Harold Robins waved from the turret, and the gate snapped open before Jacques had quite reached it. “One second,” Jake Cooper said as he moved the iron bar to open the door. “I guess you heard about the commotion here.”
“Yes, I read about it in the papers. And Marguerite filled me in.”
Cooper smiled. “Colonel Sanchez personally delivered Schüssler and Hansen to the house last night. El presidente must have given him a good ass chewing. He was bowing and scraping, begging the Old Man to forgive him for taking the boys. Trotsky was cordial, but Natalia Sedova made it clear how she felt. It was quite a little scene.”
“And Sheldon?”
Cooper shook his head. “Nothing. No news. They must be holding him hostage. At least that’s what we hope. You can go on in. They’re expecting you.”
Jacques followed the path up to the house. The library was empty, but laughter and the sounds of a celebration came from the dining room. Jacques glanced in at the gathering at the dining table, and, seeing Trotsky with a big scratch on his forehead, retreated to wait near the entrance. A moment later, Alfred came looking for him. “Come in! Come in! Lev Davidovich was just reading a letter from John, one of the American guards who was here. Come and join us!”
Jacques felt a slight internal lurch when Trotsky stood to shake hands. Man to man, the Russian was both larger and younger than Jacques imagined, as tall as Jacques and heavier through the shoulders and chest. The goatee and mustache made his mouth prominent, his lips protruding from the whiskers. With his silver hair and strong aquiline nose, he looked like an eagle, his eyes, behind the lenses of his tortoiseshell glasses, a penetrating blue. He clasped Jacques’s hand. “Yes, Sylvia’s husband,” he said in French. “I’ve heard about you from Alfred and Marguerite. And my grandson.” He smiled warmly. Unscathed but for the scratch on his forehead, he appeared to be in excellent spirits. “Natalia,” he turned to his wife, “perhaps Mr. Jacson would like breakfast.”
Jacques assured everyone that he had eaten, but accepted a cup of tea, taking a chair beside Marguerite.
“And Seva?” Jacques asked her.
“He had to go to school,” said Marguerite. “We said our goodbyes before he left.”
The feeling of celebration was suddenly dying away, the laughter. Jacques had come for Alfred and Marguerite. He was taking them away.
“Alors,” Marguerite said, “I should make the last preparations.”
As she started to push back from the table, Natalia Sedova grasped her hand, tears coming to her eyes. “Marguerite, I can’t say goodbye!”
“Oh, my dear!” Marguerite replied in a sweet maternal voice, wrapping her arms around her friend. “I know we will see each other soon.”
“No, we don’t know that.” Natalia Sedova shook her head. “We know nothing of the sort. I’m going with you to Veracruz so that we will have another day together.”
“But Nata,” Trotsky objected. “How will you return?”
“With Mr. Jacson.”
Frowning, Trotsky spoke to his wife in Russian.
“Then I’ll come back on the train. Or Ellen and I will follow them in one of our cars,” she said, referring to an old-maidish American at the table. “Yes, Ellen and I can drive together.” Drying her tears she got up from the table. “Ellen, you don’t mind, do you? I’ll pack a small bag for the night. I will only be a moment.”
Jacques was waiting on the front steps with Alfred when Trotsky joined them. He placed a hand on Jacques’s shoulder and smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. “Mr. Jacson, everyone here seems to know you, everyone but me, that is. When you are close to so many of these people, I begin to wonder why you aren’t one of us.”
“I’m afraid I know nothing about politics.”
“But if you are in business, much of business is politics. Economics and politics are two sides of the same coin.”
“I’m sure you’re correct.”
“We could use a man like you—someone who understands how the world works. I feel sure you could make an important contribution.”
“Do you mean with money?”
Trotsky laughed. “No, but that is always welcome. You might like to write something for our publication. Sylvia said you worked as a journalist in Paris. I don’t believe in telling people what to think, but I always encourage everyone to write. As you know, when you sit down with pen and paper you see things in a different way. It might be something that you’ve observed, something that you’ve been wanting to say.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You needn’t say anything. But think about it. Perhaps something will come to mind.”