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

arrived in New York in the late 1890s, long before the revolution. He was a young boy, penniless and all but illiterate. He still doesn’t speak English very well.”
    â€œBut you’re well educated.”
    â€œYes, it was important to him because he had so little. I don’t know how he learned.”
    â€œHe’s still alive?”
    â€œYes, of course, but there’s a funny story about him. He built an apartment building that opened just before the market crash in 1929. Whenever anyone mentions the Ageloff Towers, someone invariably says, ‘Oh yes, Ageloff. He jumped off his skyscraper when the market crashed.’”
    â€œWas it a skyscraper?”
    â€œYes, I suppose you could say that.”
    â€œHe arrived penniless but built a skyscraper?”
    â€œHe’d gotten into the construction business. He’s been successful.”
    â€œIt must be true what they say about America, that anything is possible.”
    â€œHe was always good with numbers, and he wasn’t afraid of taking risks. And I suppose he was lucky.”
    â€œYes, luck is important,” Jacques agreed.
    He took a swallow of the wine when the waiter brought it, a nicely chilled rosé. Sylvia did the same. “May I see your glasses?” he asked, holding out his hand.
    â€œMy glasses?”
    â€œI want to look at the frames.”
    She removed her glasses and handed them to him. “They’re very nice,” he said after examining them. “The blue brings out the blue of your eyes. I don’t think we have them like this here in Europe. Do you hate wearing them?”
    Sylvia smiled bravely. “I don’t think any girl wants to wear glasses.”
    â€œI rather like mine. I think they make me look intellectual, which, of course, I’m not. But it’s different for a man. Have you tried dark glasses?”
    â€œNo, I never have.”
    â€œHere, try mine,” he said, handing his glasses to her. He laughed when she pulled them to her eyes and recoiled in surprise. “My lenses must be stronger.”
    â€œOr at least different,” she agreed.
    â€œBut let me see how you look. Close your eyes if you need to. Yes, that’s nice. You should consider getting a pair of sunglasses. They make you look like a film star.”
    â€œA film star? Jacques, be serious,” she said, removing the glasses.
    â€œBut I’m serious. I’ll take you to my optician in Paris.”
    Â 
    As they drove back toward Paris, Jacques tuned in a radio station that played the occasional American song. Both of them smiled, and hummed along with Fred Astaire singing, “Nice Work If You Can Get It.”
    Holding hands at midnight,
    â€™Neath a starry sky
    Nice work if you can get it
    And you can get it—if you try
    Jacques seemed quite happy until they reached the outskirts of Paris, then he fell silent, letting Sylvia see the shadows surrounding him, letting her wonder. “I’m afraid you might be tired of my company,” he said when he stopped the car in front of her hotel. “But I wonder if you would have dinner with me again tonight. There’s something troubling me. I believe you understand me, that I can talk to you with confidence.”
    Of course, Sylvia agreed. That evening they walked from the hotel to the restaurant, Jacques looking particularly handsome in a dark pinstripe suit. He held Sylvia’s chair for her, ordered an apéritif, and discussed the menu with the waiter. Finally, settled into their own pool of candlelight, he let his eyes roam across Sylvia’s face, then took a deep breath and sighed. “I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m afraid you won’t think well of me, that this might be the last time I see you.”
    She tipped her head to one side.
    â€œThe truth is I’ve made a mistake, a very large mistake in my life, and I don’t know where to turn. I’ve told you about my