The Obedient Assassin: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

irony.
    As Eitingon and Sudoplatov proceeded, Ramón had the sensation of doors sliding shut. Other than the occasional da or nyet , the language was impenetrable to him. He wondered how difficult it would be to learn Russian. He had no memory of learning French. For him, Spanish, Catalan, and French were all the same on the inside. Shifting from one to another was subtle and effortless, a response to exterior circumstances, to people. English, which he had learned in the first grade at a British school in Barcelona, felt different in some fundamental way he couldn’t quite describe. A shift into English started some place deeper, took longer to reach the surface.
    Ramón smoked a cigarette and finished his eau-de-vie, looking up when Eitingon translated a question about Trotsky’s residence in Mexico for Siqueiros. Siqueiros, who had been languishing in boredom, accustomed as he was to being the center of attention, responded to the attention like a dry plant to water. Of course he knew the exact house, which belonged to friends, and no, he didn’t think it should be a problem. Like every house in Mexico it had a wall, but, as walls went, it wasn’t very high or sturdy.
    â€œHow many men will you need?” Eitingon translated once more.
    â€œTwenty should be enough.”
    And would Siqueiros be able to assemble the men?
    Siqueiros shrugged. “Of course. If there is money, there will be no problem.”
    Eitingon and Sudoplatov entered into a longer discussion that Ramón followed by watching their faces and listening to the tone of their voices. At one point, Sudoplatov appeared to be unhappy, asking several sharp questions, but in the end he relented.
    â€œHe wants to know if you’re satisfied with the plan,” Eitingon told Caridad.
    â€œYes.” She nodded and smiled at Sudoplatov. “Tell him yes.”
    A burning log popped in the fireplace.
    â€œAnd the operation is fail-safe?”
    â€œYes,” Caridad answered. “Exactly as Stalin ordered.”

FOUR
    E itingon picked up an oyster from the bed of ice and slid it into his mouth, closing his eyes to taste the cold ocean waves and appreciate the exquisite texture. He gave his head the slightest shake, then took a swallow of the Sancerre to wash away the faint metallic taste of the oyster. “These Portugaises are very good. Should we have another dozen?”
    â€œYes, but I wish we’d ordered a different wine.”
    â€œYes, this is modest. We’ll drink the Pétrus with the civet de lapin .”
    The restaurant was Eitingon’s discovery, a storefront with a zinc bar and paper tablecloths, a proprietor chef who wore a white toque and shouted at his daughter when she didn’t serve the plates fast enough.
    â€œHere, suffer the last of this,” Eitingon said, filling Ramón’s glass. He wanted to loosen Ramón’s tongue, to find out what he was thinking. He took another swallow of wine, remembering the old stone farmhouse outside Toulouse, a ruin with the vines and arbor. Records playing on a wind-up gramophone, they had eaten at a table beneath an oak tree. Caridad was such a beauty. He assumed she was a wealthy Spanish bohemian, looking for a new life with her children in France.
    â€œYou know about Pablo,” said Ramón.
    Eitingon studied Ramón’s face.
    â€œHe didn’t deserve such a death. I don’t understand how she let that happen.”
    Eitingon looked down at his wineglass, which he turned slightly on the table. “What could she do? She wasn’t there. Pablo left a corpse on the street.”
    â€œA father,” he hesitated, biting his bottom lip. “A father would have saved his son.”
    â€œPerhaps. You can’t be sure. Caridad knew she was being watched, that her loyalty was being tested.”
    â€œAnd she passed the test.”
    â€œAnd this is her reward. I wasn’t there, so I couldn’t help her.