The Corsican (32 page)

Peter shook his head. “I don't understand. I was twelve when I left Laos. Why would there be a man who wants to kill me?”

“Because he knows he will never be safe while there is still a Sartene alive on this earth.”

“But why?”

Benito drew a deep breath, then squeezed his eyes shut. “Because, Pierre, he is the man who murdered your father.”

The long, hard isolation of winter had finally engulfed them; the snow was already a foot deep, covering any hint of life. Matt and Peter walked slowly across the encrusted field; the harsh wind that moved through the open land cut into their faces.

“I have a right to know more than I've been told,” Peter said. He kept his eyes fixed on the blank, snow-white horizon, as if searching for something to break the emptiness that stretched out before him.

“Yes, you do,” Matt said. He stopped and turned toward Peter. “I'll tell you what I can,” he said. “But I can't answer all your questions.”

“Because you've promised not to?”

Matt shook his head. “I've given no promises. But there are many things about your grandfather, about your family, that I was never told. And there are things I do know that involve work I did for my government that I simply can't tell you.”

“Does my mother know?” Peter stared into Matt's eyes. His question had carried a mild threat, and he regretted it at once.

“She knows more than I'm willing to tell you,” Matt said. “If you ask her, perhaps she'll tell you.” He placed a hand on Peter's shoulder, then let it fall away. “You know she hasn't been well. She never really has been since we came here. Talking about those days won't be good for her. I don't have the right to ask you not to, but I hope you won't.”

Peter looked away, taking the full force of the wind in his face. “Tell me what you can,” he said.

Matt drew a deep breath and took Peter by the arm. They began walking again. “Throughout the world there is a very loosely knit organization of Corsicans known as the
milieu
. Within that overall organization there are many groups, each headed by a man who is called
un vrai monsieur
. For the most part the business activities of the various groups are legal. In some instances they're not. But then, you know the Corsican attitude about laws made by others.” He stopped and looked at Peter. “Your grandfather heads such a group.”

As they walked on, Matt told Peter about Sartene's various business interests, those legitimate and those not. The only activity he did not speak about was opium.

They stopped, their path blocked by an uprooted tree; they turned their backs to the wind.

“And my father was killed because someone in the group wanted to control these business interests?” Peter asked.

Matt stared at the ground, wishing the question had not been asked. He cared too much for his adopted son to lie to him. “He wanted to control a particular aspect of those business interests, one your grandfather undertook at the request of my government.”

“And you won't tell me what that business was.”

Matt shook his head. “I can't.”

“Will you tell me who the man was?”

Matt shook his head again. “That's the one thing I could tell you, but won't.”

Peter's jaw tightened. “Why not?”

“Because Benito was right. If you knew you might go back before you were ready.”

“I could write my grandfather. Telephone him.” Peter's voice was harsh, angry.

“That might put him in jeopardy. His moves are watched by various agencies. That's why he's never been able to visit you here.”

“And you won't tell me.”

Matt shook his head. “No. But I'll give you some advice.”

“What?” Peter snapped.

“Don't go back.”

December 30, I960

Dear Uncle Auguste
,

We buried Uncle Benito today. It was a simple ceremony, just as he would have wanted
.

I know our telegram informing you of his death was a shock. But this too was what he wanted. He knew that you and Grandpère would come if you knew he was so ill. And this, he felt, would not be a good thing
.

I cannot tell you how much I share your loss. It was only at the end that I realized how much his life was involved with my own, how much he had devoted himself to my future. Before he died, he told me how he had planned to return to Laos with me, to help me and guide me there, as he had done for so much of my life
.

Now I will do the last thing he asked of me. I will finish my studies and my military training, so I will be ready for what awaits me when I return to Laos
.

Your nephew
,

Pierre

Palo Alto had agreed with him, and when Auguste first saw him, he found it hard to believe how much Pierre had changed in the years since his last visit. He was broader, stronger, and there was an air of quiet confidence about the way he moved. Yet there was something else as well, something he could not identify. Somehow, he did not seem like the same young man.

They met in a small French restaurant in San Francisco, Peter having driven there at Auguste's request. He had told him that he found American cars too large, and difficult to drive. Actually, it had been a precaution insisted upon by Buonaparte. There was still concern that Pierre might be tied to the Sartene family before he gained all he could from his life in the United States. And there was also the lingering problem of Francesco Canterina.

Leaning across the table, Auguste placed his hand on top of Pierre's. The hand was huge, like Jean's, he recalled. “So, this year you graduate from university,” Auguste said.

“Yes, sir,” Peter said. “It's been a battle, but they're finally going to let me out.”

Auguste snorted. “You're too modest, Pierre. I've seen the copies of your grades you sent to your grandfather. You've done this thing very well, and Buonaparte is very proud of you.”

Peter only nodded. “How is he? His health, I mean.”

Auguste moved his head from side to side. “He is good. He's not as young as he used to be, but his health is good. He's still a pain in the ass, but he takes good care of himself. There's no need to worry.”

“And you?”

Auguste sat straight in his chair. “Look for yourself. I'm wonderful.” He wagged a finger at Peter. “And still strong enough to teach you a thing or two.”

“I'm sure,” Peter said. He smiled at the slender little man, who suddenly seemed so strange to him, so much more foreign than he had ever noticed before. The smile faded. “I want to talk to you about Uncle Benito.”

Auguste's face seemed to soften, and he began to stroke his chin, remembering his brother. “Benito was a good man, a good Corsican. He never said much, but he understood many things. In some ways he was very much like your father, God have mercy on them. Both of them were strong as bulls, but gentle also. Strong men, as you will be one day.”

“Uncle Benito was very good to me. He taught me a great deal.”

There was a coolness in Pierre's voice, Auguste thought. “He loved you, Pierre, just as we all do. We are family, and as long as we remain together, we are strong. But I don't have to tell you this.” Auguste slapped his palms on the table. “So tell me, what will you do when you graduate?”

“I've been thinking about doing a year of graduate work at Columbia, in New York. I've applied and they've accepted me. Then the army. Uncle Benito explained the necessity of it.”

“You don't sound very enthusiastic about it.” Auguste watched Pierre's eyes. They seemed more distant than they had when he last saw him.

Peter looked at him coolly. “If anything, I'm more enthusiastic than ever, Uncle. You see, Uncle Benito told me why I would need the training when I returned.”

Auguste stared across the table, his face a mask. “What did Benito tell you?”

“That when I returned I would learn about the man who killed my father. And when I learned about him, I would either have to kill him or he would kill me.”

Auguste became rigid in his chair. His nephew's words had come like a wave of cold air, and the chill had also carried to his eyes. “What else did my brother tell you?”

“Nothing. Not even the man's name. He said he had promised Grandpère; that he was only partially violating that promise because he knew he wouldn't be there to help me prepare for that day.” Peter looked down at the table, then back at Auguste. “I asked Matt, and he also would not tell me. His advice was that I not go back. Later, I thought of writing Grandpère, but I realized it wasn't something he'd want on paper.” Peter folded his hands on the table. “Why don't
you
tell me?”

Auguste leaned back in his chair and studied his nephew. The cold look in his eyes—he had not recognized it before. It was Buonaparte's look. Whatever wrong Benito had done, at least he had not failed with the boy.

Auguste leaned forward, his voice soft, almost soothing. “What my brother told you he had no right to speak of. I am not saying what he told you was not true. I am saying only Buonaparte has the right to tell you the whole story.”

“Which means that you will not.”

The coolness in his nephew's voice brought a small smile to Auguste's lips. “Do not be angry with me, Pierre, for standing by my word.” He allowed the smile to fade. “I will tell you this. The man who killed your father was a trusted member of our group. He did what he did because he wanted to seize the business your father and grandfather controlled.”

“A legal business?” Peter interrupted.

Auguste smiled. “I see your mind has been busy this last year and a half.”

“It has,” Peter said. “You haven't answered me.”

Auguste shrugged. “What is legal in some countries is illegal in others. In Laos, what we did was legal.” Peter began to speak, but Auguste raised his hand stopping him. “I'll tell you no more, Pierre. If you return to Laos, your grandfather will tell you everything you must know. If you do not return, then there will be no need for you to know any more than you do now.”

Peter's jaw tightened. He looked down at the table, then back at his uncle. His face softened. “I do have a need to know, Uncle. For the past year and a half I've been struggling with the fact that a great deal of my life has been a charade, without me ever knowing why. I think it's time I found out who I am, and what that requires of me.”

Auguste reached across the table and placed his hand atop Peter's.

“You know who you are, Pierre. You're a Corsican, a Sartene.”

Peter leaned forward, his eyes intense again. “That's
what
I am, Uncle. What I've been raised to be. Now I want to know
who
.”

Auguste nodded. “For that, Pierre, you must return. But not until you are ready.”

Buonaparte Sartene stared down at the table of toy soldiers, set out to depict the 1815 Battle of Quatre-Bras. He picked up one of the soldiers in Ney's army, then replaced it in the position of a fallen warrior, before turning back to Auguste.

“We cannot blame Benito,” he said. “He was a man on his deathbed, and he thought he was doing what was right for Pierre.”

Auguste watched in silence as Sartene crossed the room and sat heavily behind his desk. The past ten years had been difficult for him. Not only the absence of Pierre, but also his inability to seek vengeance against Francesco.

“It was a cruel way for him to learn about his father,” Auguste said.

Sartene nodded. “Sometimes it's the cruelties of life that make a man strong. But in Pierre's case I'm afraid this particular blow has made him feel deceived.”

“You must tell him the reasons for it,” Auguste said.

Sartene stared at the desk top for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “If I tell him now, then he will know that Francesco will remain safe until he returns. And what would Pierre do if he knew we were forced to let the murderer of his father live in order to keep him safe? Such knowledge might force Pierre to come before he is ready, and that would only mean his death.” Sartene looked across at Auguste, inclining his head to one side to acknowledge the futility of his position. “I must gamble on his love, my friend. I will write him and ask for his trust. I will ask him to believe that what was done, even though it hurt him, was necessary for his protection.”

Auguste fumbled with his hands. “I wonder if he will accept it. He will have years yet—maybe too many years—to brood about it.”

Sartene's eyes became distant. “It is a problem, isn't it, my friend? I must gamble on his trust, or on his life.”

“But when he returns his life will still be in danger.”

Sartene nodded his head slowly. “Yes,” he said, drawing out the word. “But then he will no longer be a boy. He will be a man who has learned how to kill.” He looked up at Auguste with a bitter smile. “A nice inheritance, is it not, that I give my grandson?”

Chapter 18

S
AIGON,
O
CTOBER
1966

The Continental Stretch 707 was still twenty miles off the coast of Viet Nam when the war first made itself felt. The pilot's voice drawled through the intercom, announcing the approach of two F-105 fighters, which would soon be visible to passengers, one off each wing tip.

They were U.S. military escorts, he explained, and would accompany the commercial airliner through its final approach to Tan Son Nhut International Airport. That approach, he added, would also not be normal. It would be abrupt, a rapid, spiral descent, to thwart any sniper fire from the jungle surrounding the city. The announcement produced a ripple of nervous laughter in the cabin.

Peter Bently leaned forward and looked out the cabin window, hoping to catch sight of the sleek F-105s. The light reflected off the plastic, revealing his own blurred image, and he realized he too was smiling. It was the captain's voice, the bored reassuring drawl; it had reminded him of a waitress the evening before he left, stoically announcing that all the roast beef was well done. Ask me if I give a damn, her tone implied, just as the captain's did now.