The Corsican (63 page)

To the right of his own fragmented image, a face and shoulder appeared, then disappeared. Francesco spun to his right, then his left. No one.

“Interesting, isn't it?” The voice spoke in the Corsican dialect of his birth, seeming to come from everywhere.

Francesco spun in a circle, sure from the sound that Pierre was behind him. Again nothing.

“Where are you, Pierre?” Francesco's voice almost cracked with the strain.

“Within the labyrinth, waiting for you.” Pierre's voice was almost a whisper, and it seemed to swirl about the small sitting room. It was everywhere and nowhere.

Francesco forced himself to laugh. “And you expect me to come and find you?”

“It's the only way out, Francesco. On the other side there is an unlocked door.”

“I don't believe you.” The strain was clear now, the voice cracking with the pressure he felt. “Why don't you come to me? I only have the knife.” He withdrew the stiletto from his pocket and opened the double-edged blade.

“But I have no weapon, Francesco. Only the labyrinth, and the knowledge of how to pass through it.” A portion of Pierre's face appeared in the mirror and disappeared again. He laughed softly. “Of course I am very capable of killing you with my hands. That is the way I prefer to kill you, Francesco. You could not face my father when you killed him, nor my stepfather when you attempted the same. And you certainly have struggled to avoid facing my grandfather. But now you must face me, if you hope to live. You see, I want to smell your fear when you die. I want to see it in your eyes. I could have had your men bring you to me days ago. But I was afraid you might resist and force them to kill you. It would have denied
me
that pleasure.”

Pierre's image appeared almost whole in the mirrors, then broke apart and faded into fragments before disappearing again. Francesco jumped back instinctively, the knife tight in his hand. Pierre's laughter swirled around him. Francesco's breath came in rapid gasps; the sweat dripped from his face, and he felt bile rising in his throat. He struggled to control it.

“No. You come to me, little Pierre.” Francesco heard his voice break as he shouted the words.

“I'm afraid this game is mine, Francesco.” Pierre's voice was soft, swirling about the room in a gentle whisper. “Do you remember the story of the men who murdered my grandfather's sister? Do you remember how he killed the last one? I'm sure you do. It was a well-known story, one the Guerinis like to tell. Almost a legend among Corsicans, I'm told.”

“I've heard it,” Francesco rasped.

“Well, I'm afraid that's the death that awaits you if you choose not to cross the labyrinth. You see, I very much want our little meeting to take place. I want you very close to me when you die, very close.”

Francesco's back was pressed against the door. He felt his legs trembling as he stepped forward, his breath short, his body now drenched in his own sweat. He waved the knife before him as he moved, body in a slight crouch, eyes waiting for any sign of movement. He paused before the entrance of the labyrinth. Inside, the floor and ceiling were mirrored as well. He reached out and rested his fingers on the first wall. Everywhere portions of his image reflected back. The walls were set at angles, each reflecting parts of his image, throwing them back upon each other until they seemed to fade into infinity. With each step, each movement, the images changed, becoming kaleidoscopic, the fragments breaking away from each other, then coming back together.

“No more conversation now, Francesco.”

Pierre's voice seemed to come from behind him. He spun, his back smashing into the mirrored wall. He turned again, then spun back. Already the entrance to the labyrinth had disappeared.

He reached out, allowing his fingers to play on the wall to his right. To his left, part of Pierre's face and body flashed into view. Francesco slashed out with the knife, the blade striking the mirrored wall and falling from his sweating hand. He dropped down. The knife was reflected by the walls and the floor, but each time he reached for it there was nothing. A cry rose in his throat and died there. Frantically his hands raced along the mirrored floor. Then he had the knife again. He waved it in front of his body, turning slowly, the mirrors picking up on the flash of the blade, sending out streams of light that played back against each other. He stood, pressing his back against one wall. “Come, you bastard,” he growled, his voice like the frightened howl of a cornered animal.

No sound came back. Slowly, he began to inch his way along the wall again, the movement stopped by another wall that sent him off again at an oblique angle. He reached out feeling with his fingers, letting them crawl ahead of him like a spider exploring uncertain ground. The fingers felt a corner where the mirrored wall cut back again. He could not see it; the repeated reflections made it invisible. Back against the wall, he felt around the corner with his hand, reaching into the unseen opening. A hand grasped his wrist, then released it. Francesco pulled back his hand and cried out. He spun away, slammed into another wall, and spun again, wildly slashing with the knife. He crashed to a halt, his back in a mirrored corner. Pierre's face came partially into view to his left; he slashed out again, this time striking something soft, something human. A gasp of pain followed the blow, and the now fragmented image of Pierre sagged slightly on his right, only inches away. Francesco brought his elbow up, again striking soft flesh. He threw his body forward, hitting another wall and spinning away, slipping, falling, then rising again and lurching ahead. Again he stumbled and fell, rolled forward and came to his knees.

His eyes widened. He was in another antechamber, different from the first. The furniture was different, the porcelain figure on the table replaced now with a slender vase. He pushed himself up and ran to the door, grabbing the doorknob, twisting it and pulling with all his weight. It would not move. It was locked. He spun around back against the door. Pierre stepped from the labyrinth, blood streaming down his arm from a slash in his shoulder.

“You lied,” Francesco screamed. “You lied.”

Pierre smiled at him. “Of course,” he said.

Francesco jumped forward, bringing the knife across his body in a downward, slashing motion. Pierre moved easily to his left, blocking the attack and guiding the knife away with a deflecting strike of his closed left hand. Francesco stumbled toward him. Pierre struck with the heel of his right hand, an upward, driving blow that struck Francesco on the chin, then continued up, splitting the upper lip and smashing the teeth, continuing on, crushing against the nasal cartilage and bone.

Francesco staggered backward, the knife falling from his hand. Pierre moved with him in a fluid, flexible flow.

“Remember my father, and how he lay there and died for hours,” he breathed.

Pierre's right hand continued its smooth flow as he spoke, moving in a rapid circular motion, then down, his hand forming a claw, ripping across Francesco's eyes.

“Remember Matthew Bently and Benito Pavlovi,” he whispered.

Pierre slid to his left, turned, the left palm slamming into the side of Francesco's head, then continuing in the same circular motion before ripping down across his eyes again.

Blood streamed from Francesco's mouth, nose and eyes. He gasped for breath.

“And Lin and Morris,” Pierre whispered.

The right hand flew out in a short, thrusting, open hook to Francesco's throat, then continued as he gagged for air, moving in the same flowing circle, then up and under in an open-hand slap to the groin. Francesco buckled forward as Pierre's hand closed over his testicles, pulling up and away.

“And for the Sartene family.” Pierre's words were drowned out by Francesco's scream, echoing and bouncing off the walls, the sound, like the images within the labyrinth, fragmented and broken.

Francesco fell and Pierre took his wrist, twisting the arm against the movement of the fall, snapping it at the shoulder joint. Again Francesco's screams filled the room, as Pierre's right fist struck down, breaking the arm at the elbow.

Francesco slumped to the floor, still on his knees, his face pressed against the tile, blood flowing freely from every orifice. Pierre stood over him. The fighting technique he had just executed was called the
kata dan'te
, the dance of death, by the Japanese masters. There were several more moves to follow, inflicting still more pain and punishment.

Pierre stared down at the bleeding pulp of a man who had been the murderer of his father. “You bore me, Francesco,” he whispered.

Reaching down, he took Francesco by the hair, ripping his head back and snapping it to one side. His neck broke with the sound of dry kindling. Pierre released him, allowing his lifeless body to flop to the ground. Weariness filled Pierre's body, and the pain he had not felt as they fought throbbed in his wounded shoulder. He staggered forward and slapped his hand against the locked door.

The door opened. Molly stood there, pale and frightened. Behind her stood Buonaparte Sartene.

Pierre stared at them for a moment, his mind needing time to accept their presence. “What had to be done here is finished,” he whispered.

Pierre stepped toward his grandfather. Buonaparte studied his face, his eyes. They would talk soon, he knew. And he saw now, in Pierre's eyes, that the conversation would not be what he had hoped for over all the years.

Chapter 43

V
IENTIANE,
A
PRIL
1967

Buonaparte Sartene's bed had been placed in front of a large open window overlooking his Japanese garden. As he lay there now his breathing was slow, his mind contemplative. It was a pleasant evening, one of many in recent weeks. The pond at the garden's center shimmered peacefully with the day's dying light, and at its edges the water hyacinth and lotus blossoms sent out soft, subtle fragrances that seemed to blend into one pleasing scent. Buonaparte looked down at the garden, regretting for a moment that he would not live to see it reach perfection. But perfection in these gardens, as in so much else, he knew, took generations to achieve. The others would all leave this place soon. He understood that. The war would be lost, and with it his garden. Reclaimed by the forest it once had replaced. Perhaps that was the proper order of things after all. All things evolve, often returning to what they were.

He watched a large insect skim across the top of the pond, oblivious, like so much of the world, to what he had struggled for all his life. He shook his head weakly at the thought, then turned to the sound of soft steps coming across the room.

Auguste walked slowly toward him, his creased, wizened face showing the hint of a smile. Buonaparte watched him come. Auguste still moved spryly, and Buonaparte thought he always would, until the day God claimed him.

“Why are you grinning like an old fool?” he said as Auguste drew near.

Auguste stopped before him. “It's seeing you this way,” he said. “Lying there, looking out at your fancy garden like some
padrone
. I still remember you killing rats in a French prison. I think it suited you better.”

Buonaparte shook his head in mock exasperation, until he was no longer able to keep the smile from forming on his lips. “How did it go, old friend?” he asked.

“The Americans are learning,” Auguste said. “This chargé d'affaires, Christopher, sees our position clearly. He agrees that certain papers will be issued, stating that an army captain, Peter Bently, was killed in action.” Auguste chuckled softly. “He even gets a medal. It's something they do automatically.”

“And the documents?” Buonaparte asked.

“They remain in our care. The Americans understand that copies will be with our friends in various parts of the world, and will be released if any future actions are taken against Pierre. For Pierre's part, he must take no more actions against their people in this region. ‘Forgive and forget,' I think, was the term this man Christopher used. He also gave some recent news from the United States. It was about the accidental deaths of three retired military officers who served here in Viet Nam. Mr. Christopher said he and his associates were not concerned about that.”

Buonaparte nodded his head. “The Americans greatly dislike failure. But at least now Pierre is safe.” He turned his head and looked out at the garden again.

Auguste hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed. His friend's face was gray, and there were dark circles under his eyes, and the skin sagged against his cheekbones. Only the eyes were strong now. The doctor had said it would only be a matter of weeks, even days perhaps. His heart was just too weak.

“There was a letter from Pierre,” Auguste finally said. “I opened it because I wanted to be sure it was nothing that would upset you.”

Sartene turned back to Auguste. “You open my mail now.” His voice was little more than a whisper, but the trace of the humor they had used with each other over the years was still there.

Auguste reached out and stroked his cheek.

Sartene's eyes softened as he looked up at his friend. “What does it say?” he asked. “I am not so weak that his words will kill me.”

Buonaparte turned his head away. His voice was weak, and the words came slowly. “You know, I don't apologize for the way I lived my life. I lived it the way I had to live it. But there were mistakes too. And men always have to pay for their mistakes.” He paused, catching his breath. “You remember how I once told you that no man can change history, but that he could choose not to be a part of something that was wrong?”

Auguste nodded his head. “I remember,” he said.

“Pierre remembered also. And he was right to remember. He will not make the mistakes I made.” Buonaparte looked out at the garden again. The sun was almost down now, and the pond reflected its dying light. “I was thinking of Papa Guerini before you came in,” he said. “When I was very young he told me that every man lives within his own circle, and in that circle he finds the paths he can follow.” He paused again, almost as though he had forgotten his next thought, then continued. “But when he goes outside that circle he is lost. For a time I was outside my circle, Auguste. And because of it I lost Jean, and now Pierre.”