The Corsican (19 page)

Bently laughed. “It's hard for men to admit they made a mistake. Fathers, I mean. I think they're afraid to let us know they're fallible. I think it's probably even harder if you're in business with them. I guess that's why I'm resisting going back.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Jean said. “But maybe you're right. Still, it's hard for me to think of my father that way. He dominates everyone. Even my son. Already, I think, he's closer to Pierre than I am. But that's not intentional. He just wants the best for him, and he thinks he knows best how to provide it.” His face warmed again. “Anyway, how can you stop a grandfather? And it's good for him to have a small child to give his affection to, don't you think?”

Jean's voice seemed slightly rueful to Bently. “Yeah. I was closer to my grandfather than I ever was to my father. Maybe that's just the way things are when you have a successful father. Who the hell knows? Besides, I never had a kid, so how could I tell?”

“Why didn't you ever marry?” Jean asked. “You're older than I am, and Americans always seem to marry younger than Europeans.”

“Afraid, I guess.” He winked at Jean. “No, not really. I suppose I was just too busy playing the field, having a good time after college, and always looking for the one, special, untouched woman. But never really wanting to find her. Then it was the war. God and country and all that crap. And now this.”

Jean held his palms together, rubbing his hands back and forth. “I want to ask you something,” he said. “It's something that bothers me about this opium thing we're involved in. I know it's on my father's mind too.”

“Shoot,” Bently said.

“We both know that a lot of this opium is going to find its way out of here and end up in heroin factories in Europe.”

Bently nodded.

“The biggest market for that heroin is going to be in the richest countries. England, France, and especially your country. It's going to be like a plague, because the more that's produced, the more that's going to be sold. That's business. Now I know, as my father says, that you can't stop fools from destroying themselves. But if I thought that children in my village in Corsica would be destroying themselves that way, I wouldn't touch this thing. Fortunately they're too poor. But they're not too poor in your country. I don't understand why your government wants to do this. It's like raising a poisonous snake for a pet, even though you know that sooner or later it's going to bite you.”

“I asked some of those same questions myself,” Bently said. “My government is communist-crazy right now. And this is one way to keep the communists under control, keep them from gobbling up countries they want to control. At least I think that's the reason. I hope to Christ it is.” He drew a breath and let the air out slowly. “They tossed a lot of statistics at me when I raised the question. Apparently the addict problem in the States was practically wiped out by the war. The shit just couldn't get in. Shipping it over was almost impossible, and border patrols were really tight for the first time in our history. So most of the addicts were forced into involuntary withdrawal. Right now they estimate we have less than twenty thousand addicts in the country. Back in 1924, when Congress outlawed heroin, there were over two hundred thousand. I guess they feel they've got the problem licked and can keep it that way. Either that, or they're not thinking at all, or they don't give a damn. I don't know which would be worse.”

“There's a lot of money in heroin,” Jean said, letting the accusation remain unspoken.

“I hope that's not it. But who the hell knows? They make the decisions. I just carry them out.” Bently grunted at himself. “Sounds like what all those Krauts were saying over in Nuremberg, doesn't it?”

Jean did not answer.

“Anyway, if you're right, and it does happen, there are going to be a lot of people who ought to find it hard to sleep in their old age. Myself included. What does your father think? Doesn't he worry about the effect?”

Jean shrugged. “He draws very fine lines for himself. He's a very moral man, in his own way. I know most people think of us as criminals, and maybe we are. But we think, my father thinks, only about providing for our families. And like most men, we want to provide many things. As much as we can get. Corsicans never had many chances to do that in Corsica. The French controlled everything, and they made laws that suited
them
. But they weren't laws that protected us, helped us, so we ignored them. We made our own laws. Better in some cases. Fairer anyway, to us. My father knows he can't control the world, all the evil in it.” Jean paused and smiled. “He'd like to, but he can't. So he does what he has to do to earn his bread. If powerful governments tell him they want this thing, he gives it to them. At a price. You think that's any different from the man who manufactures weapons? He knows they won't all be used for target practice and parades, just like we know all the opium won't be turned into morphine for hospitals. Tell me. If we didn't accept your offer, what would you have done?”

“Probably have gone to Carbone and persuaded him to do it our way,” Bently said.

Jean nodded his head. “I like you, Matt. You're an honest man.”

“An honest dope dealer.” He smiled at Sartene. “I like you too, Jean.”

Chapter 11

L
AOS,
1952

The room was small and plainly furnished, located next to his father's large, paneled study, but Jean found it a comfortable place to work. The confined space seemed to help him concentrate, keeping distractions to a minimum. The room had originally been intended to house his father's collection of toy soldiers, but at Jean's request, Buonaparte Sartene had moved the antique miniatures to his study, where, his son had teased, he could play with his toys with greater secrecy.

During the preceding six years, opium production in the north had increased to thirty tons a year, and the elder Sartene had relinquished more and more control to his son. With Auguste's help, Jean had established a varied and complex transportation network, which included massive air shipments to Saigon with transshipment to Marseille by sea. Smaller quantities were moved by caravan to Bangkok for delivery in Paris by air, usually in diplomatic pouches. Opium kept exclusively for the Sartene
milieu
—some five tons a year—was shipped directly to business associates in Hong Kong, where the family firm, Southeast Asian Rubber, was a darling of British banking interests.

Jean had assumed the role of business executive with surprising ease and had grown in confidence with each year. He had learned to fly and regularly used his small single-engine war-surplus scout plane, obtained with the help of Matt Bently, to personally keep track of production and transportation problems, and to keep tight rein on the Meo.

There had been sporadic attempts by Faydang to reassert his influence, through the formation of the Meo Resistance League, which sought to recruit tribesmen by promising to abolish the opium taxes administered by Lyfoung. But each attempt had failed, and Faydang was forced to remain in Viet Nam, where he and his men sought refuge with the Viet Minh.

There had also been trouble with Carbone in 1948, but that too was quickly resolved when his personal automobile exploded in the driveway of his home. The car had not been occupied. It had been intended as a warning from Buonaparte Sartene, and within weeks Carbone had traveled to Vientiane to meet with Sartene and resolve their difficulties. The resolution, as dictated by Sartene, had been simple. The Sartene
milieu
would not involve itself in opium production in the Tonkin region of northern Viet Nam, and Carbone would do the same as far as Laos, Burma and Thailand were concerned. It had left Carbone with little more than a saving of face and the guarantee that he would live to a ripe old age.

The money Carbone could derive from opium production in northern Viet Nam was minimal, and offered no threat to Sartene dominance. Following the war the French had made White Tai chieftains their opium brokers in northern Viet Nam, and Carbone was forced to deal through them. The Tais regularly cheated the Meo opium growers of that region, vastly underpaying them and forcing them into a close bond with the Viet Minh. To increase his own part in the opium trade, Carbone would have to subvert the Tais and deal with the Viet Minh, and this was impossible from Saigon, where French surveillance was intense. It could be done from Laos, where government controls were minimal, but that option had been cleverly closed off by Sartene. Carbone, in effect, had been left the crumbs, while Buonaparte Sartene enjoyed the feast.

The six years had also been kind to Jean Sartene in other ways. He had grown closer to his son, who was now twelve. And his friendship with Matt Bently had also grown. Together they hunted in the jungle for wild boar and barking deer. In the delta plains, Bently introduced him to the American passion for wing shooting, and the kitchen of the Sartene household was always stocked with jungle peacock, pheasant, partridge and quail.

Jean's relationship with his wife had also developed, and although she disliked his constant travel, she was pleased by the dwindling domination of the older Sartene. Jean had become his own man, and although Buonaparte was still the unquestioned leader of the
milieu
, Jean now consulted him more out of respect than need.

It was because of this that Madeleine felt secure in broaching the subject of their son's education. Pierre had first been sent to a colonial school in Vientiane. His Corsican heritage had become the subject of cruel jokes by the French children there, and the family had decided to spare him that indignity and have him tutored at home. But the time was coming when private tutoring would not suffice. There were other reasons as well. The child had repeatedly asked to travel with his father, and his naive interest in the family business had greatly concerned Madeleine. Also, she wanted him away from the influence of his grandfather.

It was with this in mind that she entered her husband's study one evening, in one of her rare interruptions of his work.

“I have been talking with Pierre's teacher,” she said, taking an upholstered chair opposite his desk.

“Is he having problems?” Jean asked.

Jean was in his mid-thirties now and his hair had begun to gray at the temples, and together with his growing self-confidence, it had given his face a gentler, softer appearance.

She smiled, pleased with his concern. “No. But soon there will be. He's already far advanced of other children his age, and his studies should be at the level of a good secondary school. A tutor can't really do that, Jean, and I don't want to subject him to the cruelty of the
lycées
in Vientiane or Saigon.”

Jean's brow furrowed; he leaned forward. “What are you proposing, then? It certainly wouldn't be any better in France.”

“I was thinking of England, or perhaps even the United States. I spoke to Monsieur Bently this afternoon. He went to university at a place called Stanford in California, and he said there are some very good boarding schools near there.” She had rushed on, seeing the pain in her husband's face as her words assaulted him.

“Jesus, Madeleine. We'd never see the boy.” His mind flashed to his own youth, the absence of his father in years when he desperately needed him. He shook his head. “God has seen fit to give us only one child, and now you're talking about sending him away.”

“I'm only thinking about what's best for him.” She paused, deciding whether to be completely candid. “I want more for him than all this. I want him to grow up to be a doctor or a lawyer, anything but …” The look on his face stopped her.

“You mean you don't want your son to grow up to be a Corsican gangster like his father and grandfather,” he said. His voice was rasping and cold, and his eyes seemed hooded and distant.

“Jean, you know I don't judge you or your father. I understand that you were both limited in what you could do. But Pierre isn't limited. Do you really want him living a life where a man like Carbone might decide to kill him someday? Or to deal every day of his life with men like Francesco?” She watched the anger drain from his face.

“I don't want to lose my son, either. I don't want him to grow up without a father. A boy needs that. He needs a mother too.” He added the latter almost as an afterthought.

“We could all go,” she said.

“Leave here? My God, Madeleine. How could we do that? We couldn't just abandon my father after all he's done for us.”

“Jean, he could come with us. We've more than enough money. There's no need to stay. Auguste could handle matters, or even Francesco.” She saw the reaction to Francesco's name and immediately regretted including it in her argument. “Certainly Auguste would be the one your father would want,” she added quickly.

“He would never leave.” Jean's voice was abrupt, almost curt. “He didn't create this thing we have so he could retire like some
padrone
. He's said so many times. A man builds for his family, and he doesn't abandon what he's built.” He leaned forward again, his voice becoming softer. “Besides, there are still problems. And I couldn't just leave him while they still exist. Let me think about it, Madeleine. I know much of what you're saying is right, but it's all too sudden.” He smiled at her. “Give me a little time.”

“Of course, my darling,” she said.

In bed that night, he held her close to him, her head resting against his chest. She was breathing softly, but he could tell she was still awake.

“There's going to be a meeting here in a few days,” he whispered. “Lyfoung and some others will be here for dinner, and afterward we will discuss the business problems I mentioned to you. If we can find a way to resolve them permanently, then maybe we can talk to Papa about this thing with Pierre.”