

From yet another parked car, he watched as she opened an envelope, and was sure it was his letter she was reading when she put her hand to her mouth in shock. He had labored over the description of his parents' accident, how they had been driving in from their country estate to spend a day in Brussels when his father told the chauffeur to stop the car so that he could urinate, a realistic touch, he thought. His father was standing next to the road when a twelve-ton truck hit the parked car, killing the chauffeur instantly and injuring his mother, who was now in critical condition, waiting to learn whether the surgeons would amputate her leg. Sylvia's silent gesture of shock gave him a sense of satisfaction, followed immediately by twinges of remorse.

Ramón had asked Sylvia to write to him in Brussels in care of a Madame Gaston, a family friend, explaining that with his parents in a state of crisis they must be discreet. Madame Gaston sent Sylvia's letters back to Paris and mailed his replies back from Brussels with a Belgian postmark.

Their letters went back and forth, settling into a steady correspondence. Ramón made a habit of following Sylvia to the American Express office; he would then walk slowly behind her to the café. Watching Sylvia from a distance, he couldn't know for sure what she thought or felt. He felt a flash of anger when the possibility that Caridad's little scheme might backfire crossed his mind, that his disappearance might cause him to lose Sylvia. Sylvia wasn't like other women. She was the antithesis of Caridad. Sylvia wrote warm and affectionate letters. His spirits lifted when he saw her handwriting on an envelope, the dark blue ink on the delicate onionskin envelope that made a crinkling sound when he opened it. In the meantime, he received nothing from Lena.

With Paris emptying
pour les
vacances
, with shops and restaurants closing, the city took on a mournful abandoned air. He felt a bit disconnected, ghostlike. When he saw an item in
Le Monde
about Rudolf Klement, for a moment he couldn't connect the rumpled, professorial man he'd seen speaking in a garden in Périgny with a torso stuffed into a large suitcase floating in the Seine. The newspaper said that Klement's head, arms, and legs had been so cleanly severed that the authorities suspected the work of a surgeon.

“Is this us?” he asked, passing the newspaper to his mother.

She read the notice. “What do you mean, us?”

“The GPU? Did we do that?”

“Leonid and I knew about Klement, but he wasn't our target.”

“Why make it so grisly? Why chop up the body like that?”

“It's efficient.“

“The only way to get his body into a trunk?”

“Well, yes, but as Stalin has demonstrated, if you instill terror in people, you don't have to lock them up or kill them. They will do what you want.”

“Was Klement such a threat? He didn't look like one to me.”

Caridad studied Ramón for a moment as if she were perplexed. “He was a key figure in the Fourth International. What he looked like is of no importance.”