The Corsican (23 page)

“The French know this,” Bently said. “They're not concerned about it. They feel they can recapture the area quickly and limit the effect. There's even talk of starting to reinforce the area then, of bringing in artillery to form a large defensive hedgehog over the next year or two. They feel they can make it impenetrable.”

“The French. The French,” Sartene said. “They still think they can fight this war of theirs from textbooks. They don't understand that the Viet Minh are fighting a political war, not a military one.” He waved one arm in a circle. “They take one village and then they withdraw and disappear. But each victory makes converts to a new nationalism. The French always thought they had conquered Corsica: But each time a bandit robbed a bank, the people cheered.”

“What the French do not know is that the Viet Minh will join with the Pathet Lao after this, and then move on Xieng Khouang,” Deo said.

“Already Faydang has been seen to the north of our region. I think he's preparing for this,” Lyfoung added. “But he's been like a spirit. When we search for him, he's gone.”

“I have plans for defending the region,” Sartene said. “I've talked about it with some of the younger French officers, some Corsicans who understand the problem. But I'll explain that later. What I don't understand is why you suddenly find it difficult to locate Faydang.”

Touby began to speak, but Deo interrupted. He obviously enjoyed this part of the unfavorable news. “Some of the Meo have been seeking conciliation with Faydang. They seem to feel it's necessary to ensure their next harvest, should the Pathet Lao be successful this time.” He glanced sideways at Lyfoung, who had folded his hands and was nervously rubbing the palms with his thumbs.

“Why haven't I heard about this?” Jean said.

“I thought we could resolve it. I still think we can,” Lyfoung said. He smiled at Jean, but the smile faded when their eyes met. “It is only a few, but they warn him and help him hide from us.”

“A few grow into many, dammit,” Jean said. “You should have told me so I could have stopped it immediately.”

“It is not too late,” Deo said. “I have learned who these peasants are. When the example is made, the others will realize who is in control. A few beheadings will serve us very well.”

“We'll go tomorrow morning,” Jean said, directing himself to Lyfoung. “And I hope I'm not going to find a bigger problem than you've described.”

“Wait,” Sartene said. “I don't want my son involved in these reprisals. He will have to carry out the new plans I spoke of, and it would be difficult if he made enemies in any of the villages.” He looked down the table at Auguste. “You could do this, Auguste. But I'll need you here until Benito returns from Bangkok in the afternoon. We could delay this one day,” he added.

“I could do it for you, Buonaparte,” Francesco said. “I'd be happy to do this service for Jean, and since I'm not involved with the people in these villages it shouldn't harm any future plans.”

“What do you think, Jean?” Sartene asked.

Jean stared across the table at Francesco, puzzled by his willingness to help. “I'm happy to have Francesco's help,” he said. “How many of the Mua would you want to take?”

“None,” Francesco answered. “I could use Touby's men. It would reinforce his strength there, and later when you went to these villages with the Mua, there wouldn't be any connection. Besides, Touby has good men.” He looked across the table and nodded his approval of Lyfoung.

“Yes, it's good,” Lyfoung said, eager now for some support.

Sartene glanced between his son and Francesco. The offer surprised him too, but he knew that to refuse Francesco's offer to help his son would only widen the rift that had divided them for years. He turned his attention to Bently. “Can you go with them, Matt?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bently said. “I'd like to. It'll be my last chance to see the Meo country.”

“Last chance?” Sartene questioned.

“I'm going home, Buonaparte. At the end of the month. In time for Christmas. I was going to tell you later.”

“I'm sorry to hear this,” Sartene said. “I knew someday you would leave, but it was something I always put out of my mind.”

“I'm sorry too,” Jean said. “But perhaps I'll come and visit you.” He let the words drop, then changed the subject. He had decided to speak to his father about Pierre's schooling, about all of them leaving, but that was for later, after the others left. “Will you go with Francesco?” he asked.

“No. I've seen enough beheadings to last me a lifetime,” Bently said. “If you don't mind I'll stay with you.”

Deo leaned forward, taking his brandy snifter in both hands. He had no interest in the American. “What is this new plan you spoke of?” he asked Sartene.

Sartene took care to look at each man at the table. “It's very simple, really, and as I said it has the support of younger French officers who can provide the initial training we will need. The other thing it will do is to move the hill people out of just a military fight with the Pathet Lao, a simple holding on to certain geography, and put them into the political fight.” He turned his attention to Lyfoung and Deo. “Right now your men work under this Mixed Airborne Commando Group of the French, whenever they need you to help their forces in your region. The rest of the time you do nothing but keep watch on your own people to maintain their loyalty. When you need money or arms you go to Saigon and take what you need from the SDECE
caisse noire
. In return they get their percentage of the opium harvest to finance this war they're trying so hard to lose.”

“It's the way the French have always wanted it,” Deo said. “We provide the opium and the fodder for the fire when it's needed.” He glanced at Touby with a hint of irony. “At least it has made some of us rich,” he added.

Sartene's eyes darkened, and he allowed them to carry their full weight to the two men. His voice remained soft, but held an undeniable threat. “The French may want it that way. But I don't,” he said. Sartene timed his words, as always. Waiting before continuing, allowing for the full impact of his edict. “Whether the French remain here or not. Whether they're replaced by the Americans or not.
We
will remain. To do this we have to have the support of the people who concern us.” He spread his hands apart benevolently. “We've been fair with them. We don't cheat them like those fools in the Tonkin region. Maybe they think we tax them too much, but we provide them with protection for those taxes. They have a market for their opium, and that puts food on their tables. They have to understand that even if the French leave, they still have that market with us.” He jabbed one finger forward. “They also have to understand that they have their independence with us, and they will never have that with the communists. This independence is a fierce thing with these people, and it's our best weapon.”

“I don't understand,” Touby said. “How can we make our hold on the people stronger and make them think they are independent at the same time?”

“You think discipline and freedom can't work together?” Sartene asked. He smiled at Lyfoung, playing the teacher to the pupil. “During the war in Europe the resistance operated with great independence, and they were still the most disciplined fighters in the war. When they were needed somewhere, they were there. Because they
knew
it was in their interest to be there.”

“I don't understand,” Deo said.

“I think I do.” Bently smiled down the table at Sartene. “You're talking about a
maquis
, a small, tightly disciplined counterguerrilla infrastructure.”

Sartene's eyes warmed to his American friend. Over the years he had learned to appreciate the difference between this man and the fool he had known in the mountains of southern France. “We are going to miss you, my friend,” he said.

“But how do we pick the right people, and how do we train them?” Touby asked. This new idea meant work for him, and possible expense. But even worse, he felt, it might also prove a threat to his authority.

“When you go back to the hill country tomorrow, you and my son will begin this thing.” He noted Touby's concern, understood it and decided to deal with it directly. “You'll start in your own village. Later you can go to the others. In all we only need fifty men to start. They will report to you, and they'll owe their new opportunity to you.”

Sartene stood and walked behind his chair, placing his hands on the back of it almost as though it were a lectern. “You'll need men who fight well, who've proved their worth that way. And some of these men should be ambitious.” He wagged a finger at Touby. “Don't be afraid of ambitious men. To have a successful organization you have to have these people. Just make sure they're loyal to you and that they understand that their hopes for the future depend on your success. Besides, these people you choose will control very small numbers of men, so by themselves they won't be a threat.”

Sartene returned to his chair and leaned forward, his palms pressed together, prayerlike. “You'll only need fifty men to start with, picked from all the scattered villages of your region. They will be sent to the French Action School at Cap St. Jacques for thirty or forty days of training, whatever's needed. The French officers I spoke of will do this for you in return for certain considerations.” He smiled. “About three or four thousand dollars' worth of raw opium. A fortune back in France. They'll train the men in small weapons, counterintelligence, explosives and how to operate radios. After the training we will break them up into four-man groups. Each group will have a commander—the ambitious ones—a radio operator and two intelligence officers. The groups will have been trained to operate independently, so if one group is destroyed, the
maquis
still survives. And each reports to you, and through you to my son.”

“But fifty men, just fifty …”

Sartene stopped Touby with a gesture. “When this first group returns, you will give them two tasks. First, they must gather information about Pathet Lao and Viet Minh in the area and report this back. Second, they must start to propagandize the villages. Remember, they'll be coming back with new weapons and radios; they'll have great stature and a certain closeness to you, their kaitong. In addition to their intelligence-gathering, each man will be expected to recruit two new men. Some will recruit three even, and all those men will then be sent off to be trained, at a cost to us of another nine thousand dollars in raw opium. But within about three months, well before the new planting must begin next March, we will have a
maquis
of forty different groups, each one capable of searching out Pathet Lao and Viet Minh and assassinating leaders and traitors, of finding camps and supply lines. Then, together with your warriors, they can drive them out, or disrupt them. And most important, they'll be independent. And that will produce pride in their villages.” Sartene paused to smile, then jabbed his finger into his chest. “And they'll owe this to us. And they'll be loyal in order to keep what we've given them.”

“Won't the French wonder about this new training?” Deo asked.

“Why should they?” Jean asked, taking up his father's plan. “The French are always training mercenaries, and they'll have nothing to do with the final way these men are organized. Besides, if someone from SDECE becomes suspicious, a little raw opium will satisfy him. Everyone here has a bank account in Hong Kong that needs filling.”

Touby was fidgeting in his chair. He was still nervous, still concerned that he might lose control over his region.

Bently saw it and decided to soothe the fat little colonel. “This is a great opportunity for you, colonel,” he said. “There were guerrilla groups like this in the Philippines during the war, and the people who ran them became national heroes and are running the country now.” He caught a glimmer of contempt on Deo's face. The Black Tais had no respect for the Meo, considering them little more than ignorant peasants. Bently's manipulation of Touby seemed to confirm those beliefs. Bently decided to push Deo as well. “Isn't that so, Colonel Deo?” he added.

“Most definitely,” Deo said.

“You must remember, Touby,” Sartene added, “these men will be in contact with us by radio. And we'll have the power to take away what's been given to them.”

“And that gives you even more power than you have now,” Auguste added.

Touby nodded, trying to convince himself, satisfy himself there was no threat. Sartene watched him, knowing the man would talk himself into it, if given time. Touby's ego was such that he was able to convince himself that a defeat had been a victory, a criticism truly disguised praise. He believed he was kaitong of his region, even though he took his instructions from Jean and, therefore, from Sartene himself. Sartene picked up a small crystal bell and rang it. The servant reappeared and refilled the brandy snifters. The only person at the table who had not joined in support of his plan was Francesco. The fact had registered. It was unlike the man not to assert himself, not to attempt to impress with his ideas and his loyalty. But he had offered help. Sartene would now have to see how that help was given.

When the three orientals and Francesco had departed, Madeleine remained in the sitting room with Bently. Pierre was already asleep. It was late, and Madeleine had been kept from her bed only by the need to bid them goodbye as their hostess. Her father-in-law and her husband were in the study, discussing still another trip Jean would make tomorrow. The meetings, the private conversations, seemed interminable, and she longed for an end to it all.

Bently leaned against the superfluous marble mantel, enjoying the natural grace of the woman. He wondered if he had stayed on so much longer than he had intended because he so much enjoyed being near her. A longing from afar, he chided himself. Like some hackneyed line from a nineteenth-century novel. A
stirring in his loins
. He smiled at himself. You read too much romantic claptrap as a kid.