The Corsican (61 page)

Brody snorted. “So I come alone to be killed.”

“If you don't come, or if you come in force and are successful, the material will be delivered to the wire service Morris worked for, with an explanation of how and why he died, along with details about your attempt to kill me to protect Francesco Canterina. I think your own people will find you very expendable if this information falls into the wrong hands.”

Brody was silent for several seconds. “You said something about an arrangement.”

“A very simple one,” Pierre said, his voice a near whisper. “You get the material, and people stop looking for me. I've satisfied my vendetta against my military peers who betrayed me. I view you as a technician who just did an unpleasant job.”

“And that's all you want?”

“One thing more. The same as I asked before. The whereabouts of Francesco Canterina.”

“He's disappeared on me,” Brody said.

“But in time you'll find him. You're my only link to him now.”

Brody was silent again. “What time do you want me at the hotel?” he asked at length.

“One hour would do very nicely.”

“You're very cute, Sartene. But I'll be there.”

Pierre replaced the receiver and smiled across the sitting room at Luc.

“Do you think he will come, Brother Two?” Luc asked.

“He has no choice. It's unfortunate we have to do it here, but the embassy and the villa in which he lives are too well guarded. And after learning about Wallace, he would have remained in his hole for a long time.”

“What was all that about Francesco?”

“Just something to make him think he would be of future value to me. Americans always like to think of themselves as necessary. As far as Francesco is concerned, my brother, we won't have to find him. He will find us.”

Pierre placed an arm around Luc's shoulder and walked him into the kitchen. The stainless-steel mixing bowl was on the counter. Inside, the clear liquid reflected the overhead light. Next to the bowl were the bottles containing common household items that had gone into its making.

“I still find it hard to believe this will work,” Luc said.

“It will,” Pierre said. “We used it often during my explosives training. We must paint it on the tile in the foyer now. It will dry almost at once, and it will not be visible to the eye. After it does you must not go near it. When Brody arrives you are to go into the kitchen and remain there. I will be on the terrace and I will step behind one of the French doors.”

“This man Brody may shoot at you from the doorway,” Luc warned.

Pierre smiled at him. “As you once explained to me, the glass in the doors and all the windows is bulletproof.” Pierre glanced at his watch. “Come,” he said. “Philippe will not allow Brody up until it is time, but still we must hurry.”

The desk clerk smiled when Brody asked for Captain Bently's suite, excused himself, and returned a few moments later with Philippe.

“Would you come with me, Mr. Brody?” Philippe said.

They walked to the center of the lobby, where Philippe stopped and turned to face the tall, squarely built American. Brody was wearing a tan cord suit, and already the sweat had begun to seep through the fabric under his arms. Philippe looked at the sweat marks and smiled.

“That is a nice suit, Mr. Brody,” he said. “Is there anything else under your arms except sweat?”

Brody's jaw tightened. Philippe's thin mustache curved slightly upward with his smile, and Brody wished he could grab it and rip it from his face. “If you mean am I armed, the answer is yes.”

Philippe noddded, then motioned behind himself with his head. “There is a large, rather unpleasant-looking man standing in front of the elevator behind me. You are to give him the weapon before you enter. He will return it when you come down.”

“Sartene didn't say anything about a shakedown,” Brody snapped.

“It is my idea, Mr. Brody. Pierre's grandfather would be very upset if anything happened to his grandson. And you would be very dead before you left the hotel. I just want to remove any temptations that might make that necessary.”

Philippe was smiling at him, and Brody could feel himself stiffen with anger. Goddam greaseballs, he told himself. They're worse than the fucking Mafia back home. “Anything you say,” Brody said stiffly, promising himself he would get the sonofabitch someday. Someday soon.

Inside the elevator, Brody removed a small Beretta from an ankle holster. The greaseball wasn't even smart enough to look for a backup gun, he told himself. He jacked a round into the chamber and slipped the pistol into his suitcoat pocket.

The elevator slowed and stopped. The doors opened automatically and he found himself facing a small hallway. Stepping out, he saw there were three doors, one with a suite number on it, a second with a plate identifying it, in French, as a service entrance, and a third, open now, that led to a staircase. Brody moved cautiously toward the main door. As he reached it, the service door opened, and the face of a small square oriental stared at him. Instinctively, Brody turned to face the man, his hand moving into his coat pocket as he did.

“You may go in, Mr. Brody,” Luc said. “Monsieur Sartene is waiting for you on the terrace.”

The service door closed as quickly as it had opened, and Brody found himself alone again, his stomach tightening into a hard knot. The little bastard had you cold, he told himself. If they had wanted to smoke you they would have done it then.

Brody wiped his palms on his trousers, then stepped toward the main door. Unless Sartene wants to do it himself, he thought. Christ, I would if he had tried to set me up that way. He wiped his hands again, then glanced back toward the service door. Still closed. Could go in that way, but it's probably locked. He withdrew the Beretta and pressed his back against the wall, alongside the door, then reached out with his left hand and turned the knob. It opened. Gently, he pushed the door open with the fingers of his left hand, then darted his head into the opening for a quick look before withdrawing it. His mind registered a foyer, a sitting room beyond, and a man standing in the doorway of a terrace.

“Sartene,” Brody called out.

“Come in,” a voice called back. “I promise you no one is going to shoot you.”

Pierre watched as Brody's large frame filled the doorway. He held out his hands. “See,” he said. “No weapons.”

Brody stared across the room. Sartene was standing in the doorway to the terrace, his body filling the one French door that was open. Brody's hand was in his suitcoat pocket holding the Beretta. You could shoot right through the coat and nail him, he told himself. But there could be a half-dozen more of these bastards inside, and how the hell do I get out of here even if there aren't? He ran his tongue over his lips and stared harder at the man across the room. It's Bently all right, he thought. The beard makes him look different, and he's thinner. Probably from the trek through the bush. Must have been hell.

“Sorry, I'm just the cautious type,” Brody said.

Pierre smiled at him. “The cautious live longer. Come in. We'll talk on the terrace. It's cooler out here.”

Pierre watched as Brody stepped into the foyer, his eyes measuring the distance between the painted and unpainted tiles. Two steps, three. Just as Brody's weight moved forward with his fourth step, Pierre slid quickly to his left, stepping behind the closed half of the French doors.

Brody saw the movement, but could not react in time. His left foot came down on the tiles, and the area around him mushroomed with billowing flames, engulfing him.

Pierre watched from behind the glass. Even there he could feel the intensity of the flames, as the jellylike fire coated Brody's body with homemade napalm. Brody seemed to stand motionless for a brief second, then hurtled forward beating his arms at the fire that covered his body. The room echoed with his screams as he stumbled toward Pierre.

Slowly, almost casually, Pierre opened the other French door, stepping easily aside as Brody staggered blindly past him. When he reached the terrace railing, Brody turned and Pierre kicked out with his right foot. The blow caught Brody squarely in the chest, throwing him up and back. His body hurtled over the railing and plunged down into the night like a dying Roman candle.

Pierre walked to the railing and looked over, watching until Brody's body smashed into the ground. Pity, he thought. You would have enjoyed seeing that, Mr. Brody. It would have reminded you of a very patriotic Fourth of July.

Inside the room, Luc had doused the flames with a small fire extinguisher. Pierre walked quickly to his side.

“We must go, my brother. I'm afraid the authorities will want to investigate this little accident.”

Luc shook his head, smiling. “It was amazing,” he said. “What a wonderful weapon.”

Pierre nodded. “I hope Grandpère doesn't mind the scorched walls and carpeting.”

Luc threw his head back and let out a long, high-pitched laugh.

Chapter 42

Molly moved quickly along the sidewalk, the hulking Po at her side. When she reached the small outdoor cafe, she moved lithely between the tables, then stopped at one, leaned down and kissed Auguste on the cheek.

Auguste smiled at her as she slid into the chair across from him. “Ahh, if only I were seventy years younger,” he said.

“You're not too old for me,” Molly said. “And stop making believe you think you are.”

“You did not come alone?” Auguste asked.

“No,” she answered. “Po is on the sidewalk keeping watch.”

Auguste nodded. “Many things have been happening, I see.”

“Yes. Buonaparte's little boy is leaving a trail of refuse behind. Apparently the Americans trained him a bit too well.”

“The Corsican blood helps too,” Auguste said. He waited, smiling across the table at her. “Tell me, will you marry him?”

“I told you I'm saving myself for you.” Molly laughed softly, then leaned forward. “Are you trying to play matchmaker?”

“It would be a good match,” Auguste said.

“Interesting, at least,” Molly said.

Auguste nodded slowly. “You noticed the change in him too,” he said. “I don't mean the violence. Any man can be violent, especially if he's been trained for it. I mean the change in the man himself.”

Molly thought of the other thing she had noticed in Vientiane, an almost imperceptible sense of conflict in Pierre toward Buonaparte. Again she wondered if and when it would surface.

“Yes, I saw it in Vientiane,” she said. “Especially in his eyes. They were stronger, colder really. Except when he spoke of personal things. Then the gentleness that first attracted me to him was still there. It made me think it must have been what Buonaparte was like when he was younger.”

Auguste tapped his hand on the table, his face bright, pleased with her analysis. “In many ways that's true,” he said. “But then, I never knew a man quite like that old fox. If Pierre proves to also have his grandfather's sense of justice, then we will truly have something unique.” Auguste raised a finger of instruction. “But he will need someone strong close to him. Someone who loves him, who can bolster his strength at times when it will weaken.”

“Tell me, Auguste. Who did this for Buonaparte all these years?”

“In the early years, his wife. She was a strong woman. I never met her, but Buonaparte often spoke of her. I think she was much like you. I think that's why Buonaparte feels so strongly toward you, why he trusts you. Later, he had his family, his son's family. There is nothing that keeps a man's strength more firm than the need to care for people he loves.”

Molly reached across the table and covered Auguste's hand with her own. “I don't think Pierre will have difficulty finding that,” she said, smiling. “We'll have to see if he's smart enough to know where to look,” she added.

“He has already looked,” Auguste said. “I am not a smart man. But these things I know.” He removed his hand from beneath hers and withdrew an envelope from his pocket. “Now, I'm afraid, we must get on with the business of Francesco.” He slid the envelope across the table and watched as she placed it in her purse.

From a rooftop across the street, Francesco studied them through field glasses. As Molly rose to leave, he motioned a slender Vietnamese to his side. The man had a jagged scar running across one cheek that looked as though it had come from a very sharp blade.

“You are to follow that woman,” Francesco said. “Have people stay with her if she meets anyone. Then come and tell me at once.”

He turned his attention back to the street. Molly was moving away quickly, Po at her side. Francesco studied the supple movement of the bright-orange
ao dai
she wore, momentarily admiring her. He looked back at the café. Auguste stood to leave, and as he did, two Mua tribesmen seated a few feet away rose also. Buonaparte has his troops in the field, he told himself. But this time he has a weak flank. He will feel a need to protect his grandson, and that will make the young fool easier to find.

Two hours later, Francesco sat in a small sparsely furnished room in Cholon, one of several he had kept in the Saigon area in his constant struggle to stay out of Buonaparte's reach. The small, scarred Vietnamese had arrived moments earlier and now reported on Molly's meeting with two men.

“The woman and the large Korean were waiting outside the cathedral. In about five minutes a car stopped next to them. The woman got in the back with a European; the Korean, in front, with the driver. I think the driver was Lao, but it was hard to tell. The woman gave the man in the back seat an envelope.”

“What did the man in the back seat look like? The European?” Francesco prodded.

“He had hair like straw. What you call blond.” The Vietnamese badly mangled the word. “And a beard, the same color.”