The Corsican (58 page)

“Well, that might not be a bad idea,” Brody said. “But not until we're out of the woods on this.” His eyes moved down to Wallace. “I think you and I and General Lat had better get together tomorrow to work out details,” he said. “There's no point dragging our feet on this.”

Mallory leaned across the table, pushing his face closer to Wallace's. “You do a good job on this, Ben, and I'll see you get a big boost toward that star you've been wanting.”

Wallace smiled across at him. “I'd like that. I'd like it very much, general.”

When he returned to his office, Brody dropped into his chair exhausted. Dealing with the finite minds of the military always wore him out. This time it had been even worse. He lit a cigarette and exhaled heavily, then picked up his private telephone and dialed.

When Francesco Canterina's voice came through the receiver it was like music to him. He liked dealing with professionals. There was no substitute for it.

“My friend, this is Brody. We have a go on the matter we discussed.”

“Good,” Francesco said. “I was hoping you'd reach that decision.”

“There wasn't really much choice, was there?” Brody took another drag on the cigarette and sent a shaft of smoke across his desk. “But listen, you'll have to work with Wallace. No final action until the exact time we set. Otherwise our other fish might escape our net. You understand me?”

“Perfectly. When do you think the time will be?”

“Don't worry, my friend. It will be soon. Very soon. We'll set up your pigeon as quickly as we can.”

Brody dropped the receiver back into its cradle. He eased back in his chair, wondering why the intelligence community had ever decided to become involved with heroin in the first place. It was a wonderful financial tool, he told himself. But it sure as hell escalated the level of corruption, and that made it one large pain in the ass.

Chapter 40

“You must reach him and tell him he must not go.”

Molly had never heard Sartene's voice so near panic. “I'll send someone to find him immediately. But are you sure, Buonaparte?” She could hear the panic, and the fear, in her own voice as well.

“Colonel Duc just informed me. He just learned about it from General Lat. It is a trap. They are waiting there to kill him.”

“I'll call you back,” Molly said. She slammed the receiver down and rushed to the door of her office, screaming out Po's name as she did. There's not a chance, she told herself. Not a chance in hell of finding him.

The telephone conversation with Brody had been simple and direct. Francesco Canterina would be delivered in forty-eight hours, alive if possible, in a body bag if not. The drop would be made in the small abandoned village of Huong Hoa, which was located in Quang Tri Province, right on the Lao border, about twenty miles south of the 1954 Demarcation Line that separated North and South Viet Nam. There would be only one guard, as specified.

Peter sat in the dense forest on the outskirts of the village, marveling at Brody's ability to lie with conviction. He had arrived at the village a day early. He had telephoned Brody from Hue, then had used falsified military orders to board a short flight to the city of Quang Tri, where he had stolen a jeep and driven the final forty miles. Later that day, he had watched Wallace arrive by helicopter and supervise the placement of a canvas body bag in a small hut. Wallace's arrival and departure had taken no more than ten minutes. When he had left, Wallace took only the empty body bag with him, leaving behind the contents, along with seven ARVN snipers.

Peter let out a long breath. He had hoped Francesco's American surrogates would be sensible. But he had also anticipated the betrayal and had prepared for it. Now there would be more killing, something he had hoped to avoid.

Earlier he had watched the snipers position themselves in a concealed arc, forming a well-defined killing ground with the hut at its center.

But there were only six snipers now. The seventh lay at his feet unconscious, hands and feet bound, clear plastic tape covering his mouth. The man had been closest to Peter's position, and a quiet blow to the back of the neck had been an easy matter.

Standing now, Peter took the unconscious sniper by the shirt collar and dragged him to the well-concealed jeep, which sat fifty yards back in the bush just off the main road into the village.

Quickly, he removed a duffel bag from the rear seat, stripped the ARVN sniper, and redressed him in the uniform of a U.S. Army captain. Peter lifted the still-unconscious man into the driver's seat, looked over the ill-fitting uniform, then placed a hat on his head, adjusting the peak so it concealed his features without obstructing his vision. He then tied the man's wrists to the steering wheel, leaving just enough play to allow him to drive.

After clearing the concealing brush from the front of the jeep to expose easy access to the road, Peter slapped the sniper gently, reviving him.

At first the Vietnamese struggled against the ropes, as muffled grunts of fear came from behind the clear plastic tape that covered his mouth. Peter smiled down at him, noting his bulging eyes and sweat-filled brow. He spoke softly in Vietnamese.

“It's all right, my friend. You're just going to go for a little drive. Just straight ahead to the hut.” He smiled again, removing a silencer-equipped .22 caliber High Standard pistol from his belt, and placed it against the man's temple. “If you don't I'm going to blow your brains out.”

The man looked from Peter to the road, then back at Peter. A look of hope had come into his eyes.

“That's right,” Peter said. “When you get out there you can stand up and let them see you're not the American they're waiting for. But I don't think you'll want to.”

As the Vietnamese watched in terror, Peter took a STABO combat vest from the duffel bag, slipped it on, then removed one of several hand grenades that hung from it. Using one hand, he pushed the Vietnamese forward and wedged the grenade between his left buttock and the seat. He pushed the Vietnamese back and smiled.

“As long as you sit tight, the pressure will keep the grenade spoon depressed.” Carefully, he reached down and pulled the pin and held it up. “But if you don't he said, “you'll have a terrible pain in the ass.”

Peter reached under the man's trembling arms and started the engine, then ordered him to depress the clutch, as he put the jeep in first gear. He stepped back and smiled again. “Drive slowly,” he whispered.

The jeep rolled forward out into the road and headed toward the hut. Peter dropped back into the bush and moved on a parallel line. When the jeep reached the clearing approaching the hut, he dropped down behind a low-hanging nipa palm.

As the jeep reached the center of the clearing, Peter heard a silenced spit, and looking toward the jeep saw the feathered end of a tranquilizer dart protruding from the driver's shoulder. Within seconds the driver's body slumped to one side, and Peter dropped back behind the trunk of the palm, knowing the blast would come in three to four seconds.

He could hear the snipers jabbering excitedly just before the blast, and as the echo of the explosion was swallowed by the forest, the voices changed to shouted warnings and an uncontrolled rush back to cover.

Peter pulled back behind a row of palms, increased the distance for his circling move, then ran low in short spurts, stopping to make sure of his targets' position, then continued the circle.

He took five minutes to place himself behind the first Ranger. The equipment pack the Vietnamese wore marked him as one of General Lat's elite troops—the ARVN version of the U.S. SOG teams, the Studies and Observation Group of MACV that made regular sorties into North Viet Nam. ARVN had dubbed their teams Luc Long Dac Biet (LLDB), the South Vietnamese version of Special Forces. To the Americans, who were far from impressed with their fighting ability, they were known as “look long, duck back.”

Slowly, offering as little observable movement as possible, Peter took the silencer-equipped High Standard from his belt and steadied it with both hands. The magnum-load bullet hit the Ranger in the back of the head, dropping him like a stone. Peter crouched, waiting for incoming fire, then dropped back and continued his circle. Ten yards down, two more Rangers were lying face down in a small stand of elephant grass. Too close together for their own good, Peter thought. Typical of ARVN training

Slowly again, he took a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and lofted the grenade in a low arc, then turned and dropped back again, falling to the ground just as the grenade exploded. He glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see the bodies of two Rangers fall back to the ground. The grenade had landed between them, and exploded so quickly there had not been time even for a warning shout.

He crawled away quickly. Ahead, to his right, he saw one of the three remaining Rangers rise up and throw a grenade toward his position. Peter fired three rounds in rapid succession. The third Ranger flew back like a rag doll, the force of the bullets almost ripping his body in half.

Peter threw himself to his left and rolled. Too late. The grenade exploded, sending a shard of shrapnel into his right thigh. Almost at once, the ground around him erupted with geysers of dirt. The two remaining Rangers knew he was there now; they fired wildly, knowing the odds had suddenly decreased.

But only one of you is going to die, Peter told himself, as he crawled painfully forward, again circling their position. One of you is going to be taken alive, no matter what. And you're going to carry a message back.

The two ARVN Rangers were panicked. Reacting to their own fear, they had bunched together, back to back, each facing a direction from which they thought he would come.

Assholes, Peter thought. He was ten yards from them. Neither faced him. He was close enough to hear their rapid, high-pitched jabbering. A slight smile formed on his lips as he slowly brought the High Standard up in front of him. It was something that had always amused him about the Vietnamese. The more frightened they became, the more unsure of themselves, the louder and faster they would talk. He would have been able to hear them and pinpoint their position at ten times the distance. The High Standard jerked lightly in his hands, the muffled spit coming almost simultaneously with the impact of the bullet just above the left ear of the fifth Ranger. The ARVN soldier sat motionless for two seconds, his mouth forming a soundless circle, before he fell off to one side.

The final Ranger felt him fall and spun around in panic. His head darted back and forth, eyes wide, his entire body shaking in fear. The M-16 fell from his hand and he scrambled to retrieve it. Peter rose to his knees.

“Touch it and you cross to Yellow Springs,” Peter said in Vietnamese.

The Ranger froze, his head twisting violently toward the sound of Peter's voice. His mouth was contorted, his eyes bulging from his face; he mumbled incoherently. Peter stood and limped toward him, the High Standard out in front of him. He moved slowly, watching the Ranger's eyes.

“Remain still and you live,” Peter said, his voice soft and gravelly.

When Peter reached him, the Ranger bolted up, more from fear than for any planned attack. Peter's fist caught him solidly in the face, hurtling him back in an obscene cartwheel. Before he could move again. Peter was on him. The silenced barrel of the High Standard slammed against his mouth, smashing through his teeth, until it pressed against his tongue. He dropped one knee onto the Ranger's chest, paused a second to allow the man's head to clear, then clicked the pistol's safety on and off for effect. The small man's face filled with a mixture of pain and fear, the sound of the safety mechanism hitting his ears like cannonfire.

“Hands on head,” Peter growled, watching as the man obeyed.

He reached out and took him by the throat with his left hand, then eased himself back, dragging the Ranger to his feet. Slowly, Peter stripped the ARVN soldier of his weapons, then stepped back, withdrawing the barrel of the pistol from his broken mouth. He spun him roughly, pointing him toward the hut, and shoved him into motion.

When they reached the hut, Peter flattened his back against the door and ordered the ARVN Ranger to open it. The door swung away and Peter pushed the Ranger inside, into the path of any booby traps that might have been laid. The only sound that came back was a sudden gasp, followed by uncontrolled retching.

Peter turned into the doorway. The ARVN Ranger was on his knees, vomiting. Peter looked past him and felt his own bile rise in his throat. There, spread-eagled on the dirt between four stakes, was the body of Joe Morris, his face twisted into a grotesque mask of pain. Morris' arms, legs and face were covered with hundreds of small knife wounds, indicating a long, slow period of torture. The final wound, which had ended his life, went from his sternum to his pubis, splaying him open like a chicken, and allowing a gray mass of intestines to spill out onto the floor beside him. Anyone who found him, Peter realized, would think he had been captured and tortured by the Viet Cong.

Peter grabbed the Ranger by the scruff of the neck and dragged him outside. The small man stood before him trembling. Peter drew a deep breath and spoke in a broken whisper.

“You go back now,” he said in Vietnamese. “And you tell those who sent you that I'll be coming for them soon. And tell them that they will die as horribly as that man died.”

The Ranger remained rooted to the ground, unable to move. Peter grabbed his shirt front and pushed him away, watching as the Ranger stumbled and fell, then quickly regained his feet and began running wildly down the dirt road toward the forest.

Peter reached down and felt the wound in his leg. It was superficial, but he knew it would cause him problems. He had a long way to go, through difficult terrain, before he would reach the nearest Meo village. But he would get there, and then he would return. He looked back over his shoulder at Morris' body, hidden now by the inner darkness of the hut. “Sorry, Joe,” he whispered, then turned and limped toward the dense forest that lay ahead.