The Man Who Loved Dogs (36 page)

“Now I’ll explain to you what happened,” Soldier 13’s guide told him and they crossed over to the hotel’s large doors, where, thanks to an ID flashed before the doorman, they were able to enter. After a careful survey by Grigoriev, they settled in at a table in the deserted bar, which smelled like a bar and only vaguely like dried fish, and where Soldier 13 discovered that, after showing another credential (Grigoriev appeared to have all the ones requested in Moscow), it was possible to drink French wine and eat slices of Norwegian salmon and braised veal.

“Why did they make the building like that?” Soldier 13 wanted to know.

“Calm down, kid, I’ll tell you about that later,” Grigoriev said, and drank his vodka in one gulp and refilled his glass with the small, wide-mouthed bottle that the comrade waiter had left close at hand. “Three days ago I was at a very, very secret meeting at the Kuntsevo dacha. Since it directly affects you, I’m going to tell you part of what was discussed there. You know that if what I told you in Barcelona was worth your life, and the lives of África, Caridad, and your brothers are worth what you’ve seen and learned in Malakhovka, then what I’m going to tell you now is priceless. And I’ll remind you that if there was no way back before, now your only option is to move forward and keep your mouth shut, with everyone and forever.”

Soldier 13 listened to Grigoriev’s words and noticed a wave of satisfaction running through him. He wasn’t scared, nor did it matter to him
that there was no escape except to move forward, since neither fear nor escape in any other way fitted in his mind anymore.

“You can speak,” he said, and moved his glass of wine aside after taking a sip.

Grigoriev preferred to take another drink of vodka before getting into things: Comrade Stalin in person had conferred on him the honor of being the one responsible for the operation against the renegade Trotsky, and had given him the order to set it in motion. At the Kuntsevo meeting, the only participants were Comrade Stalin, Vice Commissar Beria, and himself. They had begun by discussing the internal situation at the Commissariat of the Interior and Beria assured him that Yezhov would not intervene in this operation. Furthermore, he added, that that crazy midget’s days were numbered and now it was he, Beria, who was at the head of all the special operations that Yezhov, with his persecution mania, would have stopped or dismantled. But the Trotsky operation was born at that moment and Grigoriev, with the necessary discretion, would not only carry it out successfully but also do it with the propaganda effect they wanted.

Upon hearing Beria’s last words, Comrade Stalin seemed to wake up from his lethargy and lifted a hand to request silence, Grigoriev recounted. During the conversation, he had been trying some sips from his cup of Georgian wine mixed with Lagidze, a type of lemonade that also came from Georgia; according to what Grigoriev explained to him, he drank that compound under medical authorization, since it had been proven that the mixture of those two ancestral beverages stimulated circulation and relaxed the muscles. As Comrade Beria said so well, the Leader said, the hunt for the degenerate traitor and fascist had begun. He, personally, had decided that Grigoriev would be the director in situ of the operation, but Comrade Beria should receive weekly reports from Grigoriev and, if necessary, daily reports, about which the Leader would be updated when necessary and in any case at least once every fifteen days. Grigoriev, as the official operative in charge of the mission, would have a direct superior within the commissariat, an agent who would answer only to Beria and with whom Grigoriev should discuss all logistical questions, although he wanted him to know that he had all necessary human and economic resources at his disposal, since doing away with that traitor was considered a number one priority by the Soviet state as well as a necessity for the future of international communism. The plan, which should be prepared with the utmost care, would have to meet
some important conditions: the first, that it would not be possible to find any trace that would link any Soviet body to the operation; second, that the final action only be carried out when he—Stalin
personally
, he reiterated—gave the order; and then came other conditions—for example, that the best place to carry out the plan was Mexico and that, if possible, the executioners be Mexicans and Spaniards or, as a last resort, men from the Comintern’s secret services, although Beria, Grigoriev, and the official operative (we still haven’t decided who, Beria had whispered) had to organize various alternatives that Stalin
personally
had also to approve. Grigoriev would work without worrying about collateral effects such as a possible crisis with that imbecile Cárdenas’s government, because, once the moment arrived, they would make the Mexican swallow his own arrogance in the way he had acted when he had protested over the asylum granted to the renegade. Stronger democracies, such as France, Norway, and Denmark, had been brought to their knees when they tried to challenge him and he had seen himself forced to turn a few screws.

“Then he explained to me why the moment had come for concocting a plan, but not for carrying it out. The essence of everything is the war, the start of the war and the paths it will follow,” Grigoriev said, and served himself vodka again, although he didn’t drink it. “The war is going to start at any moment.”

“And why should I know all of this?” Soldier 13 asked, stupefied by how everything he’d just heard weighed on his shoulders.

Grigoriev now seemed more relaxed and drank more vodka.

“In a week we have to decide who you will be. We have more than enough Mexicans and Spaniards and we need more Frenchmen, Americans. We’re going to create several independent operative groups, and you can be sure that only four people on earth will know of your existence: Stalin, Beria, the official operative, and me.”

“Are you thinking it will be me who carries out the mission?”

“You’re going to be on the front line, although I still don’t know where . . . But since you’re going to work with me, I prefer that you know, starting now, what’s expected of you should that be the case . . . Experience tells me that the person who knows exactly what he’s doing and why he’s doing it works better.”

Soldier 13 remained silent while Grigoriev tasted the salmon. Outside, the afternoon had given way to night and he could see a stretch of Okhotny Ryad Street, poorly lit and almost deserted.

“Stalin said something else to me . . .” Grigoriev began, and lifted his hand to ask for another
chekushka
of vodka. When the waiter walked away, he looked at his student. “This mission doesn’t allow for failure. If I fail, I’ll pay for it with my balls.”

“He said it to you just like that?”

“Comrade Stalin tends to be a very direct man. And it can bother him very much if his orders aren’t followed well . . . So you understand me: what you saw of this hotel is a monument to the obedience he demands and expects . . . Listen closely, it can teach you a lot: when he decided that Moscow needed a new image, he picked this site to have a hotel built to host its most distinguished visitors. Based on his suggestions, he asked that two different projects be presented to him. Since he thinks that Moscow should begin to turn into the capital of proletarian architecture, he has his own ideas about it. He made them known to Shchusev the designer and to the architects Saveliev and Stapran and tasked them with the plans, sure that they would know how to interpret what he had in mind. The architects trembled upon hearing what Stalin was asking of them, and each one, of his own accord, designed what he thought the Leader’s ideas could be. But when Shchusev presented the two projects, he couldn’t see them right away—he had other problems—and no one knows why, but the following week the plans were given back to Shchusev the designer . . . both of them authorized by Comrade Stalin. How was it possible? they asked themselves. Did he want two hotels or did he want both projects, or had he signed off on both by mistake? The only solution was to ask Comrade Stalin if he had made a mistake, but who dared to bother him during his vacation to Sochi? Besides, the general secretary was never wrong. Then Shchusev was inspired, like the genius he is: they would carry out both projects in a single building, half according to Saveliev and the other half according to Stapran . . . Thus was this freakish building born, and Shchusev, Saveliev, and Stapran managed to come out gracefully. The building is absurd, an aesthetic horror, but it exists and it conforms to Comrade Stalin’s ideas and decisions. I learned the lesson, and I hope that you are also capable of understanding it. Cheers, Soldier 13!” he said, and drank to the bottom of his glass of vodka.

Kotov should die, Grigoriev announced. He regretted leaving Soldier 13 at that exact moment, perhaps the most beautiful one of the process of
his rebirth, but he had to return to Spain to begin preparing the funeral for his other self. One is born, another dies, that’s the dialectic of life, and he explained to Soldier 13 that, before devoting himself body and soul to the new mission, he should transfer his responsibilities in Spain to other comrades. The handoff could only be done on the ground and in a time frame that was perhaps prolonged because of the state of the war: although the nationalists had gained ground, the industrial and most populous part of the country was still in Republican hands, and while they hung on to it, they could hope for victory. Upon hearing this comment, Soldier 13 felt the cunning pull of nostalgia, but he managed to contain Ramón’s desires and abstained from asking a single question. But he couldn’t deny that the mention of the war and Kotov’s imminent departure stirred his still-painful attachment to what had been until very recently
his
war,
his
homeland, and
his
passions. Only the consciousness that none of that belonged to him anymore or would again belong to him, at least in the same way, and the pride of knowing that he was now part of a select group, located at the heart of the struggle for socialism’s future, saved him from wavering. He lived for faith, obedience and hate: if it wasn’t an order, it didn’t exist for him. África included. África most of all.

Karmin and the group of psychologists continued to work with him and Soldier 13 learned to control his anxiety over the delay in announcing his new identity. He knew that he was in the hands of the most capable specialists and, confident in the experience of those masters of survival and transformation, he focused on his training with more determination.

It was already the second week of December when, after a monotonous day in which his only visitor to the cabin was an inexpressive woman tasked with cleaning and bringing him food, there appeared before him two men with appearances and manners very different from those of the ones he had dealt with since his arrival at the base. One said he was called Cicero and the other Josefino. The first impression they gave was of being a comic vaudeville duo: both were dressed in the same awkward way, they had a deep and practiced hardness in their eyes, and they spoke perfect French with a slight accent that Soldier 13 wasn’t able to place. Almost in unison, they told him that their mission was to turn him into a Belgian named Jacques Mornard. What did he think of the name? Soldier 13 felt himself swell with pride and satisfaction. Finally, he stopped being a student in order to become an agent. Jacques Mornard, he
repeated in his mind, while Cicero removed a folder and several books from the briefcase he had with him, placing them on the table surrounded by armchairs.

“You’re going to learn Jacques Mornard’s life by heart,” he said, and slid the folder toward Soldier 13. “Later, read the books: they have information about Belgium that you also have to include.”

The so-called Josefino, who had remained standing, started speaking.

“Write the details you want to include for Mornard, the ones you think should make up part of his personality or his history. What we’re giving you is like the skeleton you’ll use starting now. We’ll add the muscles and blood later.”

“Why Belgian and not French?” the man who was still Soldier 13 dared to ask. “I lived in France for several years . . .”

“We know,” Josefino said. “But your past doesn’t exist anymore and will never exist again. You need to be a totally new man.”

“The New Man,” Cicero said, and Soldier 13 thought he noticed a touch of sarcasm. “From now on, you need to think of yourself as Jacques Mornard. The success of your conversion and, further still, your life will depend on the solidity of your belief in being Jacques Mornard. But take it easy . . . ,” he said, as he stood. The two men left with a smile, without saying any kind of farewell.

Throughout that week of reading and reflection, Jacques Mornard enjoyed the feeling described by Josefino: it was as if his body, empty until now, were taking form and completing its own structure. Once again having parents, a brother, a birthplace, a school where he had studied and played sports, provided the framework over which he inserted his basic interests, his former preferences as a young bourgeois, and even his most remote memories. Like any person, he had attended many soccer games with his father and his brother and had become the fan of one of the clubs, had his favorite café in Brussels, his own ideas about the Walloons and the Flemings, had had girlfriends and a hobby that turned into a profession: photography. He wasn’t a member of any party, nor did he have any definitive political opinions, but he rejected fascism because it seemed, at the very least, antiaesthetic. About Lev Trotsky’s actions and historic fate, he knew what any educated person did, but all of that debate had to do with communist matters and didn’t concern him. He spoke French and English but wasn’t fluent in Flemish or Walloon, since he had grown up outside of Belgium, and he didn’t speak Russian, either,
although he understood Spanish because of all the trips he’d made to Spain before the war. From his family of diplomats, possessors of a certain fortune, he received regular sums that allowed him to live a carefree life with, if anything, a tendency toward waste. He would be a regular old bourgeois guy, a bit boastful, always looking for a good time, with no real worries in life.