Ramón watched the front of the building for a few minutes from the car, then got out to cross the street, letting himself into the heavy timber doors with his key. He noticed the curtain move slightly in the concierge’s window, then he switched on the light in the stairwell, which did little to dispel the gloom or his mounting sense of dread as he climbed the stairs, the stone treads scooped out by the passage of time, the countless passage of footsteps. As he reached Caridad’s landing, the light went out. He hesitated for a moment, then found the light switch for the next landing and went up to his apartment. He was empty-handed except for a rumpled brown paper bag that held the razor, toothbrush, and toothpaste he’d bought, an old shirt, and a pair of trousers he’d brought from his father’s flat. He inserted his key into the lock, felt the bolt move, then swung the door open to a scattering of notes on the floor, a mute blast of Caridad’s anger and frustration.
Moaning, he squatted down on his heels to gather up the pieces of paper marked with the distinctive penmanship, the letters perfectly rounded. The rooms were warm and stuffy with the summer heat. He opened a window, pulled the shade, then went into the kitchen to draw a glass of water. Sitting down in the living room, he lit a cigarette as he read through the messages.
Hijo, where are you?
Ramón, has something happened? C
Ramón, what is happening? Let me know where you are.
The messages built to a crescendo of anxiety and anger, then they stopped. Reading through them, despite their hectoring tone, he almost felt sorry for her, but then his twinge of guilt reignited a flash of anger. He sat still for moment, finishing the cigarette, gazing around the flat, then, facing the inevitable, got up to go downstairs to her door.
He listened for a moment to the din of her radio, then tapped the signal they had agreed upon—two quick knocks, then a third. He heard scrabbling at the lock then she flung the door open. “Oh, my God! It’s you. Finally. I’ve been insane with worry.”
He flinched as she tried to embrace him. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do that. You’re angry. Go ahead!”
She stepped back from the door. “Come in!” she said, closing the door. “Where have you been? Where in God’s name?”
“Barcelona. Home.”
“Barcelona? You went there? What were you doing?”
“I did as you said. I disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“I followed your orders.”
“You were supposed to disappear to that girl, not to me!”
He shrugged.
“Give me that cheek, and I’ll give you the back of my hand.”
“I’m here. Isn’t that what matters.”
“What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t really thinking, not at first. I was sick of all this, waiting, following Sylvia around. I went for a drive and just didn’t stop.”
“And the car?”
“It’s outside on the street.”
She turned away from him, going to the ashtray beside her rocking chair where a cigarette was burning. Windows were open but the room was choked with smoke. She was wearing a housecoat, her gray hair loose, her face bereft of makeup. Turning back upon him, she asked, “What was in your mind?”
“Nothing. I didn’t plan to go, but then I was on the road going south and wanted to see Lena.”
She brought both hands to her face, rolling her eyes heavenward. “You fool! You idiot!”
“I’m back. I’m here now.”
“I had to fight Leonid tooth and nail to keep him from reporting you.”
“Report me to who?”
“Our superiors, the GPU. Sudoplatov. You were AWOL.”
Ramón blinked. “AWOL?”
“You’ve taken money, a great deal of money. The clothes, the car—you’re living like an aristocrat. Do you think the GPU would let you walk away?”
“Eitingon wouldn’t report me. He likes me. He always acts as if I’m his son or something.”
“He does like you, but he follows orders. He only sticks his neck out so far. He has to make this mission work. Don’t you understand what’s happening in the world? Can’t you look around and see? Spain is a small taste of what’s coming everywhere. We’re on the brink of catastrophe. Franco is nothing compared to Hitler. The Fascists will crush us like fleas. Eitingon knows this very well. He’s scrambling to stay upright, to find his footing. He won’t let you endanger that. This mission is what he has. It’s all that any of us have. You, me—without this mission, we have no place in the world, no work, no money, nothing to do. Do you understand? Are you listening?”
“Yes, I’m listening.”
“Rudolf Klement? You know what happened to him. They opened his veins and drained his blood in his bathtub. Then they carved him up like an animal, like a pig, packed him up, and threw him in the river.”
She stabbed out her cigarette and lit another. “I know you blame me for not saving Pablo but I’m only a woman. I don’t have much power. I can’t protect you. And now I see the same thing happening again. Pablo wouldn’t give up that girl. Alicia. He didn’t follow orders. And now you go chasing after Lena.”
“No more. That’s over.”
“Why?”
“Doña Inez convinced her she has to marry a rich man.”
“That Fascist bitch.”
“She’s not a Fascist. No more than your mother was. She wants Lena to have a good life.”
“And Sylvia? What about Sylvia? You know she went to Brussels?”
“She did what?”
“She called Madame Gaston, and, of course, Gaston sent us a wire. Sylvia showed up in Brussels, looking for you.”
“And what happened?”
“Gaston met her at a café, told her you had gone to London on family business. She’s back in Paris. We’re keeping tabs on her.”
Ramón lit a cigarette of his own, then went to the window to look down at the Citroën waiting on the street.
“What are you going to do about Sylvia? You have to put this right. You can’t lose her. She’s your way in.”
He felt a kind of sadness thinking of Sylvia, a tenderness in his heart. “Yes, Sylvia. I’ll make it right.”