The Man Who Loved Dogs (69 page)

On June 27, when they landed in Mexico, Jacques and Sylvia were met with the news that, two days before, the corpse of Bob Sheldon had been found in an abandoned ranch in the desert of Los Leones. The reporters, citing the head of the secret police Sánchez Salazar, said that the American had died with two bullets to the head and his corpse had been buried in quicklime under the floor of the same cabin where, presumably, the attackers of the exiled revolutionary’s house had been hiding. Having just finished reading the news, Jacques felt a shock. Could the order to kill him have come from Tom or one of his men, or could it have been the initiative of the Mexicans? Was Sheldon’s silence more important than his life? Had Tom tried to deceive him by telling him that they were going to get Sheldon out, but thinking that the body would never be found?

That night, while Sylvia slept, Jacques went down to the street and walked along the Paseo de la Reforma. The city was moving at a calm rhythm in those hours, but inside, the man was buzzing with doubts. Sheldon’s death demonstrated to Jacques that knowing too much could be dangerous. And he, precisely he, was the one who knew the most. He thought that if that same night he went to Coyoacán and rescued his
Buick and the next morning withdrew the money in his name at the bank, he could perhaps disappear forever in a peasant town in El Salvador, or a small Honduran fishing town, with nearly legal papers bought at a very low price. Perhaps he would save his life, but was that a life worth aspiring to when the door of history was just within reach? Tom had not lied to him; Tom would explain what happened; Tom had molded him for years for this mission, and it made no sense that Jacques would risk glory and even his life with a decision like that. But none of those conclusions, so dazzling, managed to displace the ghost of doubt that, prophetically, had installed itself in Ramón Mercader’s mind.

Jacques Mornard struggled to regain his routine. Every morning he said goodbye to Sylvia with the excuse that he was going to the office he told her he had opened in a suite of the Ermita building when, in reality, he only had a mailbox where, by arrangement, Tom would send the new instructions. Two and even three times a day he checked the mailbox and on each occasion left frustrated upon not finding new messages. He spent the rest of the day wandering around the city, but his spirits asked for some solitude that he could find only between the trees of the Chapultepec Forest.

On various occasions, he accompanied Sylvia to the renegade’s fortress without expressing the desire to cross the threshold a single time. On the street, leaning against his Buick, he had long talks with the bodyguards. The one who most frequently came out to see him was the young Jake Cooper, always interested in the secrets of the stock market, to which the worldly Jacques Mornard was dedicated. In an almost imperceptible way, subjects like the European war, the Soviet annexation of the Baltic republics, the need for the United States to finally enter the war on the side of its British allies, filtered into their talks. To Jacques, the faith of those young men in their cloistered idol’s sermons was almost touching, and he even liked to hear them talk about the need to strengthen the Fourth International to promote a working class consciousness regarding the options for world revolution. To demonstrate an incipient sympathy for his friends’ political cause, Jacques proposed that they mention to their boss his willingness to carry out some operations in the stock market that, with his information and experience, could generate important gains that would economically help the Trotskyist International.

When, on July 18, it was announced that thirty members of the Communist Party had been arrested as suspects for participating in the attack against the Exile, Jacques knew with certainty that his lucky date would be decided in the coming days. For that reason he wasn’t surprised when, the following morning, he found a note, unsigned, in his mailbox: “Since you like forests so much, shall we go for a walk today at four in the afternoon?”

At three o’clock, Jacques had settled in beneath the cypresses in Chapultepec, ordered to be planted eighty years before by the ephemeral empress Carlota. From there, one could see the path that led to the overbearing summer palace of the emperor Maximilian and the road going down to the Paseo de la Reforma. His doubts had turned into anxiety and he had to rely on what Soldier 13 had learned in Malakhovka, to regain control of himself and feel ready for the conversation.

At exactly four o’clock, he spied Tom. He was wearing a white shirt with a narrow collar from which a ridiculous polka-dotted handkerchief peeked out. From the path he made a signal and Jacques started moving.

“They had to kill him,” he said without exchanging any greetings, his sight set on the curve in the road. Ramón remained silent, but all the alarms in his head rang. “His nerves failed him, he became aggressive, he wanted them to get him out of Mexico, he threatened to go to the police and say he had been kidnapped . . . The Mexicans were desperate and didn’t think about it too much. If you need it, I can give you my word that we had nothing to do with it. From the beginning, I told you that the American could be efficient, although he wasn’t trustworthy, but killing him . . .”

Ramón thought for a few moments.

“You don’t have to give me your word; I believe you,” he said, and realized how much he wanted to utter that phrase, and that doing so brought him patent relief.

“We can’t wait anymore. While the Mexicans accuse each other and the police look for the French Jew, we’re going to finish this shit.”

“When?”

“Moscow wants it to happen as soon as possible. Hitler’s campaign in Europe has been a walk in the park and he is becoming more daring; he thinks he’s invincible.”

Ramón looked at the cypress trees. Tom’s demands resounded in his stomach. The time for waiting and strategizing was behind him, the time
for reality was beginning, and he immediately felt that he must carry a difficult and heavy load. Would he be able to move it after clamoring so much for that honor?

“What’s the plan?” he managed to ask.

“You have to see the Duck one or two more times. You will know how to do it. At those meetings you’re going to start to court him. The idea is for him to think he can convert you to Trotskyism. Without exaggerating, make him feel like you admire him. We’re going to exploit his vanity and his need to amass followers. When the opportunity presents itself, you tell him you’d like to write something about the situation in the world, something that occurred to you while talking to him. You’re going to prepare an article that will force him to work with you. The idea is for you to be alone with him in his study. If you manage that, the rest should be easy.”

“Do you think he’ll want to receive me alone?”

“You have to manage it. Your possibilities of escaping will be much greater. That day you’re going prepared to eliminate him and to use a weapon to escape if necessary.”

“How many things should I enter with?”

“A gun in case you need it. A knife for him.”

Ramón thought for a few moments.

“A knife would force me to cover his mouth, to grab him by the hair . . . I prefer the ice axe. Just one blow and I leave . . .”

“You don’t want to touch him?” Tom smiled.

“I prefer the ice axe,” Ramón replied, evasive.

“Okay, okay . . . ,” the other one conceded. “That day Caridad and I will be with you. As soon as you step out onto the street and leave in your car, I’ll take care of the rest. Do you trust me?”

He didn’t respond and Tom untied the handkerchief from his neck and dried his cheeks.

“We’re going to put together a letter for you to drop when you leave. You’re going to be a disillusioned Trotskyist who has understood that his idol is no more than a puppet who, to return to power, has even been willing to place himself under Hitler’s command . . .”

Ramón felt confused and Tom noticed that something wasn’t working right. Taking him by the chin, he forced him to turn around and look him in the eye and Ramón saw a glimmer of excitement.

“Kid, we’re getting closer . . . It’s going to be us, you and me, the masters of glory. We have to prevent that son of a bitch from plotting with the
Nazis. Always think that you’re working for history, that you’re going to execute the worst of all traitors, and remember that many men in the world need your sacrifice. The bravery, hate, and faith of Ramón Mercader have to sustain you. And if you can’t escape, I trust in your obedience and in your silence. It’s no longer your life or mine at play, but rather the future of the revolution and of the Soviet Union.”

From his eyes, more than from his mentor’s words, Ramón received the message he needed. The doubts and fears of recent days began to disappear, as if that look had evaporated them, while he felt how his life got closer to its resounding culmination.

The door of fate opened with one of Natalia Sedova’s ideas. In order to thank Jacson for his care with the Rosmers and his frequent gifts to Seva, the Trotskys invited him and Sylvia over for tea. They proposed the date of July 29, at four in the afternoon. In their room at the Montejo, Jacques reviewed the small notebook where he wrote down his business meetings and told Sylvia to call Natalia and tell her that they would be delighted to attend. The young woman’s face shone with excitement and she immediately ran to the phone to confirm the appointment.

On the twenty-ninth, at exactly four in the afternoon, the Buick stopped in front of the fortress in Coyoacán. Jacques had put on a light cream summer suit, and Sylvia, despite the sun and the heat, had insisted on wearing black. She was nervous and happy, and had spent an hour in front of the mirror in a futile struggle to make her face pretty.

Jake Cooper greeted them from the watchtower and Jacson joked that he would give him a tip if he took care of the car. The Mexican policeman smiled at him and Corporal Zacarias Osorio, the most senior among the guards, practically bowed down to the guests. Harold Robbins opened the door to them and, as they talked, guided them to the forged-iron furniture that Natalia had placed in the yard, under the shade of the trees.

When the hostess came out, they greeted her affectionately and the young man gave her the box of chocolates he had bought her. He learned that Seva, upon returning from school, had gone fishing in the river and that Azteca, as always, had gone with him.

“Lev Davidovich asks your forgiveness,” Natalia Sedova said. “An
emergency came up and he’s dictating some work he has to send tomorrow. He’ll come to say hello to you in a little bit.”

Jacques smiled and discovered that he felt relieved. It didn’t bother him that the rhythm of penetration had to be slow, even when he knew that Tom needed him to act as soon as possible.

After the Mexican servant placed the tea and cookies on the table (could she be the party comrade infiltrated into the house?), Natalia told them that they were worried by the lack of news from the Rosmers. With the Nazis in Paris, their friends’ situation was much compromised, and many times they feared the worst. Jacques nodded with his usual shyness and, following a silence that threatened to make itself infinite, made a comment about the weather.

“It looks like this summer is going to be very hot, doesn’t it? I imagine you and Mr. Trotsky prefer the cold,” he said to Natalia.

“When one starts getting old, the heat is a blessing. And we’ve experienced so much cold in our lives that this climate is a gift.”

“So you wouldn’t like to return to Russia?”

“What we like or don’t like hasn’t decided anything for a long time. We’ve spent eleven years wandering the world, without knowing how much time we can spend in one place or even if we will wake up the next day.” She pointed at the walls where the gunshot marks remained. “It’s very sad that a man like Lev Davidovich, who has done nothing in his life but fight for those who don’t have anything, has to live fleeing and hiding like a criminal . . .”

Jacques nodded in agreement and, when he lifted his gaze, felt a jolt, for the Duck was approaching them. First his shadow and then his shape became visible.

“Thank you very much for coming, Jacson. Hello, little Sylvia.”

Jacques stood up with his hat in his hands, wondering whether he should or shouldn’t step forward and hold out his right hand. The Exile, who seemed distracted, walked to where Natalia was and the dilemma seemed resolved.

“I am so very sorry, I regret not being able to accompany you. It’s that I have to finish an article today . . . Will you serve me tea, Natushka?”

While Natalia served it, the man looked at his garden and smiled.

“I’ve managed to save almost all the cacti. I have some very rare species. Those savages almost did away with them.”

“Are you going to do new renovations after all?” Sylvia asked while their host drank his first sips of tea.

“Natasha insists, but I can’t decide. If they wanted to come in again, they’re capable of blowing up a wall . . .”

“I wouldn’t think that they would attack like that again,” Jacques said, and they all looked at him.

The old man broke the silence. “What would you think, Jacson?”

“I don’t know . . . a lone man. You yourself have written it: the NKVD has professional murderers . . .”

The renegade looked at him with intensity, his cup frozen at chin height, and Ramón asked himself why he had said that. Was he scared? Did he want someone to stop him? He thought and always gave himself the same response: no. He had done it because he liked to use that power of playing with fates that were already decided.