The Corsican (29 page)

Pierre sat back and stared up at him. His face was confused, concerned. “But how do you know?”

Sartene took his face in his hands. “Have I ever lied to you, Pierre?” He watched as the boy shook his head. Buonaparte nodded his head abruptly. “Then I tell you it will not happen. I will not allow it. You have my word as a Corsican.”

Chapter 17

The villa was small, and the garden was overgrown and neglected. The faded old house was located on the edge of Hanoi, in a part of the city not often visited by Europeans. For Antonio Carbone it had been a refuge for three months now, guarded by his own men; he had even refused offers by Faydang and Francesco Canterina for additional protection.

He had met Canterina only once during those months. He had asked then that they not meet again. He did not want to chance any breach in security that would allow Buonaparte Sartene to find him. And Francesco was hiding too. Deep in the hills.

They were everywhere now, looking for him. He could not even touch his money in Hong Kong. All he had was the gold he had taken with him. The gold and the few men who had not fled in fear. His only hope was to get Buonaparte before Buonaparte got him. Then he could seek peace with the others, and they couldn't refuse him. He had the right to survive; no one in the
milieu
could deny him that. Not even the Guerini brothers. Sartene was not their blood, even though they treated him as such.

But how? Carbone paced the large sitting room of the villa, trying to find some answer. The ceilings and walls of the room were cracked from lack of care. A hole to hide in, he told himself. Like a mouse hiding from a cat that waited outside.

He had lost weight over the months. His pants were loose around his waist and, like all his clothes, were baggy and rumpled. Can't even send my clothes out to be cleaned, he told himself. Because they'll be watching even for that.

There was a small Beretta in his right pants pocket. He had not carried a weapon in years. A leader in the
milieu
never needed one. There were others for that. Now he had the small automatic with him at all times.
Un vrai monsieur
he thought. Of what? He had even turned to religion. Always the rosary beads in his other pocket. And the damned trembling, it came so often now.

He walked to a small table where the bottles of liquor were kept and poured himself a drink. He was drinking too much, but it was the only thing that helped the trembling. Or maybe it made it worse. He didn't care. He slumped in an overstuffed chair that smelled of mildew and brought the glass, shaking in his hand, to his lips.

He jumped slightly when the knock came on the door. “Who?” he said, taking the Beretta from his pocket.

The door opened and one of his men, Philippe, entered. He was tall, wiry, with dark eyes that never seemed to blink, and a thin black mustache that always seemed as greasy as his slicked-back hair.

“I just got word that Sartene was seen in Saigon today,” Philippe said.

“You're sure?” Carbone said.

“Good,” Carbone added, responding to his man's assuring nod. “Soon we'll move against him. He thinks we're beaten, but we're not. I just let him think so. Then, when I move against him, he'll be like a sleeping child.”

Philippe nodded again, and the agreement made Carbone feel better. He needed his own bravado. Even more, he needed to know where Buonaparte Sartene was. Sartene would want to be there to watch him die if they found him. He knew that. It would be expected of him. He knew too that as long as Sartene was far away, he was safe. At least for the present.

He slipped the Beretta back into his pocket. Philippe was still standing in the doorway.

“I'm tired now,” Carbone said. “I think I'll go up to bed. When you talk to our people again, tell them to watch Sartene closely. It will be soon now.”

Philippe nodded and stepped aside to let Carbone pass.

The upstairs bedroom, like the rest of the house, was dank and humid. Even at night the walls were wet, almost as though they were sweating from the heat.

He removed his shirt, leaving his trousers on, the Beretta still in his pocket. Sitting on the edge of the iron-posted bed, he removed his shoes and stockings, then fell back, swinging his legs up. He stared up at the ceiling. Even the fan was broken. There wasn't even the simplest of comforts. He drifted off to sleep with that thought of deprivation still running through his mind.

It was two hours later when the first of the Malayan pit vipers crawled out from under the bed. The snakes, twelve in all, had been placed there in an open cage; they had been drugged by a Hanoi veterinarian earlier in the day, and only now, with the drug dissipated, had they begun to unravel from their intertwined mass of tan and russet. The vipers were common to the lowland thickets and forests near the seacoast, and had excellent night vision. They were sluggish, almost comically so, but naturally aggressive, and required little or no provocation to strike. The bite of the three-to-five-foot reptiles was extremely painful, and produced immediate bleeding, swelling and discoloration. In severe cases victims lingered for several hours, suffering intense thirst, nausea and general hemorrhage, until respiratory failure finally produced an agonizing death similar to strangulation by the garrote. They were Buonaparte Sartene's final gift to Antonio Carbone.

The first viper to emerge lay extended on the floor next to the bed, its four-foot body curved into a large S, its head slightly elevated, moving back and forth, the tongue flicking out, testing the room for a sign of body heat. The reptile was hungry after its unexpected sleep, and annoyed to find itself in unfamiliar terrain. Slowly, it moved to the foot of the bed, found the heavy metal post, and entwined itself; slowly, almost lethargically, it moved up. The other snakes began to emerge, moving to separate parts of the strange new terrain, some coiling to lie in wait of prey, others finding objects to climb in search of food.

A light breeze floated in from the open window. The bars on the window, placed there years before for the security of long-vanished inhabitants, cast shadows across the plain wood floors that occasionally caught the movements of the vipers, giving them a broken, near kaleidoscopic effect.

When the first viper reached the foot of the bed, a movement beneath the sheet startled it, and it coiled instinctively, its spade-shaped head arched back over its body.

Antonio Carbone awoke slowly, his eyes blinking. He had been dreaming. Something unpleasant that he could not remember. His sleep had been fitful for weeks now. A few hours at a time, then awake again. Never any decent rest. He had to find a place that was safe, a place where he could rest. He let out a long, low sigh. His eyes were adjusting to the dark. He would be awake for hours, he knew. Something moved. Across the room. He stared, but there was nothing. He thought he had seen something on the small table near the closet. Just the light, playing through the bars on the windows. Bars, he thought. So like the French to bar themselves in to keep others out. The safety of the imprisoned. And now he was imprisoned, locked away like …

Something did move.

Slowly he reached for his pocket and withdrew his Beretta. He raised it to his chest and pulled back the slide, chambering a round. He pulled himself up and leveled the weapon. He screamed. The pain struck his calf and shot up into his knee. Shot, his mind told him. A silencer. He hurled himself from the bed and began to move away. He screamed again. Pain in his other leg. He jumped forward; his foot brushed something and the arch of the foot was engulfed in a searing, red hot stab. “Snakes,” he screamed. “Oh my God! No!” He jumped, looking for some safe portion of floor, hopping from one foot to the next. There was movement near him. Again the pain. He screamed again, them jumped forward, reaching the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled. It moved a half inch but held. Something was holding it from outside. He pulled frantically. “Let me out! Let me out! Oh, Jesus, there are snakes in here! Let me out!” He reached out and twisted the small knob that operated the ceiling light. The light flashed on and he saw the blurred red-brown movement coming toward him from atop the dresser next to the door. The snake struck his shoulder, sending shards of pain up through his neck and down his left arm. Again he screamed, jumping back into the room. Another struck at his leg, buckling his knee. The scream became a wail, and his head darted side to side, searching for a safe place. They're everywhere! Oh, my Christ, they're everywhere! One moved sluggishly toward him. He raised the pistol, his hand shaking so the barrel wavered back and forth across its approaching body. He fired, missed, and fired again. Again and again, until finally a bullet ripped into the side of the snake's body, sending out a spurt of blood. The wounded viper's head snapped back at the gaping cut in its flesh, its mouth open, the long curved fangs ready to strike out at the unseen attacker. Carbone fired again, missing, then tried again, but the pistol was empty. He pulled the trigger three, four, five times, then stared at it, his eyes wide with terror.

Already he could feel the swelling in his legs and shoulder. His knees wanted to surrender to the pain, to buckle, but he inched his way back into a corner that was free of the rising, twisting bodies. He cringed there, trying to remain standing, feeling his legs turn to mush beneath him, then gradually sliding to the floor. “Help me! In the name of Jesus, help me!” he screamed.

“Don't you like snakes, Don Carbone?” the voice came through the door, slightly muffled but still clear.

“Help me, please!” Carbone screamed again.

“Help yourself,
paceri
. Make peace with your enemies.”

Sartene's voice. Carbone recognized it now. The long, low wail began deep in his throat, then rose to an ear-shattering pitch, finally breaking into short, high-pitched bursts.

Outside, in the hall, Sartene, Auguste and Philippe stood listening. There was a heavy rope tied to the outside door handle of the room that stretched across the hall to the handle of another door.

Sartene placed a hand on Philippe's shoulder. “You've done well,” he said softly. The only sound from the room now was a gentle whimpering, like that of a child suffering the agony of monsters in a dream. “Auguste tells me your name is Francisci. Are you any relation to the gentleman in Marseille?”

Philippe smiled, inclining his head to one side. “No,” he said. “Unfortunately I have no powerful relatives in the
milieu
.”

“Today you have earned yourself a powerful friend,” Sartene said.

“I'm grateful,” Philippe said. “I always hoped one day I could do you a service.”

Sartene nodded. He did not like the man's mustache. It was too well cared for. A vanity. “Would you like to continue that service to me?”

“Very much, Don Sartene,” Philippe answered.

“Good. You remain here and find any others of Carbone's men who feel the same. We will be in Saigon for several days. Come and see us there. You know the hotel I own, in the city?”

Philippe nodded.

“Come there and see Auguste. He'll give you another, smaller matter to arrange for me. If you prove yourself in that too, I'll have an important place for you.”

A low whimpering moan came from the bedroom, followed by a sharp cry. Philippe glanced, unconcerned, at the door, then back to Sartene. “Would you like me to clean this up?”

“Don't dirty your hands,” Sartene said. His eyes were hard, the gray iris of each appearing to glow with hatred. “Let him rot there, food for the rats that will smell him out.” He turned abruptly and started down the stairs, Auguste at his side.

“I'm not sure I trust this man Philippe,” Auguste said as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

“We'll find out,” Sartene said. “He's done us a service, and deserves something. Give him this Air Laos Commerciale matter. If he handles it well, we can let him run the operation for us. We can watch him easily there. Right now we have one more pig to find. If it takes a week, a year, a dozen years.”

They walked out the front door, down the overgrown pathway and out to the street. The air was cooler now. It was late March, and within weeks the rainy season would begin. As always, approaching rains could be felt, and the slight respite they would bring from the heat. The two friends walked slowly toward Sartene's waiting car.

“Did I tell you, Auguste, I got a letter from Pierre today?”

“No. Is he well?”

“He sounds a little confused, but that's to be expected. He's discovering all the mysteries of a new country. It must be very difficult for a boy his age. But he says next year he will enter a military school, and that he'll have to wear a uniform every day.” Sartene smiled at his friend. “A little soldier, Auguste. A small soldier in a foreign land. Just like Napoleon.”

E
ND
B
OOK
O
NE

BOOK

TWO

The Stranger

Prologue

S
OUTH
D
AKOTA
, A
UGUST
1953

The house was at the northern end of the small capital city of Pierre, and from his second-floor room he could see in the distance both the Missouri River and the boundless fields of wheat and hay and cattle that seemed to stretch into infinity across the broad, flat, wind-swept plain. It was summer now, hot and dry and dusty, and it left everything covered with a film of dirt, and Matt had told him that when winter came, the same flat land would also surrender to deep cold and blizzards that would gather the snow in huge drifts until it covered the tops of utility poles. He hated it now, and he was sure he would hate it then even more.

They had arrived in June, and now it was late August, but it had not taken him long to hate the place and its people. It was dull and flat and boring, and the people could not even pronounce the name of their city, his name. They called it
pier
, like a boat dock, even though Matt had told him it had been founded by French fur trappers, maybe even Corsicans. And like the land, the people were cruel and unyielding, and they laughed and mocked him for the slight accent he had brought with him. Even the children called him names, and he hated them most of all.