The sheet of lightning flickered off and on, a canopy of white that gathered itself into a bolt, unfolding, one joint after another, a long finger jutting down to stab the city. The windshield blades thumped methodically as the rain splashed softly against the undercarriage of the Buick, the headlights probing the dark street, drops of rain falling at a slant.
“Hijo le!” said Ramón as the thunder cracked.
“It’s letting up,” said Eitingon. “It won’t last much longer.”
“Yes, and a good thing.”
They were driving slowly through a slum where water stood in the streets. At the edge of the headlights, a man scurried along, hugging the buildings in an attempt to stay dry. “That’s the place,” Eitingon said as the man disappeared into a tenement.
“Should I come in with you?”
“No. That’s not necessary.”
Ramón watched Eitingon go into the building, then drove on to the intersection of Cuba and Chile streets. Dousing the lights and killing the engine, he got out and pulled his gray fedora down as he climbed the steps of a tenement. The long narrow hall smelled of kerosene and garbage. The murmur of voices came through the thin wooden door. When Ramón tapped on the door, the room fell silent. Fear. Caution. The door opened a crack, and a Spaniard looked out. “David me mandó,” said Ramón.
“Sí, sí, pasale! Pasale!”
The poverty of the room was plain, a cot with a dirty bare mattress pushed against one wall, a torn paper shade hanging over the window, a flimsy table, a sardine can filled with cigarette butts. Two men got up from their game of dominoes, a third from the cot. From the next room came the hush of women and children herded out of sight. Ramón took off his fedora and gabardine raincoat, then passed around his pack of Lucky Strikes.
“David has been here?” he asked.
“Yes, with Pujol.”
Ramón made an effort at conversation, but the distance was too great between him and the men. War refugees, they had lost everything in Spain and had nothing in Mexico. Ramón was a boss, a rich guy in fine clothes driving a car, riding above the fray.
The men smoked their cigarettes in awkward silence, then, as if a tourniquet had been released, the domino players went on in low voices among themselves. “Now the French will get fucked in the ass by Hitler,” said one, indulging in a bit of schadenfreude.
“Yes, but Hitler will fuck the French then leave. Franco will never stop fucking Spain.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance as the storm left the valley. Time passed with the minute clicks of dominoes, the sound of water dripping from the eaves. The men’s anxiety kindled Ramón’s. He didn’t want to think about what was about to happen, about Sheldon opening the gate or Alfred and Marguerite asleep in their beds.
A car stopped in front of the tenement just before two. Doors opened and slammed. Men’s voices filled the street.
“Es el Packard de David,” one of the Spaniards reported from the torn window shade. Moments later they heard the knock at the door and a voice ordered, “Abra la puerta! Es la policia!”
One of the men tried to open the door a crack but fell back as Siqueiros pushed his way in, disguised as an army officer. He wore a major’s tunic, a visored cap, jodhpurs, riding boots, dark glasses, and a fake mustache. Antonio Pujol and the Arenal brothers followed, carrying cardboard suitcases.
“Muchacos, como me queda?” Siqueiros demanded, pirouetting one way then the other like a fashion model. Boys, how does it suit me?
“Muy bien!” the men cheered with relief. “Se queda muy bien!”
Siqueiros was having a fine time. He was a hero to the men—a soldier, a revolutionary, an internationally famous muralist—and they were off on a lark. Siqueiros opened the suitcases and started passing out arms and uniforms as if it were Christmas.
By the time they reached Coyoacán, the clouds had opened on a pale white moon floating in a ring of haze. With Eitingon and four of the other men in the Buick, Ramón parked on Calle Abasola, a block back from the compound. There was no movement on the street. He could see the shape of the eucalyptus tree looming above the compound walls until the collective heat of the men began to fog the Buick’s windows.
At ten till four, they eased out of the car, quietly shutting the doors. Jacques opened the trunk so that the men in army uniforms could get their weapons—a machine gun, rifles, a knapsack of thermos bombs. A dog close by began to bark, then another on Churubusco, and a third on Viena. Dodging puddles of water, Eitingon, bearlike in his trench coat and homburg, led the way, staying close to the walls.
A chill in the early morning air made Ramón shiver. He told himself that he was on a night raid in Spain, but with all of the planning and all of the waiting this was worse. He knew who was on the other side of the wall and what was about to happen. Even so, he felt a jolt of fear when he saw policemen emerging from the shadows on Calle Viena.
Eitingon held the two squads at the corner, waiting as Siqueiros and his men came sneaking from the opposite side of the compound along the front wall. When Siqueiros reached the policeman’s hut, he stood up straight and walked in, followed by two of his men. He switched on a flashlight. There was a murmur of voices in the hut, then Siqueiros came out.
“Drunk as dogs,” he whispered, swaggering up to Eitingon in his major’s uniform. “They think they’re under arrest. In a moment, they’ll be bound and gagged.”
“Ready?” Eitingon asked, taking Ramón by the arm.
Eitingon had chosen two of the men to accompany Ramón. One would crouch on each side and slam through the door the moment the iron bar was moved.
Ramón felt Eitingon’s hand moving him into place. “If it’s not Sheldon,” the Russian whispered, “don’t let them see your face.”
As Ramón tapped softly on the metal door, he pictured the American sitting in the chair, paging through a magazine. He heard movement, then Sheldon’s voice at the door. “Who’s there? Is someone there?”
“Sheldon, it’s me.”
“Frank! What are you doing out there?”
“My car broke down. Let me in!”
The slot for the peephole opened and the floodlight came on. Sheldon’s eyes moved from side to side, then, seeing Ramón, he snapped the electric lock. “Just a minute,” he called, as he moved the iron bar out of the way.
When the heavy door began to open, the two men burst through, springing upon Sheldon, pinning his arms. He looked as if he were about to laugh—this had to be a joke—until a hand clapped over his mouth. Then, panicking, his eyes moved from side to side, trying to see his captors, until, bewildered and betrayed, they settled upon Ramón.
Ramón leaned close—close enough to smell Sheldon’s breath, his skin and hair. “Sheldon, do what they say, and they won’t hurt you. Do what they say, and everything will be all right.”
The young American began to struggle as he was dragged out of the way and more men in uniform started pouring through the door.
Eitingon took Ramón’s arm. “All right, let’s get out of here.”
Ramón and Eitingon walked quickly toward the car, listening to the muffled sound of running on the opposite side of the wall. The machine guns opened fire, shattering the morning stillness with a long and violent roar that stopped with a resounding silence. Voices called back and forth. A single shot was fired. Another. Then the dogs in the neighborhood began to howl.