The Obedient Assassin: A Novel by John P. Davidson Page A

what you want.”
    â€œWas Klement such a threat? He didn’t look like one to me.”
    Caridad studied Ramón for a moment as if she were perplexed. “He was a key figure in the Fourth International. What he looked like is of no importance.”

FIFTEEN
    L ater that day, from a distance, he observed Sylvia’s reaction to Klement’s death. She looked anxious and weary. All of her brightness was gone, the vitality. She had taken on a grayish pallor, a fearfulness that made him want to reach out to her. He was so close to her, he could reach out so easily. He felt terrible deceiving her.
    Then, four days later, like a weird echo, her letter came back from Brussels .
    Shocking, terrible news! The police found Rudolf Klement’s body floating in the Seine. I can hardly bear to write this, but whoever killed him (Stalin’s henchmen, everyone says) cut off his arms, legs, and head and stuffed him in a suitcase. I no longer know what I’m doing here in Paris and must make some decisions about going home. I had a letter from my boss saying he can only hold my job until September 15, then I will be replaced.
    I would feel better if I only knew where you were and what had happened. You’ve become such a mystery to me. I thought I saw you today. It was such a vivid and strange sensation.
    Have you heard that new song? I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places. It’s strange how haunting a song can be! But truly, I wonder if I will see you again. My family has been writing, urging me to come home. They’re very worried about what’s happening here in Europe. I think I might be able to stand the greater uncertainties if I only knew about you. With much love, Sylvia
    After reading the letter, he walked to the garage near his flat where he kept the Citroën. He was sick of following Sylvia around, playing a silly game of his mother’s devising. He had no plan other than to go for a drive, to get out of the city. But being in the car was a tonic—the feel of a hot breeze coming through the windows, shifting gears, the power of the engine. He’d thought vaguely of returning to Versailles but found himself on the road to Lyon, drawn in some inexorable way, as if each mile he drove was another reason not to turn back, as if a plug had been pulled and water was rushing down a drain.
    It was August, the time when one is meant to leave Paris, to get away. He would treat himself to a night in Lyon. He knew the restaurant where he would dine, the dishes he would order. He would stroll around, walking past the culinary school where he studied, find a little hotel where he could sleep.
    From his car, he began to see glints of river in the distance, the terraced vineyards climbing up the hills. Farm trucks sat beneath shade trees next to the road, filled with tomatoes and peaches and plums. He thought of Provence, the fields of lavender, the groves of olive trees. The scent became stronger, the pull of the South, the gravity of home.
    Stopping on the edge of Lyon to buy gasoline, he counted his francs—enough for an expensive meal and a night in a hotel—or enough for three or four days if he was careful. He drove into the city, following the spires of the basilica, then parked on the street near the restaurant he remembered liking. He studied the menu in the window for a few minutes, then walked toward the basilica, strolling along the Rhône—or perhaps it was the Saône—as dusk fell and the streetlamps and shop lights came on. When he saw a telephone office, he hesitated a moment. He knew Caridad would start looking for him, but he couldn’t bear the thought of hearing her voice, her assumption that he would do what she wanted, her voice hectoring and badgering him. No, he would not call her. He had to shut her out in order to listen to himself. He had come this far. That was his decision, and now he felt whole and free again.
    He bought bread and