He tipped the doorman, then got into the yellow Buick and started the engine, pulling out onto the tributary to Reforma, taking the first right, doubling back through the Zona Rosa to Calle Hamburgo. Arriving at the Ermita, he noticed two black sedans on the street and the two men in dark suits, strangers to him, waiting beside the cars. The trunk of the first car stood open, and, after a moment, Eitingon came out with a last suitcase, followed by Caridad dressed for travel in her olive green suit and her hat that looked like a bird’s wing. She was carrying her handbag and a small overnight case. When she saw that Ramón intended to approach her, she raised her index finger, moving it slightly back and forth, a warning gesture he remembered from childhood, a gesture from Cuba.
Eitingon, his face gray, walked back to the Buick. “Are you ready?” he asked, shaking Ramón’s hand.
“No. Not quite.”
Eitingon nodded. “You see we have company.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t think, just follow the plan. That’s all you have to do. You’re going to walk in and walk out before anyone realizes what has happened. Just put one foot in front of the other. Follow the plan. And don’t forget, when Trotsky is reading your article, wait until he gets to the end of the first page and is turning to the second; that’s when he will be most distracted.”
Ramón opened the Buick’s trunk where the piolet and dagger waited. He spread the raincoat flat on the floor of the trunk. He looped the ax through the cord inside the coat, then inserted the dagger into the horizontal seam of the hem. The coat, folded around the piolet, felt heavy but not cumbersome. Closing the trunk, he got in behind the steering wheel and placed the raincoat on the middle of the seat. Then, with the keys still out, he leaned forward to open the glove compartment, and took out his pistol, tucking it under the raincoat. So as not to confuse the two documents, he put the typescript of his article into one of the pockets of his raincoat. The alibi letter went into the breast pocket of his jacket.
Eitingon got into his car, which pulled away from the curb, followed by Caridad’s, then the Buick. Jacques watched the back of his mother’s head swaying stiffly with the movement of the car. She was smoking, her right hand going to the window at regular intervals. He felt angry and terrified. He wanted to weep with frustration. Caridad would not help him. She had led him into this trap and now had turned her back on him. His only hope was Trotsky, that the Old Man had seen through him, that the gate would be closed to him.
He lit a cigarette but his mouth had an unpleasant metallic taste. His body felt vile, his armpits damp, his stomach acid, his palms so moist they left prints on the steering wheel. He didn’t see the road, just the car in front of him, his mother’s head swaying back and forth. They passed through Mixcoac and Tacubaya, following the shoreline of the lake that was no longer there. On the outskirts of Coyoacán, Eitingon’s car pulled to the side of the road. The Russian saluted as Jacques went by. Caridad’s car led the way through the village, finally coming to a stop at an intersection three blocks from the house on Calle Viena. Jacques slowed to a halt beside her car. She met his eyes for a moment, pursed her lips in a kiss, then nodded, urging him on.
The eucalyptus tree came into view above the walls, then the volcanoes, a deep somber blue, the snowy peaks white against the enamel sky. The afternoon light was limpid, a touch of fall in the air, the smell of wood smoke from a fire burning somewhere in the dry riverbed. A donkey was braying in the distance, its ridiculous hee-haw, hee-haw making a mockery of laughter. A Mexican policeman slouched in the doorway of the brick guardhouse picking his teeth with the blade of a penknife. This was Mexico, where time stood still and nothing ever happened.
Rather than park in his customary way, Jacques made a U-turn in the street, pulling the Buick parallel against the wall so that it faced Coyoacán. He touched his breast pocket to make sure the letter was there, then slid forward on the seat so that he could shove the pistol into his back pocket. He put on his fedora and got out of the car, certain that the raincoat draped over his arm looked suspicious.
Joe Hansen, Charlie Cornell, and a Mexican were working on the roof next to the guard tower. Waving, Jacques called out, “Has Sylvia arrived?”
“No, but wait a moment,” Hansen called back.
Cornell pressed the electric switch in the guard tower; downstairs Harold Robins opened the reinforced door. “I have an appointment with the Old Man,” said Jacques.
“He’s out at the ranch.”
“The ranch?”
“With his chickens and rabbits. Go on back if he’s expecting you.”
Disappointed, Jacques looked from side to side as if he were missing something. “Is Sylvia here?”
“No, is she supposed to be?”
“She’s meeting me, but I guess she’s running late.”
He walked around the wing of the house intensely aware of the weight of the raincoat and the pressure of the pistol against his buttock. A breeze whispered through the boughs of the eucalyptus tree, the raft of dappled shade swaying on the grass below. Trotsky, wearing his blue denim smock and work gloves, stood at the rabbit hutch with his back to Jacques. The hens were clucking, pecking at the ground. The rabbits rustled against the wire of their hutch. The smell of smoke drifted over the walls, along with the muted sounds of the village.
“Good afternoon. How are your rabbits?”
Trotsky turned, a quizzical look on his face. “Oh, Mr. Jacson.” He smiled. “I worry about the rabbits. I can’t find alfalfa here in Mexico that’s been properly dried. If rabbits eat damp alfalfa, they get sick and bloat. I know there has to be a source for dry alfalfa but I can’t find it. And how are you today?”
“Very busy,” he answered, his mouth going dry. “Sylvia and I are leaving tomorrow for New York, and we wanted to stop and say goodbye. She was going to meet me here, but it appears she’s been detained.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow?” Trotsky glanced toward the house, where his wife had come out on the porch
“Oh, that’s you, Mr. Jacson,” Natalia Sedova called, a note of annoyance in her voice. “I didn’t recognize you with the hat.”
“Yes, it’s me,” said Jacques. Hearing the disapproval in her voice, he gravitated toward the porch. She was the true gatekeeper. Like Sylvia, she would be intuitive. “I’m frightfully thirsty. May I trouble you for a glass of water?”
“Perhaps you would like a cup of tea?”
“No, no, I dined too late and feel that the food is up to here,” he answered, pointing to his throat. “It’s choking me.”
“Yes, you don’t look well. Not well at all. Why are you wearing your hat and raincoat? You never wear a hat, and the sun is shining.”
“It’s the rainy season. It always rains in the afternoon.”
She started to point out that the storm wouldn’t start for hours. But then she let it go. “And how is Sylvia?” she asked.
“Sylvia?” He was still worrying about his hat and raincoat. “Sylvia? Yes, Sylvia. She’s always well.”
“I’ll get your water.” She went into the house and returned with a glass.
“Thank you,” he said, taking a long swallow. “I brought my article with the changes. I hope it’s better.”
“Did you have it typed?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s good. Lev Davidovich dislikes illegible manuscripts.”
She took the glass then walked with him out into the garden. As they approached, Trotsky spoke to her in Russian. She looked sharply at Jacques. “I didn’t know that you’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Yes, yes, I forgot to mention it to you.”
“It’s too bad that I didn’t know, I might have sent a few things to New York.”
“I could stop by tomorrow.”
“No, no, thank you. It would inconvenience both of us. Lev Davidovich wanted me to ask you to tea. I explained that I had, that you didn’t feel well and wanted water.”
Trotsky tilted his head, studying Jacques. “Your health is poor again, you look ill … That’s not good. You should be in bed.”
“I’ll rest in New York. Besides, I wanted you to read my article. I made all of the changes and had it typed. I think it’s much improved.”
Trotsky started speaking again in Russian to his wife. Jacques heard something plaintive in his voice and understood that the Old Man didn’t want to leave his animals to go in the house and read a paper. The garden was lovely, the afternoon sun filtering through the fragrant leaves of the eucalyptus tree. Feverishly, Jacques waited for Trotsky to say that he should leave the typescript. He would read it later at his leisure.
But then, reluctantly, Trotsky started removing his gloves. “Well, what do you say? Shall we go over your article?”
Why wasn’t he resisting? Did he want to die? He had seen through Jacques. He knew he was a fraud.
Trotsky fastened the hutch and brushed off his blue blouse and started toward the house. Following, Jacques knew he was caught in some powerful chain of events pulling him inexorably forward. His heart throbbing in his ears, time slowed, then raced, his zone of vision narrowing to a cone just before him. Trotsky was holding his office door, then closing it behind them. He removed the smock to put on the worn jacket of his suit, and looked to see that Jacques removed his hat.
“Well, let’s see how it went,” Trotsky said, holding out his hand. Jacques touched the crinkle of envelope in his breast pocket, then remembered that the article was in his raincoat. “I don’t want to give you the wrong document,” he said, fumbling with his coat.
Trotsky sat down at his desk, squaring the typed pages before him. Men’s voices and the sound of their footsteps came from the roof above. Through the open French doors, the strip of grass glowed a brilliant green, the bower of red bougainvillea dripping over the door. The office was tiny, claustrophobic. Trotsky’s chair squeaked as he sat down. He cleared his throat once, twice, finally emitting a long sigh as he started to read.
The moment was rehearsed. Wait until he finishes the first page, Eitingon had coached. Wait until he is turning the page, when he will be most distracted.
His eyes misting, Jacques put his raincoat on the shelf of periodicals behind the desk and looked down at his hands, surprised they weren’t trembling. Then, slipping the piolet off the cord, he gripped the handle of the ax in both hands and turned back to Trotsky, who would glance over his shoulder, who would reach for the pistol on the desk before him, and press the electric switch beneath the desk for the siren. But no, he began turning the page.
Jacques raised the ax over his head and brought it down with all his might, at the last moment shutting his eyes to imagine a block of ice shattering. He heard a nasty, wet popping sound, then felt the crunch of bone and something warm and sticky spraying on his hands. He opened his eyes to the horror of his hands on the ax, the prong buried deep in Trotsky’s skull. The old man hadn’t shattered like a block of ice, but sat upright and living, connected to Jacques in this ghastly moment. The prong had to come out. Giving the ax a jerk upward, Jacques unleashed a shriek of pure and unending agony. He froze as Trotsky rose up out of the chair like a wild animal, turning on him, grabbing the handle of the ax, grabbing Jacques’s hand, biting down ferociously, breaking through the skin into the flesh. In a frenzy of blood, spittle, and sweat, he threw his arms around Jacques, grappling with him, until Jacques finally shoved him, the Russian sprawling toward the dining room.
Stunned, Jacques watched as the door opened and the old woman swooped down, wailing in Russian. She cradled her husband’s head in her lap. The blood running down his face made his eyes look shockingly blue and naked without the horn-rims that had fallen aside. Holding his own wounded hand, trembling, Jacques stared at them, at what he had done. He heard voices, the sound of people running. He tried to remember what came next. He moved toward the French doors, thinking he would go over the little balcony. Natalia Sedova was muttering to her husband as she tried to wipe the blood from his face. She looked up at Jacques, an expression of profound consternation on her face. Frowning, trying to understand, she spoke to him in a language he didn’t understand.
One of the guards, Joe Hansen, came in from the dining room to kneel on the floor beside the old couple. As he glanced up, Jacques remembered the pistol and pulled it from his back pocket as two more guards came rushing in. One knocked him to the floor, where they began beating him with their fists and the butt of a pistol. Sickening blows that broke his skin, his face, his eye, his mouth.
Sirens were wailing as he regained consciousness. The house was filled with people. Ambulance attendants gently lifted Trotsky onto a stretcher while his wife and Hansen hovered, assuring the Old Man he would survive.
When it was Jacques’s turn to be taken out, a policeman handcuffed him and the attendants lifted him roughly. The house and the garden slid smoothly by, then he was in the back of the ambulance, the doors slamming shut. With sirens wailing, they made a parade through the city, a cortege. Through the windows, he could see people standing on the streets, staring. “He’ll probably survive,” the ambulance attendant told the cop guarding Jacques. “With head wounds, there’s always a quantity of blood. The blow wasn’t fatal.”
Night, and the rain was falling. As they drove through the city, Jacques thought of Sylvia waiting for him.