The Corsican (59 page)

“I have to admit, I admire the man's balls, sending me a message like that.” Brody grinned across the table. They were seated in the small restaurant where he had agreed to meet Francesco to tell him about the hunt for Pierre Sartene. Francesco did not return the smile.

“And you think he will not try to make good his threat?” Francesco said.

“He was wounded, we know that, and if he gets out of that godforsaken place alive, it will be just short of miraculous. The idea of his getting back here and doing us all in is a bit farfetched. I'm more worried about the material. I've already had Mallory, Wainscott and Warren sent Stateside.”

“The Meo will be out looking for him, if they haven't found him already. They have great loyalty to Buonaparte.”

“We're monitoring the Meo, and we have our own people looking. If the Meo find him before We do, they'll just save some work. But I honestly think if anyone finds anything, it's going to be a corpse.”

“You also said he wouldn't get out of the ambush alive.” Francesco sat back in his chair and rubbed his chin with one finger. “Now you expect the forest to do what seven of General Lat's Rangers could not.”

“The forest, the North Vietnamese patrols, and our own people, who think they're hunting down a traitor. He hasn't got much going for himself against those odds, my friend.”

Francesco stared at Brody for several moments. “He has Buonaparte. And he has his Corsican blood,” he said at length.

Brody sat back and smiled. “Pardon my language, my friend. But you worry too much about that old greaseball. And as far as his Corsican blood goes, I'm more concerned about the training we gave him than I am about that.”

“If I were you, I'd start preparing for when he gets here. We will either kill him then, or he will kill us. But he will come.”

Brody laughed again. “Well, I'll believe that when I see it.”

Francesco looked into Brady's eyes. The man was a fool, he told himself. And there was no point wasting words on a fool.

Buonaparte Sartene sat behind his desk, his face drawn, his eyes puffed from lack of sleep. There was a growth of beard on his face several days old, and his back no longer seemed to have the rigid, almost military stiffness that had always given him an air of defiant strength.

When the door to the study opened, he looked up at Auguste without expectation. When the smile began to form on Auguste's lips, Buonaparte's back straightened almost as though a rod had been driven along his spine, and he pushed himself up from the chair with the agility of a much younger man.

“You've heard something?” he asked.

Auguste broke into a broad smile, and his eyes filled with tears. “He is alive. The Meo have him.”

Sartene fell back in his chair and exhaled deeply. “How badly is he hurt?”

“The bush took its toll, and he was wounded when they found him twenty kilometers east of Ban Phou Kheng. He came over a hundred kilometers, Buonaparte. With hardly any food or water. I can't believe it.” He looked down at Sartene and saw that his eyes were also filled with tears. Auguste straightened himself. “Maybe you can shave now, and start looking human again,” he snapped.

“Shut up, you old fool,” Sartene said. He stood and walked around his desk and pulled Auguste to him. They embraced each other for nearly a minute, allowing the pent-up tensions to leave him. Sartene stepped back and took Auguste's shoulders between his hands. His eyes were hard now. “We must send Luc to him by plane,” he said. “The Americans and Francesco's people will be looking for him among the Meo, and also here. We will have Luc bring him to the airfield at Phou Khao Kquai, and from there by car to one of our houses in Vientiane.”

Sartene turned and walked to the long table that held his array of toy soldiers. He took one in his hand, then turned back abruptly to Auguste, using it to emphasize his words. His eyes were cold and black. “We will go to the house in Vientiane tonight, by boat. No one must know we have gone. Call Molly and tell her to meet us there. We must know everything that has happened in Saigon since your visit there. Tell her to take care. She is to use one of the planes from our airline. And have her alert Philippe that we will soon move against our enemies. Now all those bastards must pay. I told you we would strike quickly. And now, when Pierre is well, we shall.”

Chapter 41

Buonaparte had been struck by the depth of Molly's concern for Pierre. It gave a new dimension to this woman, whom he had grown to respect in business. In some ways she now reminded him of his own wife. There was a deep strength, modified by tenderness that made the strength seem even greater. She had not seen Pierre since she had arrived at the small house in the old French quarter of Vientiane. She had reported to Buonaparte and Auguste about the developments in Saigon—things they had already learned from Pierre—the death of Morris, the involvement of Lat, Wallace and Brody in the plot to kill Pierre, and, most important, the depth of their continued support of Francesco Canterina, who was now hiding in the city. But once the business had been concluded she had prodded Sartene, almost demanding to be told the details of Pierre's injuries, suggesting that she remain in Vientiane to care for him. Sartene had declined the offer, explaining that she was needed in Saigon, but inwardly he was pleased by her concern for his grandson.

Sitting in the small living room of the house now, they waited for Pierre to join them. He had slept for the past forty-eight hours, not even waking for nourishment. The Lao physician who had treated him had assured Sartene that what remained of his injuries would heal; that the treatments administered by the Meo had purged his system of infection, and that no aftereffects would occur.

Buonaparte had visited with Pierre when he had awakened that morning, and they had discussed the events in Saigon, the death, the betrayal, the protection of Francesco. Pierre had only nodded, his eyes cold and distant, then he had kissed his grandfather, saying that he would join them downstairs shortly.

Waiting now, Molly glanced from Buonaparte to Auguste to Luc, as she nervously toyed with the cup of Chinese gunpowder tea that rested demurely on her knee. She was dressed in a pale-green
ao dai
that picked up the color of her eyes, electrifying the deep vivid emerald. She looked toward Buonaparte again, but he only smiled and nodded.

“Do you think I should go up and see if there is anything I can do to help him?” she asked.

“It's interesting to see you in the role of the concerned nurse.”

Her head snapped to the doorway with the sound of his voice. Pierre's lips curved up slightly as he looked down at her. For a moment Molly could not speak. Standing there he looked battered and beaten. He had a twelve-day growth of blond beard, but beneath it she could see the insect and scorpion bites, the scratches that were only beginning to scab over. He was wearing chino slacks and a denim shirt rolled up to the elbows, and his forearms also held a labyrinth of cuts and scratches, and he supported himself with a cane. But most striking to her was the weight he had lost. His cheeks were sunken and his body, though still appearing strong and athletic, seemed almost frail to her.

She stood quickly, almost dropping her cup and saucer, her vibrant green eyes alive with the pleasure she felt. Two steps from him she stopped herself and cocked her head to one side.

“The beard suits you,” she said coolly. “So does the loss of weight. Together they make you look almost intelligent.” She could hear Buonaparte's soft laughter behind her, but she kept her face cool and appraising.

“I'm glad to see my recent miseries haven't softened your heart,” Pierre said.

“I knew you'd be all right, Pierre. What is that saying, about the Lord looking after drunks and fools?”

He kept the smile from his lips and limped past her, lightly stroking her arm with one finger. His touch sent a surge of pleasure through her. He seated himself in a high-backed chair across from his grandfather's, as Molly took a standing position behind Buonaparte.

“We shall have to speak one day about the level of respect I receive from some members of your group, Grandpère,” he said. He looked quickly toward Auguste and Luc. “I'm sorry for all the difficulty I caused you,” he added.

“Your grandfather was more trouble than you, Pierre,” Auguste said. “Being here with him was like living with a cranky old woman.”

Pierre broke into a smile for the first time, then looked back at his grandfather. Buonaparte raised his hands, then let them fall helplessly back to his lap. Pierre thought how one day he too would like to experience a friendship like the one that existed between these two old men.

He turned back to Luc and spoke in Lao. “Your people were very good to me, my brother. I will never forget my debt to them.”

Luc's face beamed pride across the room. “They did not do as well as they should have,” Luc said. “You look like hell, Brother Two.”

“Your region of this world is a difficult place,” Pierre said. “I spent many hours wondering at your people's ability to survive it throughout all these centuries. It is even more dangerous than Molly's tongue.” He added the final sentence in English.

“I'm very pleased you weren't able to kill yourself, Pierre,” she said. “It would have been difficult to find someone to replace your quick wit.” She placed her hand on Buonaparte's shoulder. He reached up and covered her hand with his own.

Pierre stared into his grandfather's eyes; a wordless message passed between them. Pierre nodded his agreement.

“Grandpère, there was much I wanted to say to you when I first arrived here,” Pierre said. “I did not, because I decided it was better said when we were all together.” He drew a long breath, then leaned forward in his chair. “As Molly pointed out before I left Saigon, I have been a fool. I chose to ignore your wisdom, but even worse, I failed to trust in your love for me. I am sorry that I showed you so little respect.”

Buonaparte raised his hand. “All men are fools, Pierre. Some continue to be, because they fail to learn from their foolishness.” He smiled at his grandson. “I am pleased you chose this way to tell me your feelings. You will need our help now, and it's better to have this matter removed. What do you plan to do?”

Molly watched Pierre's face. His eyes were calm, yet hard. Piercing. So much like Buonaparte's eyes. She had never noticed how much alike they were in that way, and she wondered now if they always had been, or if this was something new. Pierre leaned back in his chair, waiting before answering his grandfather. Molly sensed there was something false between them, something personal that had not yet been said. She wondered when it would be.

“In two weeks, I'm going back to Saigon,” Pierre answered in Corsican. “First I want to regain my strength, and to use that time to discuss what I plan with you and Uncle Auguste. I need your counsel, Grandpère; I have debts to pay in Saigon. In the meantime I would like your permission to ask a favor of my brother, Luc, and of Molly.”

Buonaparte steepled his fingers in front of his eyes. “You have my permission, of course, Pierre. But these debts. They are things that can be paid without you involving yourself.”

Pierre nodded. “I know, Grandpere. But it would give me pleasure to do it myself. I sent them a message with an ARVN soldier I did not kill. It's a matter of honor to me to carry out the promise I made them.” He watched his grandfather nod his understanding, then turned to Luc, switching languages again, as a sign of respect. “Brother Two, I would like you to come to Saigon with me. I need your skill.”

Luc's grin filled his face. “With pleasure, my brother,” he said.

Pierre turned back to Molly, taking a sheet of notepaper from his shirt pocket. “I have a list of names here, Molly. I would like your man, Po, to have each of them watched closely for the next two weeks. I'll need to know their movements, and their habits. And any new precautions they may have taken.” He handed her the notepaper, then looked back at his grandfather again.

“Grandpère, you once told me of this man, Faydang, who has protected Francesco. Do you have a way of reaching him in the north?”

Buonaparte seemed puzzled by the request, and glanced quickly at Auguste. Auguste shrugged, equally puzzled.

“We do, Pierre,” Sartene said.

“I would like you to send someone to him. I want him to know the details of Cao's death, that it was Francesco who betrayed her. And I want him to know about Francesco's involvement with Brody.”

An expressive snort of laughter came from Auguste. “That is brilliant, Pierre,” he snapped. His eyes flashed to Buonaparte's face, beaming with pride.

Buonaparte caught Auguste's look, and he knew what lay behind the pleasure. It pleased him as well. Perhaps the medallion was secure at last. He looked at Pierre and nodded. “It is very good, Pierre. Francesco will lose the support of the communists, and their protection.”

Pierre's eyes remained hard, impassive. “Unfortunately, there are others willing to protect him. But it's a mistake they won't have a chance to make again. Very soon Francesco will be out of friends, out of surrogates, and he will have to deal with me himself.”

“Francesco will be much more difficult than the others, Pierre,” Auguste interjected. “Francesco will expect you to come. The others may not. And Francesco will be hard to kill, even if he is a pig.”

“Auguste is right,” Buonaparte added. “He will try to choose the time and place. You must make him think he is choosing it, and then spring a trap. Otherwise he will remain hidden. It would also be better to kill him from a distance. He will be very dangerous at close quarters.”

Pierre stared into his grandfather's eyes. “I want him to look into my face when he dies. I want the last voice he hears to be mine.” He looked past his grandfather to Molly. “I'll need one more favor. I'll need a place to stay that no one else knows about. Also clothing.”