The Corsican (22 page)

“So what does that mean, except more riches for Buonaparte?” Carbone said. “And if he gets rich, you get rich.”

Francesco shook his head, his handsome face twisting with anger. “This is what Buonaparte thinks. And it's why his time is over. The Viet Minh use the opium from the north to finance their revolution. The French, even though they claim they're trying to abolish opium from the region, use it to keep their control, to finance their army and their mercenaries. But the French can draw from all Southeast Asia. The Viet Minh know they have to do that as well. Already they've joined with the Pathet Lao, and they're getting ready to move against the Meo in Xieng Khouang. After that they'll move into Thailand and Burma. Just enough to control the opium. That's all that's needed.”

“Buonaparte will never let them,” Carbone said.

“No, he won't.” Francesco leaned forward, emphasizing the intimacy again. “But in time it will happen anyway. This is what Buonaparte doesn't understand. But the Viet Minh want it now, and they know if they can't succeed in Laos, they can't go beyond it. There would be no supply lines. Right now the French are spread too thin to do it themselves. They have to rely on Buonaparte to keep the area secure. But what if Buonaparte didn't exist? What if he and his son were to meet with an accident?” He paused for effect. “An accident arranged from within his own group. Then the Viet Minh would succeed. And they would owe an obligation to the men who helped them. Even today, the generals and politicians here in the south buy opium from the Viet Minh to feather their nests; the French know it, and they know they have to let them buy it to keep their loyalty. You know it too. Your people buy what you can from the Viet Minh. But if the Viet Minh succeed, they would deal only with you, and the others would have to buy from you. And the Viet Minh would control all the opium, or nearly all. And then everyone would have to buy from you.”

“The French would never allow it,” Carbone objected. “They watch us like eagles. I'd be thrown out of the country, or worse, if I dealt with the Viet Minh that openly.”

“Here in Saigon, yes,” Francesco said. “But in Laos the French have less control. And I would be in Laos. And we would be partners.” He looked hard into Carbone's eyes. “Equal partners.”

Carbone squeezed the flesh of his double chin, massaging it with his fingers. “Why doesn't Buonaparte deal with the Viet Minh? He could handle this as well as we could.”

Francesco smiled at Carbone's use of the word “we.” He wants to stay in this godforsaken country. “He wants to build his dynasty and pass it on to his son and his son's son. He thinks of himself as some emperor.” He laughed. “Like his namesake.”

Carbone joined Francesco's laughter, pleased with the derision.

“Buonaparte thinks if he deals with these people, these communists, they will win, and he'll be thrown out, forced to leave as a rich man. I don't care about that, any more than the generals and the politicians here in the south care. Any more than I think you care. Besides, years ago Buonaparte attacked a Meo leader named Lo Faydang, the man the Viet Minh will use to lead the attack in Laos. And Lo Faydang would rather deal with someone else. He has been trying to regain his position with the Meo for years. Now the Viet Minh are supporting him as part of their latest offensive against the French.”

An image of the slender aesthetic Meo leader flashed through Carbone's mind. He had seen his picture among wanted posters issued by the French, along with warnings that, like other Viet Minh, he often moved freely through the south. “But you think he'd deal with you,” Carbone said.

“Yes,” Francesco said.

Carbone shrugged, accepting the statement while expressing his doubt. “How would you arrange these accidents you spoke about?” he asked.

“Years ago, when Buonaparte drove Faydang from the region, he warned him he would die if he returned. Now he will have to make good his threat, and he'll send his son to do that. I'll make sure I'm with him. I'll also make sure he never comes back.”

Carbone laughed. “Buonaparte will spend the rest of his life looking for you, if you do that,” he said.

Francesco shook his head. “Only if he's alive,” he said. “I have some men loyal to me within our group. The same day, at the same hour as his son dies, so will he.” He raised his hand and hurried on. “They'll do this, but only if they're assured I have your support. If you have men there with them to prove that support. Otherwise their fear of Buonaparte may make them wait. And that would be very dangerous.”

Carbone folded his hands across his stomach and began tapping his thumbs together. “It's a nice story, my young friend. But it's only a story. To believe it, I would have to believe you have contacts among the Viet Minh that no white man has.” He shrugged, dismissing the idea, and leaned forward, preparing to lift his bulk from the chair.

“Before you go, there's someone I'd like you to meet.” Francesco rose and walked to a door leading to a bedroom.

Carbone froze. Despite his security precautions, someone else had been present. The words he had spoken raced through his mind as he searched for anything he had said that would now be used against him. He thought of running for the door, for his own men. But he knew it would be useless. If there was someone in the bedroom, his men would have been taken by now.

Francesco opened the door and stepped aside, allowing the slender oriental to pass. Carbone's mouth formed a circle, then changed into a smile. He stood and bowed his head to Lo Faydang.

Chapter 14

Pierre struggled to hide his fascination with the dinner guests, but his eyes kept returning to the three oriental men. His grandfather had told him never to appear in awe of another man, warning it was something that would be exploited. But he couldn't help himself, and he doubted if these strange men from the north would bother exploiting a twelve-year-old boy.

They were seated in the massive dining room, which his mother had furnished. He knew his grandfather did not particularly like the room. The ornate Louis Quatorze furnishings were not to his taste, and even though he had built the large, sprawling house, Pierre knew he would have furnished it simply. He disliked displays of wealth; Pierre had heard him say so many times. But his mother had been allowed to choose the furnishings and, according to his father, had gone mad with her love of beautiful things.

Throughout the house the walls were lined with paintings by French and Dutch impressionists, mingling with intricate tapestries, each seeming to compete with delicate oriental vases and jade sculptures. Rich oriental carpets, imported from Iran, graced the highly polished teak floors, and each room had a mantel of Italian marble, decorating fireplaces that were never used. She had told his grandfather she was seeking an eclectic beauty, but Sartene had told Pierre later that his mother simply needed something that reminded her of home. So he indulged her. Outside of his study, the only mark he had placed on the house was in the dining room, a portrait of Napoleon that hung opposite his place at the table.

Pierre recalled now how his mother had tried to talk him out of it, claiming it struck a note of disharmony among the paintings by Manet, Degas and Monet that surrounded it. His grandfather had only smiled and told her that Napoleon had always been considered out of place during his lifetime but that he could never be so in the home of a Corsican.

His mind had been wandering; he had been thinking about the house, and he had not heard the question directed at him in French.

“Excuse me, I didn't hear what you said.” The boy's face took on a touch of pink.

Colonel Deo Van Khoun smiled and repeated the question, asking how many languages Pierre spoke.

“Well, I speak Corsican, of course,” Pierre said. “And English, French and Lao. But my Lao isn't as good as it should be. Sometimes I mix up the words and make people laugh.”

The colonel laughed now, a high-pitched laugh that seemed more appropriate for a woman. “It's a difficult language,” Deo said. “It has a little Thai mixed in, some Chinese, and of course some Meo.” With the last linguistic ingredient he gestured with his hand toward the end of the table, where Touby Lyfoung sat opposite his mother. “Fortunately, we all speak French in Laos. Otherwise we would have to use sign language with each other,” Deo added, giggling again.

“Fortunate for you,” Matt Bently said. “My French often runs into the same problems as Pierre's Lao. I once gave an order for some Lao troops to advance, and they all put down their weapons and took off their shirts.”

Everyone laughed. Pierre could not see Bently. He was seated opposite Touby Lyfoung, to his mother's right, the same side of the table the boy occupied. But he was grateful for the remark. Bently always had a way of making the boy feel at ease.

“I often had the same difficulty during the war, dealing with Americans,” Buonaparte Sartene said. “I learned English as a boy, working on the docks in Corsica and Marseille. But the Americans we met during the war were always talking about seeing the big picture, and worrying about the cookie jar being empty. You remember, don't you, Auguste?”

Pierre followed his grandfather's gaze down the table to where Auguste sat. Auguste smiled and touched his chest with one finger.

“I remember well, Buonaparte,” Auguste said. “But I never understood what they were talking about.” He gestured with his head across the table, toward Francesco Canterina. “Francesco understood them. He learned it listening to the songs on the radio.”

“The Andrews Sisters taught me everything,” Francesco said.

Buonaparte shook his finger. “Just like you, Francesco. You learn everything from women.”

“We all learn from women,” Jean Sartene said.

Pierre looked across the table at his father. He was seated between Deo and Lyfoung, and his size seemed to dwarf both men. When Pierre had been introduced to the two men earlier, he had been surprised to find that at five feet seven inches, he was an inch taller than they. He was taller than most of the Mua, but somehow he had expected the two colonels to be larger, more like Bently, who was also a colonel.

Colonel Deo reminded him of a snake somehow, even in his Royal Laotian Army uniform, the left breast of which was covered with a rainbow of ribbons. He was a slender, delicate-looking man, with hooded eyes and high cheekbones and a flat nose that seemed to grow out of his black mustache. It was his long neck, Pierre thought. Or maybe the white silk scarf that protruded from his tunic, like the belly of a cobra when it reared to strike.

Colonel Lyfoung was different, funny even, he told himself. Like a big ball, even in his uniform, which had actual medals hanging from its tunic, not just ribbons. The third oriental, the Meo who stood behind Touby's chair, was supposed to be his aide, but his father had told him he was really Touby's bodyguard. He was the most fascinating of all, but he had not been introduced to anyone, which Pierre had thought rude.

The aide/bodyguard was dressed in the black pajama suit the Meo always wore. But his was elaborately decorated with red and gold embroidery, and from the gold sash around his waist a long sheathed knife hung. When he had been introduced to Touby, Pierre had stared at the knife and Lyfoung had ordered the man to show it to him. To Pierre's shock the man had cut the heel of his hand before returning it to the sheath.

“It is a Meo custom,” Touby had explained. “Once a knife is drawn, it must always be bloodied before it is returned.”

Pierre had stared at the aide's hand, noting the many scars that marked it, and he had decided that the Ly clan spent much of their time carving themselves up. He had also decided to ask Luc about it. He had never seen the Mua do anything like it.

Almost as though he had felt Pierre's thoughts, Touby suddenly turned and grinned at him. “What year were you born?” he asked.

“Nineteen forty, sir,” Pierre said.

Touby nodded, still grinning, then turned his gaze toward Sartene. “A child of the Dragon,” he said. “Someday he will rule here as kaitong.”

“Only if he proves worthy,” Sartene said, tossing a glance of mock seriousness at the boy. “He does well in most things. He is very good at catching lizards and snakes, right now,” Sartene said, watching the boy's face turn scarlet.

“Do you eat them?” Colonel Deo asked.

“No, sir,” Pierre said, praying silently that his grandfather would not elaborate on the story.

The colonel continued, saving him. “The Meo are very fond of these delicacies,” he said. “It comes, I think, from the years their ancestors spent in China. Our Tai food is similar to theirs, only not as spicy.”

“You need spicy food in a hot climate,” Lyfoung interjected. “It helps you perspire, and keeps the body clean of evil spirits.” He grinned, watching the boy's eyes widen. “There are many evil spirits in the mountains,” he added.

“And most of them are Phou-Keo,” Deo added, using the Lao term of contempt for the Vietnamese.

When the meal ended, Madeleine excused herself and Pierre, leaving the men to discuss business over brandy. Pierre had hoped he would be allowed to remain with the men; he had hoped his mother would relent this one time. He had been pleased by Lyfoung's reference to him as a future kaitong. He knew the Mua called his grandfather kaitong among themselves, and the idea that he would one day be like his grandfather pleased him. The only thing he didn't like about the term was that it meant “little king.” He saw no reason for the word “little.”

When the servant who poured the brandy had left, Sartene gestured to Colonel Deo. As scion to the feudal Black Tai chieftains, and as a field officer in the regular Lao army, he outranked Touby, and was entitled to the courtesy of explaining the difficulties in the north.

Deo leaned back in his chair, swirling his brandy glass in one hand, his hooded eyes fixed on the tablecloth. “We have learned that General Vo Nguyen Giap is massing his Viet Minh force near Dien Bien Phu to the north,” he said. “The peasants there tell us he plans to move against the area by your Christmas. It is not well defended and it will fall if he does.”