The Muralist: A Novel

by B. A. Shapiro

  This wasn’t her family being cut down. That couldn’t be happening again. No. This story belonged to the girl clenching a letter in the cold glare of a December morning, waiting to speak her next lines, take her next action, follow the script. Alizée watched from the audience, the first row actually. It was an amazing performance and Alizée felt for the poor thing, but it was just a play. In a play the heroine always overcomes the obstacles. Always finds a way to save her loved ones, to save all the others, too. It would be hard, it would be dangerous, but she would do it. Because that’s what heroines do.

  “I’m willing to take that chance,” Nathan said.

  “It’s not a chance,” Alizée pointed out. “You do it this way, you’re going to get caught.” After Tante’s letter, she’d put her questions behind her. Long, a single individual, was going to murder her family and thousands of others with his bureaucratic prevaricating, his anti-Semitic schemes. One man. Aarone was right: the ledgers did not balance. She saw that now.

  “But Long will be dead,” Nathan insisted.

  “And so will you,” Alizée said. “After a long stint in jail.”

  Aarone crossed his arms over his chest. “If Nathan is willing, I am thinking this is what we should be doing.”

  The four of them were sitting in the PM offices, hours after the general ANL meeting had ended, arguing about the final details of “the project,” as they now referred to it. William wasn’t there. He’d told Alizée that although he would pray for their success at removing Long from the State Department, he couldn’t be personally involved in the taking of a life. Then he admitted he was starting to question his faith when he found he wanted Long to die. Everyone felt better without him around, the weight of his conscience weighed on them also.

  “We’ve got to come up with a better escape route,” Alizée said. “An escape route. The room Long’s speaking in is too tight, too crowded. We need somewhere with more space. Where there’s at least the possibility that Nathan can get away.”

  “We’ve already been through that.” Bertha sighed. “It’s the only place we know for sure Long’s going to be. What are the choices? Should Nathan follow him around the city with a gun in his pocket?”

  “What you don’t seem to understand, Alizée,” Nathan added, “is that I want to do this. I’m an old man, my wife’s gone, my kids grown.” He puffed out his chest. “It will be the crowning achievement of my life.”

  She wasn’t convinced. They’d agreed Nathan would be the face of the project, that it wasn’t necessary to put more than one person in danger. Nathan had the gun. He was the sharpshooter. He wanted to do it. But maybe there was another way.

  She thought about her last encounter with Long, how he’d smiled into her eyes, looked admiringly at her chest, called her beautiful. And she had the answer: she would be a decoy. The carrot to bring Long somewhere Nathan wouldn’t be such a sitting duck. Granted, there was the risk that whoever was watching her might follow her there. But she could be cautious. Take a circuitous route.

  “What if I asked Long to meet with me?” Alizée said, thinking out loud. “At that last AFC meeting, when I was pretending to be a reporter, remember? He told me to contact his secretary if I ever wanted to continue our conver—”

  “If you’re so afraid for me, why would you want to put yourself into the mix?” Nathan interrupted.

  “I could set up an interview for the evening of the speech.” She was warming to the idea. “At night. In some bar or restaurant . . . Near his hotel so he’d have to walk over. Alone. In the dark.”

  “But there is your incident about the memo. What if he is remembering that?”

  Alizée waved her hand at Aarone. “He doesn’t know anything about it because nothing ever came of it. Ditto with ANL. And me. He thinks I’m a reporter. Has no idea what my real name is.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Bertha said, her eyes gleaming. “It sounds like the Shadow and decoder rings, but Nathan could be waiting in an alley—an alley with an entrance and an exit—and he’d know what time Long will be there.” She turned to Nathan. “We’ll find a restaurant that fits that description, and you could get him on the way out. After the interview. And then you’d be able to get away.”

  “What about Alizée?” Nathan asked. “How would she get away?”

  “I wouldn’t need to get away. I’m just a reporter interviewing the assistant secretary of state, who leaves when he does, walking in the opposite direction. And even if someone checked—which is unlikely—it’s going to be difficult to track down a Miss Babette Pierre who works for the Sun.

  The arrangements went more smoothly than she could have imagined. Long’s secretary got back to her within a few days to set up a time for the interview, explaining that Mr. Long remembered Miss Pierre and was looking forward to talking with her again. He was staying at the Waldorf-Astoria but would be happy to meet her at the time and location she’d suggested: the Haven Tavern and Restaurant on Lexington at 5:00 pm. Alizée hoped no one would bother to check on her affiliation, or nonaffiliation, with the Sun.

  This time, for her reporter impersonation, she dressed up rather than down. She added an orange scarf with black polka dots to partially hide the suggestively low neckline of her black silk blouse, a birthday present Tante had sent the first year she was in New York. When things were so different. She fingered the shimmery lapel, and tears filled her eyes. Where was Tante? Where were the others? She whipped her head back and forth. This was no time for easy emotion, for self-pity or doubt. She may have failed at her first attempt to get rid of Long, but she wouldn’t fail tonight.

  Instead of going out the front of her building, she slipped down the back stairs and left through the alley door. She forced herself to walk at a leisurely pace as she switchbacked between blocks until she reached a subway station she’d never used before. When the train arrived, she stood on the queue for a particular door, then darted to the next car at the last moment. Although she was pretty sure no one had followed her, she changed subway lines three times before finally arriving, quite pleased with herself, at Lexington Avenue. She tried not to but couldn’t keep from looking into the alley between South Brookside and Park, but of course Nathan wasn’t there yet. Or if he was, he was hiding himself well.

  Long was already inside the restaurant waiting for her. When he saw her, he stood and pulled out the chair next to him at the table. “Miss Pierre,” he said, “I can’t tell you how pleased I was to hear you wanted to interview me. After our last conversation, I admit I was surprised.”

  She smiled at him, completely calm. She believed what they were doing was necessary. A necessary evil perhaps, but an acceptable bargain. Thousands of innocent lives saved. One not-so-innocent lost. “If I only interviewed people whose views I agreed with, I’d be a damn poor reporter.”

  “According to that description, there are a hell of a lot of bad reporters out there.” He was handsome in an ordinary-looking way, tall and lean with intelligent dark eyes.

  “Glad not to be considered one of them.” As she took off her coat and rearranged her scarf, she noticed him glance at her cleavage. Good. Let him look. Let him enjoy himself, grow inattentive, complacent. Then she would close down the interview at five forty-five. He would go to the left, she to the right.

  “Neither a bad reporter nor too hard on the eyes.”

  She opened her notebook. So far, he appeared to accept her for whom she presented herself to be. And her job was to keep it that way, to make the interview feel normal to him, to raise no red flags. And to send him back to his hotel on time. “Will you join me for a drink, Secretary Long?” she asked, again dropping the “assistant” from his title.

  He ordered a Scotch on the rocks and she a beer, which she planned to sip very, very slowly.

  “How did your speech go today?” she asked.

  “I was quite pleased with the reception, thank you.” He took a swallow of Scotch. “But I’m guessing you wouldn’t have approved o
f the content.”

  “You seem to be quite certain of who I am and how I think based on a very short conversation.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “Not necessarily wrong on the face of it, but my questions go deeper, my uncertainties, too.” She looked at him over the rim of the beer mug she wasn’t drinking from. “And I enjoy delving into the many sides of an issue. Especially with an intelligent, well-informed adversary.”

  “Are we indeed adversaries?” He winked at her. “I’d like to think we might be friends.”

  “Not necessarily mutually exclusive,” she said. “But I’ll be candid with you, as I hope you’ll be with me. My family’s originally from Arles, so of course I’m worried about my grandparent’s homeland, about the French populace. You may not want us to get involved in the European War, and frankly I don’t either. But my concern isn’t with soldiers and guns, it’s with those blameless people running from Hitler with nowhere to go.”

  “I understand completely.” Long leaned back in his chair and finished off his Scotch. “And I’m glad to hear you’re not in favor of rushing our boys onto the battlefield.”

  She got him talking about all the reasons the United States must remain neutral, taking copious notes, flattering and flirting gently with him.

  He ordered another drink, downed that one pretty quickly also, become loquacious, dropping names, hinting at promises of higher office. It was all working perfectly until a waiter brought a telephone to the table.

  “Assistant secretary Long?” the man asked, unfurling the long cord, his face flushed with the weight of his responsibility. “There’s a call for you.” He lowered his voice. “From the White House.”

  Alizée went rigid. They’d only been talking for fifteen minutes. Nathan wasn’t expecting Long for another half an hour. This couldn’t be. She could not fail again. Would not. She lit a cigarette and took a long swig of beer, trying to act naturally while her mind flew in a million directions. Act like a heroine.

  Long frowned self-importantly when he hung up the phone. He waved for the waiter to take it from him and said, “I’m so sorry, Miss Pierre, but I’m afraid we won’t be able to finish our interview. As you heard, that was a call from the White House, and I’m needed back in Washington immediately.” He clucked his tongue but didn’t appear displeased.

  She removed the scarf from around her neck and pouted. “But I have so many more questions for you, Secretary Long. Could you possibly give me just a few more minutes?” She gazed into his eyes, and he hesitated. “I want so much for our readers to understand, truly understand, your positions. The deep thought and reasoning behind them.”

  For a moment, Long looked wary, and she thought she’d overstepped, but then he said, “There’s nothing I’d like to do more.”

  She raised her pen. “Wonderful. I’m sure we can finish up quickly.”

  But instead of settling back into his chair, he sucked the last of the Scotch from the ice cubes, took a lingering look at her breasts, and stood. “Unfortunately, in my position I often don’t get to do what I want. Perhaps you could ask your paper to send you down to the capital so we can finish at some other time?”

  She drew herself reluctantly to her feet. She had no idea if Nathan was in position. She had to slow Long down. A minute could be the difference between success and failure. She held out her hand and smiled up at him. “I’m so sorry you have to leave, but obviously an important man like yourself has grave responsibilities.”

  “Thank you for understanding.” He took her hand and held it longer than necessary, which was just fine with Alizée.

  She pressed her left hand over his right as she scrambled for ways to keep him in the restaurant. “And don’t worry about the bill. I’ll pay for the drinks. You hurry on.”

  “Absolutely not,” Long declared, waving at the waiter. “I’m never in so much of a hurry that I’d let a lady as lovely as you pay for her own drink.”

  “No,” she protested. “I set up the interview and I’m—”

  “I won’t have it any other way.” But he didn’t wait for the bill and instead placed two dollars on the table. Then he put on his hat, touched the brim, and started toward the front door.

  “Wait!” she called out.

  Long turned, and Alizée saw annoyance mingling with wariness: she had indeed overstepped. “Yes?” he asked.

  “I’ll walk out with you,” she said. “Hold on.” She slowly wrapped her scarf around her neck and handed him her coat. He had no choice but to hold it for her as she fumbled a few times to find each sleeve. After she buttoned it, she took his elbow, smiling up at him again. “Thank you, kind sir.”

  He nodded and walked her briskly to the door.

  The cold December wind hit them when they reached the sidewalk. Long pointed to the left. “I’m sorry again that I have to rush off, but I really must get to my hotel as soon as possible.”

  There was nothing she could do but go to the right.

  44

  ALIZÉE, 1940

  A gunshot. A second and then a third. Alizée had never heard the sound before, but she had no doubt what it was. She pressed herself into the recessed doorway of a small haberdashery a block down from the Haven. She should keep walking, that was the plan, to get away as quickly as possible.

  But there was only supposed to be one shot. And already there were sirens. So fast. Was he dead? What about Nathan?

  She crossed the street and circled back toward the restaurant. A crowd forming. A woman screaming. A body lying at the mouth of the alley, but moving, trying to sit up. He wasn’t dead. For a moment, she was relieved, then realized she shouldn’t be. But she was. And wasn’t. Where was Nathan?

  She was pulled toward the commotion. A bad idea. The murderer returning to the scene of the crime. But she wasn’t a murderer. Not yet at least. Maybe never. Again the relief. Then devastation. Tante. Alain. The little girls.

  She elbowed herself closer to Long. He was sitting up, clearly not dead, but bleeding. A man held a wadded shirt to his shoulder. They were talking. Not dead. She had go before he saw her.

  As she worked her way toward the edge of the crowd, she suddenly froze. Nathan. Maybe five people separated them. Their eyes met, held, horrified to see each other, horrified at what had, and hadn’t, happened, sending silent messages to run. Run quickly. She turned back toward the way she had come, caught a glimpse of Nathan turning the other way.

  Then a shout. “That’s him!” a woman yelled. “He came out of the alley!”

  Alizée kept walking.

  She couldn’t go to her apartment. Couldn’t go to Mark’s or Lee’s. Couldn’t go to any of her usual haunts. They might be looking for her, maybe even following her. Her mind spun with empty possibilities. She couldn’t go to Gideon either. He’d be furious at them for the attempt, for keeping it a secret, for failing. She couldn’t face his wrath or the hysterics sure to follow. She needed someone calm. Someone who might be able to help. So she took the subway to the ERC office, hoping Mr. Fleishman would still be at his desk. He was.

  He nodded absently when he saw her in the doorway, but when she closed the door and told him about Long, he went rigid with attention. “You tried to kill Breckinridge Long?” he whispered. “With Americans for No Limits? I can’t believe this. What were you thinking?”

  She raised her chin. “That would have saved thousands of lives.”

  “Gideon Kannel approved this?”

  “We didn’t tell him.”

  “You didn’t tell him,” Mr. Fleishman repeated slowly, as if saying the words would give them meaning.

  She sat in the chair opposite him. “I think they caught Nathan. They must have. He was right there.”

  “My God, Alizée. Do you understand what you’ve done? The repercussions? The police, the government, they’re not going to let this be. They’re going to investigate every connection.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Breckinridge Long, for Christ’s sake. A goddamn assistant s
ecretary of state.”

  “That’s why I came here.” Seeing their plan through Mr. Fleishman’s eyes was throwing her into a panic. “I . . . I couldn’t go home. Or to anyone involved with ANL.”

  “You’ve got to leave the city. Immediately.”

  That made sense, but it was impossible. The murals. Mark. If the visas came through, she had to be here. If we do not get out now, we will die.

  “This isn’t negotiable,” Mr. Fleishman declared. “I should call the police right now.”

  Her chest tightened, and her breath came in short gasps.

  “You promise to leave and I’ll pretend we never had this conversation.”

  All she could do was stare at him. She had nowhere to go.

  “I can’t, the ERC can’t. We can’t get involved in this. There are too many people depending on us to take that kind of risk.”

  She knew he was right, was sorry she’d come. What would become of her? Of her family? She tried to stop it, but a tear rolled down her cheek. And there were many more behind that.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay, don’t cry. What’s done is done, and we can be thankful that it sounds like he’s going to live, that there’s no direct connection between you and the shooting. Right?”

  “No.” She shook her head, then caught herself and nodded vigorously. “I mean yes. Yes, that’s right. No connection. Not really. His people knew I was meeting him at the restaurant, but they . . . they think my name is Pierre and that I work for a newspaper.”

  “Pierre?”

  “Babette. Miss Babette Pierre. She’s my cousin and he’s her husband. His first name is Pierre and hers is Babette. So I combined them—”

  “Alizée,” he said sharply. “Do you have any family or friends outside New York? Someplace you could go where the police wouldn’t think to look for you?”