The Obedient Assassin: A Novel (16 page)

S
ylvia's thoughts flew to Madame Gaston as she replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle. She felt as if the earth had suddenly dropped beneath her, that sudden strange sensation in her stomach as when Jacques took a dip too fast in the yellow Buick. She returned to the table near the front door where she was working. One of the secretaries was typing, the keys of the large black machine clattering, while in his office, Trotsky was speaking into his Dictaphone machine, the Russian phrases and words coming through his open windows and open door as if he were addressing a crowd of thousands rather than writing a book. She tried to focus on her work, but after a few minutes, she got up and walked back through the dining room and out onto the patio to look for Marguerite.

The Rosmers had a room at one end of a row of small rooms that had been built along the inside wall of the garden for the guards and secretaries. Marguerite came to her door in a housedress, her long, graying hair falling down her shoulders. “Sylvia, you're agitated. What's wrong?”

“I just called Jacques at his office and a woman answered.”

“Yes.” Marguerite nodded. “His secretary.”

Sylvia shook her head. “When I asked for Frank Jacson, she said I had a wrong number. I called back and got the same woman. She'd never heard of Frank Jacson or Jacques Mornard.”

“Perhaps you called the wrong number,” said Marguerite, stroking her long hair flat against her chest.

“No, I'm sure it was the right number. I've called it two or three times and Jacques has always answered.”

“But you know what the telephone system is here, two different companies for one city. It's absurd. Calls always get mixed up.”

“No, that's not it.”

Sylvia stopped, not sure where she was headed, not wanting to betray Jacques's loyalty. “This sort of thing has happened with Jacques in the past. I've sensed there was something he wasn't telling me. You know, his fake passport, and he won't introduce me to his boss.”

“Do you think he has another woman?”

“No.” They were standing in the shade of the eucalyptus tree, the sounds of the village drifting over the wall.

“Then what is it?”

Sylvia took a deep breath, then glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening. “I think he's working as an undercover agent.”

Marguerite was facing the house, so that she saw the patio, the door to the dining room. Trotsky's voice came from his office. “You think Jacques is working for the GPU?” Marguerite whispered.

“Oh, good Lord, no. If I did, I …” Sylvia couldn't think what she would do. “Jacques is not a Stalinist. He's not even a Communist. I think he's working for the English.”

“Well, it's possible. Everyone has spies in Mexico because of the war. France, Germany, the Soviets. The town is full of spies.” She stepped closer, lowering her head. “But you have to find out. You have to know who Jacques is.”

“But how?”

“Go to his office.”

“I could never do that. Jacques doesn't want me to meet his boss, and he would be furious if he thought I was spying.”

“Wives always spy on their husbands. It is their job. Choose a time when you're sure he won't be there. You don't have to go
into
the office. There will be a sign on the door; you can make discreet inquiries in the building.”

“Marguerite, it would be such a betrayal.”

“Yes, but you must have your peace of mind. You must assure yourself. No doubt it is nothing. Being in this house with all of the guards and the guns affects one's imagination, makes one anxious. But you must investigate.”

Sylvia returned to her desk, where she kept thinking about Jacques—how he had disappeared from Paris. When it was time to leave, she gathered up her belongings and put on her dark glasses. Jake Cooper was on the wall above her; Sheldon Harte manned the metal door in the garage that opened to the street.

“Going now?” Harte said, moving the heavy iron bar propped against the door, pressing the electric switch that released the lock. He glanced through the peephole then pushed open the door.

Outside, the sight of Jacques standing by the Buick was reassuring. This was the man she knew and loved. He was talking to Otto Schüssler, one of Trotsky's secretaries.

“Ready?” Jacques smiled when he saw her. His lips were red and chapped from the dry air and mountain sun. Beyond him, above the city, a wisp of smoke rose from the cone of Popocatépetl. At its side, snow covered the flank of the sleeping woman.

Jacques flicked away the cigarette and went around to open the car door for her. “Otto's girlfriend is coming from Germany,” said Jacques.

“Otto, that's wonderful.” Sylvia smiled. “What's her name? When will she arrive?”

“Her name is Gertrude, but I call her Trudy. Soon! Next week, I think.”

“I'm glad she could get out of Germany,” Sylvia said as they drove away.

T
he following morning as they finished breakfast, Sylvia asked Jacques if he was going to the office. They were in the hotel dining room and Jacques, having just lit a cigarette, was putting the tip of a finger to his tongue to remove a fleck of tobacco.

He frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Wives just like to know what their husbands are doing.”

“Mr. Lubeck and I have a meeting downtown.”

“What kind of meeting?”

“Sylvia, you know I can't talk about work. We're buying commodities for the war.”

She let the matter drop. After he left, she spent an hour and a half waiting nervously in the suite. She wasn't like Marguerite. She wasn't French, didn't think that men had lovers and that wives should spy. And why, married to a man like Alfred, would Marguerite believe that? Sylvia felt she should trust Jacques, that to doubt him undermined the marriage. But the seed of doubt had already taken root. She had to return to New York soon, and she couldn't leave without knowing.

Downstairs, the morning was brilliant. The thin mountain air was crisp and had the sharp smell particular to the city, a blend of shoeshine polish and exhaust fumes. She turned the corner into the Zona Rosa and walked quickly to avoid the little boys and the Indian woman sitting on the pavement with her child. A house full of furniture came toward her on the backs of Indians dressed in white—a sofa, stuffed chairs, tables, a desk, a chest of drawers. The Indians moved down the street, each bent over, leaning into the cloth straps that went around their foreheads to support their loads. A moving company, Jacques had explained to her; that was how it was done in Mexico.

When she came to Calle Hamburgo, a cross street, she began looking for the Ermita building at 820 Hamburgo. Having imagined Jacques working in a modern office or bank building, she was all but certain there was some mistake when she saw the crude metal placard saying “Ermita” on the side of a stucco apartment building. Surely, this wasn't where Lubeck, an international financier, had his office. But with the war, perhaps there was a shortage of proper offices.

She scanned the street for Jacques's yellow Buick, then, her heart beating faster, went into a small dark lobby that had red clay tiles on the floor. Jacques had written #203 after Edificio Ermita on the sheet of notepaper from the hotel. As she started up the stairs she heard voices and smelled food cooking. People obviously lived in the building, but glancing down the first hallway she saw placards on the doors for offices. When she arrived at 203, the sound of children playing came through the door. Jacques couldn't have a family in Mexico. It was simply impossible. Emboldened, she knocked. After a few moments, a young Mexican woman with a baby in her arms opened the door just wide enough to look out. Fumbling for her high school Spanish, sure that she was on a fool's errand, Sylvia asked for Frank Jacson. The woman frowned, shrugging her shoulders.

“Do you speak English?” asked Sylvia.

“Un poco.”
The woman held up thumb and index finger to indicate a small amount.

“Do you know Frank Jacson?” asked Sylvia.

The woman shook her head, shifting the baby in her arms.

“Or Mr. Lubeck? Peter Lubeck? He has an office here.”

The names meant nothing to the woman.

Sylvia turned away. She went back down to the street and studied the sign in front of the building. Nothing made sense to her. Was Jacques an undercover agent? Did Peter Lubeck even exist?

A
t the hotel, her hands were trembling when she picked up the phone and asked the hotel operator to put a call through to the house in Coyoacán. “I'll come there,” said Marguerite. “I'm just catching a ride into town with Jake Cooper. I'll have him bring me to your hotel. You can tell me everything when I arrive.”

Sylvia paced back and forth in the suite until she heard Marguerite at the door. “Now, what is all of this?” said Marguerite. “There has to be an explanation. Jacques is a lovely man. You can't jump to conclusions.”

“I'm not. I did as you said and went to investigate. I found what should have been his office, but there was a Mexican woman living there with her children.”

“Do you think Jacques has a family here?”

“No, of course not. He just arrived.”

“You know men do these things. Did you describe Jacques to her?”

“She didn't understand English that well, but his name didn't mean anything to her.”

“I had better go. I'm older and I speak more Spanish. I'll sort this out.”

Waiting for Marguerite, Sylvia went into the bathroom. Believing in the restorative powers of water, she washed her face and hands, combed her hair, and applied fresh lipstick. Putting on her glasses, she studied her reflection for a moment, then removed them. Tilting her face slightly to one side, she realized that she wasn't sure she was truly attractive to Jacques. If she only knew, if she was only sure that she was pretty, she could be sure that Jacques loved her.

Marguerite returned, looking pleased with herself. “Sylvia, it's just as I said, a silly misunderstanding. Jacques is in 205, not 203.”

“Did you see him?”

“No, I didn't even go in the building. A man was working out front, a concierge. I described Jacques and his car, and the concierge knew exactly who I meant. Lubeck as well, an older
extranjero
.”

“Jacques wrote down the wrong number?”

“A simple mistake. You were afraid he was lying to you, but it was all a misunderstanding.”

B
eyond Coyoacán and San Ángel, the road passed a flow of black lava that lay on the earth, a blister of tar fifty feet high and three miles long. Orchards and gardens climbed the slope of the valley, giving way to scrub forest and patches of burned timber. Children stood in front of adobe hovels, watching as the yellow Buick passed. Ramón was driving with Eitingon beside him on the front seat. Caridad sat in the back, looking determined, ready for a confrontation when they found Siqueiros. She was sick of his antics, his attitude of noblesse oblige. In order to prick her, he was always attacking Ramón. “Where is the map of the house?” Siqueiros would say. “I have to know what's on the other side of the wall.”

He was always harping on Ramón's failure to get into the house. What was wrong with Ramón? Why couldn't he control Sylvia?
La fea
, Siqueiros called her, the ugly. Like most Mexican men, Siqueiros thought women should be voluptuous and fleshy, and they certainly shouldn't wear glasses.
La jamona
, he called Sylvia, the old maid. Perhaps
la jamona
was unsatisfied.

Caridad and Eitingon had done all of the delicate work of creating the correct political climate for Trotsky's assassination. They had conducted purges at the Communist papers.
El Popular
and
La Voz de Mexico
were now howling for Trotsky's deportation, calling him a Fascist, a terrorist, and a traitor. Yet Siqueiros dragged his feet. He wanted to talk about disguises and aliases as if he were putting on a theatrical performance. He took orders from no one and certainly not Caridad.

Ramón slowed the car as they entered the village of Santa Rosa, a small gathering of adobe huts, a one-room school, a municipal building. Siqueiros had told them to look for the third lane after Santa Rosa. They would cross a ravine then turn right next to a tall paling of prickly pear. When Ramón stopped to open a gate, the quiet of the countryside settled upon them, the sound of a breeze.

“Are you sure this is right?” asked Caridad.

“Yes, according to David's directions.”

She crimped her lips, looking away.

The dusty white road curved around the side of a hill, pebbles and small stones crunching beneath the tires. A small adobe house was coming into view when a Thompson submachine opened fire. Puffs of dust followed a long-legged yellow dog racing across a plowed field below the house until, with a yelp, the dog flipped, tumbling into a bloody corpse.

“Ay, pinche perro!”
cackled a man's high-pitched voice.

“Hijole!”
another cried. Two men standing below the house turned away from the field, one of them swinging the machine gun over his shoulder. The Arenal brothers, Siqueiros' studio assistants and brothers-in-law, moved with a familial looseness. The one carrying the machine gun, Leopoldo, sported a tan zoot suit, a long jacket with enormous shoulders, baggy trousers nipped at the ankles. Luis wore paint-splattered blue coveralls and a new straw hat, the sort that children or country bumpkins bought in the market.

“Fools! Fools and troublemakers,” Caridad hissed as David Siqueiros emerged from the adobe structure. Ramón stopped the Buick next to a gray Packard. Siqueiros' wife, Angelica, was sitting with her little girl on a blanket they'd spread beneath a big cottonwood tree. The land sloped away below the house. In the distance, beyond a patchwork of dun-colored fields, the tiled domes and spires of San Ángel and Coyoacán sparkled in the afternoon sun. Off to the left, the city rose only to be dwarfed by the snowcapped volcanoes.

“Bienvenidos!”
Siqueiros greeted them.
“Bienvenidos a nuestro escondite.”
Welcome to our little hideout.

A beer bottle in his left hand, he went around to open the door for Eitingon, behaving as if they'd arrived for a party. Draping his right arm over Eitingon's shoulder, he insisted that they see the inside of the house, which he persisted in calling his
escondite
. The house was unfinished and had neither electricity nor plumbing. The first room had a metal cot and a cheap wooden table of the sort one can buy at any market, and four equally cheap chairs. The second room had another cot and an easel standing in front of two windows looking out on the valley. Wearing an emerald-green cowboy shirt and a child's belt decorated with pieces of red glass, Antonio Pujol lay on the cot, reading a Mexican comic book.

“Look at the view!” Siqueiros insisted. “I rented the house from a man in the village. I told him I'm going to teach art students here.”

“Your
escondite
,” Caridad pronounced the word as if picking it up with tongs, “isn't going to be much of a secret with people firing machine guns out here.”

“Nobody will remember a little gunfire six or eight months from now.”

“Not six, not eight,” she replied. “Closer to three. The operation has been scheduled for May.”

“Who scheduled it?” Siquieros asked, swiveling toward Eitingon. “I still don't have a map of the house.”

“We got it,” said Eitingon, switching from Spanish to French, pulling one of the chairs out form the table. “Can we talk here?”

“As you like,” Siqueiros replied in French, sitting down along with Caridad.

Eitingon took a long envelope out of his coat pocket and unfolded a carefully drawn blueprint. “Here's the entrance on Viena.” He tapped the paper. “The gate opens into the old garage. A path runs up to the house, which is shaped like a T. The top of the T runs along the exterior wall next to the river—a library, a dining room, and a kitchen. The base of the T is made by three rooms in a row that extend into the lot—Trotsky's office, his and his wife's bedroom, and a third bedroom for the grandson. Behind them there's a larger garden and a patio.”

“Yes, yes. It's very clear.”

“And here is the eucalyptus tree you see from outside.” Eitingon indicated a small circle. “Along this back wall they've built four small rooms that face into the patio. That's where the guards sleep and the old French couple. With only four guards, there are probably never more than two on duty at night. One would be at the front entrance, the other in the machine-gun turret on the wall above.”

“Where did you get this?”

“Ramón.”

Siqueiros looked up at Ramón standing in the doorway, his shoulder against the frame. “How did you get it?”

“I befriended one of the guards, a young American. I've met him a couple of times at night in town, took him drinking. Even took him to a whorehouse.”

“Which one?”

“The Kit Kat Klub,” Jacques answered.

“But that's a cantina, not a whorehouse.”

“A whore was there.”

Siqueiros laughed. “And you made this drawing there?”

“No, just a sketch that I refined.”

“Do you think this is accurate?”

“Yes, and I'll know more soon enough. I'm sending Sylvia home to New York. She's the reason I haven't been in the house.”

“Sudoplatov wants the strike in mid-May,” Eitingon interjected. “The May Day parade will be an anti-Trotsky rally. Hitler will invade France a week or two later, the middle of May. The execution should occur at the same time.”

“So Trotsky will get pushed off the front pages.”

“Exactly. But can you be ready by then?”

“Yes, I have most of the arms, and I know the men I want. I still have to find some police or army uniforms so that we can take them by surprise.” He looked to Ramón. “Do you think you could get that guard to open the gate?”

“Possibly.”

“If we don't have to go over the wall, we can be in and out before they know what happened.” He leaned down to look at the map of the house. “We position a machine gun next to the tree to pin down the guards, then surround Trotsky's bedroom. It will be like shooting an old trout in a barrel.”