The Corsican (15 page)

“And so he'll protect himself against attack?” Bently asked.

Sartene nodded. “But he doesn't have the men available to meet that type of attack with force. That I already know. So he'll hide and wait to see what happens. And then, being sensible, he'll leave and hope to be able to regroup and come back. I don't want to kill this man Faydang, or this prince. They believe in what they're doing, and they only fight to get what they think is theirs.”

“And if they come back?” Bently asked.

Sartene shrugged again. “Then we have no choice.”

Bently leaned forward in his chair. The manner in which Sartene talked about general mayhem was chilling, but he could not help admiring how the man's mind worked, and his somewhat warped—at least to Bently—sense of morality.

“It's very clever,” he said at length. “The prince and Faydang running with Touby and his supporters at their heels; the military commission; the appearance of an outside force—all of it should make Touby very powerful among his people. And he'll owe that power to you.”

Sartene smiled for the first time since they had begun talking. “And he'll know that power will continue only as long as he follows our arrangement.”

Bently sat back in his chair, shaking his head. “I have no problem with it,” he said. “I only wish I'd thought of it.” He paused a moment, his eye catching the movement of two figures walking toward the river. One was a child, small and active. The other was a woman, and although he could not make out her features, the grace with which she moved convinced him she must be quite beautiful. He brought himself quickly back. “Outside of being there and handing over the commission, what role would you like me to play?” he asked.

Sartene too had noticed the movement toward the river and took time to watch his grandson run wildly ahead of his mother. He was concerned the dog was not with him, as it should be. “A very minor one,” he said, looking back at Bently. “I would like you to show a certain respect for my son and an interest in the arrangement they're seeking. A quiet show of support, nothing more. Any part you want to take in the attack against Faydang is up to you.”

“Will Jean also lead the attack on the prince's home?”

Sartenc shook his head. “Francesco, whom you've met, will do that. It will be very fast, hit-and-run as you Americans like to say, and Francesco's training as a partisan is well suited for that.” Sartene did not look at his son. He also avoided mentioning his own belief that involving Francesco to some degree was needed to avoid future problems.

Bently noticed Jean's jaws tighten almost imperceptibly as his father spoke of Francesco. There's a rift, he thought. Maybe a serious one. “You'll need transport for your men?” Bently asked Sartene.

“Only to the Meo country. There's a landing strip at Phong Savan on the Plain of Jars. Lyfoung's village of Lat Houang is in the valley below. He can provide the transportation to Faydang's village. We have to let him do something,” Sartene said.

“Do you think it would be better to have a French official deliver the commission? It might seem more authentic.”

“No,” Sartene said. “I don't want to involve the French any more than necessary. Besides, the Meo aren't stupid. They recognize real power and they know the French have none.”

“All I'll need to know is the date, then,” Bently said.

“As soon as you confirm the information about the prince, I can give you that.”

Sartene's eyes flashed back toward the river, where Madeleine and Pierre now walked. “Come,” he said to Bently. “I'd like you to meet my grandson.” He stood and clapped his hands several times. From the rear of the house the hulking Weimaraner appeared, running full out.

They started down the steps. “We'll take the dog,” Sartene said to Bently. “It's a foolish beast, but I bought it because nothing on the ground escapes it. We have many snakes here, some dangerous, and the dog is supposed to be with Pierre, my grandson, when he is out. My daughter-in-law must have forgotten. You see, I'm overprotective of my grandson, and even though I know it's a weakness, I can't help myself.”

Bently smiled to himself, pleased to find the man had a weakness.

Madeleine and Pierre were standing on the dock when they reached the river. They were watching the water. Sartene and Bently moved quietly, something each had learned from the war, something they had not forgotten and never would.

Madeleine and Pierre did not hear them until Sartene spoke. As always his voice was soft, a conspirator's voice, Bently thought, and the sound did not startle them. The dog had remained behind on the shore, obeying a hand signal from Sartene, and upon turning and seeing the gray hulk twisting there anxiously, Pierre ran past the men and began playing with it.

Madeleine smiled, taking the time to study Bently closely. She was as beautiful as he had assumed she would be, long and lithe, yet ample in a pleasing way, and her eyes were a stunning blue, like the child's. He felt both an immediate admiration and envy toward Sartene's son.

“Madeleine, I'd like you to meet Monsieur Bently. He's an official of the American government and is here discussing some business with us,” Sartene said.

She inclined her head in greeting. “I met the other American,” she said.

“This one is different,” Sartene said.

“That's good, I think,” she said, smiling slightly.

Bently found it difficult to speak to the woman. It made him feel slightly foolish, like a goddam high school kid, he told himself.

“Good day,” he said. It was all he could manage, except for a small smile.

“And this,” Sartene said, turning and gesturing toward Pierre, “this wild man is my grandson, Pierre. Pierre,” he called. “Come meet the gentleman.”

Pierre left the dog and walked toward them, with what Bently considered a great deal of forced dignity for a little squirt in short pants. The child stopped in front of him and extended his hand.

“Good day, sir,” he said in English.

“You speak English very well,” Bently said.

“It is something we feel is important,” Sartene said. “Something that always served
me
well. Little Pierre speaks our own language, of course, along with French and English. Gradually he's learning the languages of this area.” His voice had a teasing reprimand in it, as though the boy had not been studying the new languages as hard as he should.

“I'm very impressed, Pierre,” Bently said, still looking down at the child.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. He had ignored the gentle reprimand.

There was a bit of the old man in him, Bently thought. And a lot of the mother. He ran his hand over the boy's silky blond hair. “That's some dog you have,” he said, gesturing toward the Weimaraner with his chin. “We have a lot of hunting dogs where I come from in America, but not many are as handsome as he is.”

“He can catch snakes,” the boy said, acting like a child for the first time.

“I'll bet he can,” Bently said.

“Oh, the snakes,” Madeleine said. “I forgot, Papa.”

Bently turned to the sound of the woman's lilting voice, realizing even the sound was exciting to him.

She looked away from Sartene and spoke to Bently. “I'm afraid I'm supposed to take the dog with us when we walk. But as usual, I forgot. Are you very annoyed with me, Papa?”

There was a teasing quality to her voice. She used her beauty even on Sartene, Bently noticed, And it left him defenseless, as it would any man.

“It's here now,” Sartene said. “Besides, the boy enjoys the dog.”

She smiled, realizing he was defending his protectiveness. “Do you have children, Monsieur Bently?” she asked, turning to the American.

“Please, call me Matt,” he said. “And no. I'm afraid I never married.”

“That's too bad,” she said. “They can be a joy. And so can their grandfathers,” she said, offering a smile to Sartene.

Sartene shook his head. “Perhaps we should go back to the shade now,” he said. “It's very hot.”

She laughed. A beautiful laugh, Bently thought.

“Yes, Papa,” she said, taking his arm.

They walked slowly across the open plain, the boy and dog running far ahead, Bently trying awkwardly to make casual conversation.

In the distance he could see Malcolm Baker and Benito with the others on the veranda. From the way Baker sat in his chair, Bently could tell he was exhausted. He would undoubtedly bitch about it the entire way back. He sincerely hoped Baker would become ill during the flight.

Chapter 8

When the Manchu dynasty began an extermination campaign against China's rebellious Meo tribes in 1856, the numerous Meo clans fled south by the thousands. The majority of the Meo burst into northern Viet Nam's Tonkin Delta like an invasion of locusts, only to be driven back into the Vietnamese highlands by the Vietnamese army's elephant battalions.

Three Meo kaitong escaped that disaster by fleeing China's Yunnan and Szechwan provinces and turning southwest for the Nong Het district of northern Laos. The three clans, the Lo and the Ly—who would later struggle for dominance of opium—and the warlike Mua, lived, at first, in relative harmony. Throughout the latter half of the nineteenth century the Mua were clearly dominant, primarily because of their reputation as the fiercest of Meo warriors. But it was a dominance that would not last. Led by kaitong who were militarily strong but politically weak, the Mua were pushed aside by the Lo and Ly clans at the turn of the century, so much so that they fell into relative obscurity.

Offered little more than a beggar's role among the stronger clans, the young warriors of the Mua drifted throughout Laos, offering their skills to those who needed them, often as not ending up as free-lance mercenaries for the French.

It was the Mua whom Buonaparte Sartene employed, and it was they who taught him their history and the intricacies of tribal customs. From him they received respect and honor, and in return Sartene enjoyed the fierce loyalty of a forgotten clan, which gradually grew in number as Mua scattered throughout Laos learned they had at last found a unifying force.

Sartene recognized, and as a Corsican understood, the feelings of a people who had been denied their birthright, and it was something he used to the ultimate. When the Mua were told of the coming attack on Prince Phetsarath, and the subsequent move into Nong Het to seize control of the Ly opium dynasty and to drive the Lo clan from the region, they knew they had at last found a kaitong worthy of leadership. It did not matter that he was a European.

The raid on Prince Phetsarath's ancestral home was executed with brutal force. Located on the banks of the Mekong outside Luang Prabang, the attack came from the river under the cover of the predawn mist. Francesco Canterina, who led the assault, had been told by Sartene to avoid a bloodbath if possible. It was an order Francesco chose to ignore, and only the prince and a few servants were allowed to escape the brutality of the Mua onslaught.

Seated in the prince's ornate study, surrounded by a priceless collection of Chinese and Laotian art, Francesco knew he would have little trouble explaining away the
unavoidable
need for violence. He had little respect for life, especially oriental life, and he knew the Mua, pleased with the vengeful bloodletting they had been allowed to enjoy, would never contradict him. Besides, Sartene's interest in limiting violence was self-serving, intended to allow
him
to consolidate his power in the future among both the victors and the vanquished. It was something that did not fit into Francesco's plan, the execution of which was still years distant. Like Sartene, Francesco Canterina understood the value of patience, and the need to plan quietly for the future.

But today he was not in a patient mood. He was murderously angry. He had been used, was being used and would continue to be used to help establish Sartene's son, Jean, as the
milieu'
s leader in this new opium business. Jean was being groomed to succeed his father. And that being the case, he, Francesco Canterina, was being pushed aside.

Francesco leaned back in the delicate, gilded chair that dominated the center of the study like some imperial throne and studied the collection of Ming vases that littered the room, deciding which he would take with him as prizes of combat, and which lesser pieces he might bring back to Sartene as a gesture of respect. It was fitting. He had not personally shared in the wealth that had been found in that French farmhouse years ago. No one had. Not even Auguste, who had been there. Francesco grunted, thinking of it now. Payment in return for his life. The gesture of a fool. Sartene had said then that the money belonged to the new
milieu
they would form and as such would be enjoyed equally. But he had become the head of that
milieu
, and that wealth had helped
his
power to grow until now, without question, he was
paceri
of the region, the biggest of the big, who now with the move into opium would become even more powerful. And after him, his dull-witted son.

Above all others Francesco despised Jean most of all. Jean had never proved himself in his youth, had never been required to do so. Still he had everything
he
, Francesco, wanted. And one thing more. That woman, that wife, that Madeleine. Francesco wanted her as well. That Frenchwoman, whose father had been a shopkeeper, but who carried herself like some rich bitch, like the daughter of some baron. He would teach her someday as she lay beneath him. He could tell she wanted him to, even though she ignored him. There was always that slight look of fear when their eyes met, that sense of discomfort in his presence. Yes, she wanted it as much as he did. He smiled to himself, wondering if she ever thought of him when she was making love to that brute of a husband. Absentmindedly he took his knife from his pocket and pressed the small lever that sent the stiletto blade shooting up through the shaft. He held the knife loosely in his hand, allowing his thumb to alternately feel the sharp edges on each side of the long, slender blade.