The Corsican (34 page)

Peter was too weary to respond, but Logan seemed caught up in the role of tour guide. Just past the terminal, he pointed to a sprawling complex of buildings. “That's HQ, part of it anyway, where Westmoreland sits and dreams up new strategies that don't work, or how to win a war without really trying.” Logan grunted at himself. “Look. Don't let me spoil it for you. Just write me off as a disgruntled lifer. That's the truth, anyway.” He pointed again, this time across the bus, to the opposite side of the wire, where a group of young women, dressed in garish American clothing, stood along the sidewalk. “That's one of the BOQs over there, and the ladies are working the sidewalk to catch the homies comin' in from night duty. That's the one good thing about this war. At least you can get laid while the politicians and generals are busy fucking the country. Anyway, enough bitching about my betters. When we get to Camp Alpha, just stick close. It'll be sheer tedium, but I've been through it once before, so I know how to cut out some of the crap. They'll assign you a bunk for the night, then give you your regular quarters tomorrow. If I were you I'd find an apartment or a house if you can get approval from your CO. It's worth the dough, even if it's more than your COLA, and if you're lucky enough to be stationed here in the Pearl of the Orient, you might as well get away from as much of the military crap as possible. Besides, only colonels on up get really good quarters. And I mean good. BOQs with swimming pools, first-class restaurants and hot and cold running nurses.” He gave a snorting laugh at himself. “See, that's the real reason I'm pissed off about being passed over for promotion.” Logan smiled for the first time.

Despite Logan's promises of cutting through the red tape, Peter's processing went on until well after 1430, and it was 1500 before he found his way to his temporary quarters and collapsed on the spartan military bed.

His quarters were little more than an oversized military tent, jammed with six beds and lockers for the number of men it was intended to house. But he had the tent to himself, something he preferred. It was a slack rotation period, and the sprawling complex of tents that made up Camp Alpha was well below capacity.

Reaching down, he plucked up a bottle of RVN 33 beer that sat on the floor next to his bed. He had bought several bottles when his processing had ended, choosing the local variety over available American imports. The clerk had looked at him as though he were mad, but Peter had wanted something local. He took a long drink of the semicold liquid and realized the clerk had been right.

There was a gentle, hesitant knock on the wooden door of the tent. Peter groaned, then swung himself up and moved wearily across the tent. He opened the door and found himself looking down at a frightened Vietnamese woman.

The woman made several quick bows. “You Captain Bently?” she asked, her voice timid.

Peter studied the woman. She wore an identification tag that indicated she was one of the many Vietnamese who performed servile duties within the camp. He had also learned in his training that many had proved to be VC as well. “He's not here now. But I can give him a message when he gets back.”

The woman bowed again and quickly handed him a sealed nonmilitary envelope.

“Who gave you this?” Peter asked.

“Man in taxi, outside gate,” she said. “He say Captain Bently please come quick, quick.”

“Did he say what his name was?”

“He say tell Captain Bently him Max.”

The message delivered, the woman turned and hurried off. Peter watched her go, her small lags moving rapidly as if some devil were behind her. He stepped back inside the tent and stared at the unmarked envelope in his hand. “What the hell,” he said aloud. “The mystery of the Orient, already.”

He ran his fingers gently over the edges of the envelope, feeling for any explosives, something he had been taught in demolitions training. Feeling nothing unusual, he tore open the seal and withdrew an old black-and-white photograph. It was of him at age seven or eight, dressed in short pants and standing next to the hulking frame of his dog, Max. The thought of his grandfather flashed into his mind, then vanished. His grandfather had always been cautious about contacting him. Excessively so, he had often thought. A taxi outside the gate was blatant. Perhaps he felt more secure on his own ground, but he doubted it. And there was still someone who wanted him dead, someone who had been close to his family. He would find out, he decided. There was little choice. If the taxi held his grandfather, or Auguste, it would be different. If not, then it would be different in another way.

Quickly he stripped off his uniform, replacing it with civilian clothes. He did not want to be any more noticeable than necessary. He went to his leather carrying case and withdrew a carton of cigarettes. He did not smoke. Buried within the sealed carton was a small automatic pistol, an untraceable weapon he had been advised by old intelligence hands to smuggle in-country. He loaded the weapon, then slid it inside his belt, leaving his shirt out to conceal it.

Outside the main gate, a small Renault “Bluebird” taxi was parked ten yards up the street facing him. It held the driver and another man in the back seat. Peter walked casually toward the car, displaying no interest. He stopped abruptly and turned, as if he had dropped something, and quickly withdrew the automatic from his belt. He turned back and continued toward the taxi, the weapon held casually at his side, his large hand covering it completely.

When he reached the taxi he appeared to continue on, until he reached the blind spot just past the rear side window. Then he spun, still keeping the weapon along his leg, opened the rear door, and entered the back with surprising speed, pushing well into the car and crowding the small oriental passenger, limiting his ability to move well.

“You looking for me?” Peter asked. He noted the surprise on the man's face; he saw that his hands were empty. Peter had never seen the man before.

“Are you Captain Bently?” the oriental asked.

Peter was leaning toward him and slightly forward, both crowding him and concealing the pistol he held along his right leg. “That's right,” he said. He smiled at the man.

“There's a gentleman who would like to see you,” the oriental said in perfect English.

“Who?”

“I was told only to say it was your grandfather.”

“What is his name?” Peter asked the question in Lao.

The man's eyes clouded. He had not understood the language.

Peter jammed his forearm against the man, pinning him against the far door, then brought the automatic up under his chin. “Tell the driver to move, and tell him to keep both hands on the steering wheel where I can see them. I speak Vietnamese, so I suggest you do it right. There won't be a second chance.”

The taxi pulled out into traffic as Peter searched his fellow passenger for weapons. He removed a large .38 caliber revolver from a shoulder holster, then slid across to the opposite door, where he could watch both men more easily.

“I didn't understand what you said.” The oriental messenger was shaking now.

“If you worked for my grandfather, you should have. The people who work for him are Lao. Do you know his name, or what he looks like?” Peter asked.

The man's lips began to tremble. “I never met your grandfather. The man I work for just asked me to deliver the message and the letter. He is a friend of your grandfather's.”

“Who is this friend, and where did he tell you to take me?”

“His name is Tran Loy, and I am to take you to his restaurant on Cach Mang.”

Peter smiled at him without warmth, then reached across the front seat and patted down the driver, noting that he too was shaking. The driver was unarmed. “Tell him to stop a block before the restaurant,” Peter said.

When they exited the taxi, Peter took the oriental by the back of his belt and pulled upward, forcing the crotch of his trousers against his genitals until he could only walk on his toes.

“Is there a rear entrance?” Peter asked.

The man nodded, grimacing in discomfort.

“Show me,” Peter said.

They moved slowly up a side street, the oriental toe-dancing along the sidewalk. Peter kept the revolver hidden from view until they reached a rear alley that paralleled Cach Mang. He stopped the oriental short of the entrance.

“Tell me something, my friend. Do all people who work for restaurant owners carry guns?” He allowed the man to see the pistol again, for effect.

“There is a gambling house upstairs. It is my job to guard the door.”

The man's explanation rang true. Peter knew of the oriental love of gambling. What he didn't know was how good this man was at making up logical lies.

“If there are any other guards in the alley, you'd better tell them not to move. Because if they do, I'm going to shoot you first.” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, and it made the man tremble again.

“There are no other guards,” he said. “The only entrance to the gambling house is in the front.”

Peter walked him into the alley, remaining behind him for cover. The alley appeared empty.

Halfway down, the oriental motioned to a metal door with his chin. “Here,” he said.

“Open it.”

The oriental reached out for the door with a trembling hand, then pulled it open. Remaining behind him, slightly crouched, Peter pushed him inside a large noisy kitchen. To his right, seated at a small table, he could see a white-haired European visible only in partial profile. On either side of the man were two orientals, and with the sound of the door each turned defensively. Peter raised the pistol, stopping their movement. The white-haired man turned slowly to face him, and Peter recognized him at once.

A smile spread across Buonaparte Sartene's face. It was older, and the man seemed smaller than Peter remembered. “When you were a little boy, you always liked to play with guns, Pierre. You used to say you were going to shoot tigers. Did you think there was a tiger here?”

Peter lowered the pistol to his side and released the messenger. His mind flooded with memories of his childhood with a force that was overwhelming. The walks taken together. The patient conversations. The endless bedtime stories. His grandfather's need to help him become both physically and intellectually strong. All of it coming from that deep, almost demanding love that was so much a part of the man. All of it rushed back, and he suddenly wanted to tell him how much the moment meant. How much he had wanted it for so many years. But the emotion was too strong for words.

Peter smiled. “Grandpère,” he whispered, then moved quickly to his grandfather, instinctively handing the pistol to one of the Mua who flanked him.

They embraced, and he felt the surprising frailty of the man he had waited so long to see. His grandfather stepped back, looked at him, for a moment, then hugged him again. There were tears in his eyes.

Buonaparte Sartene could feel his heart beating in his chest, and his mind told him it could not be true. It could not be Pierre who had returned. This large young man, almost as big as Jean had been. Sartene had seen photographs of his grandson, of course. They had been sent regularly. But the image in his mind, the one that had remained with him for fourteen years, had been of the small, hurt child, sitting on his bed, begging not to be sent away.

He embraced his grandson more tightly. “You see, Pierre,” he whispered. “I told you I would wait for you.”

Peter kissed his grandfather's cheek. “I know, Grandpère. And you told me Corsicans always keep their promises. I always knew you would keep yours.”

When they separated, Peter's eyes locked on his grandfather's. “I'm sorry about the gun, Grandpère. It's not the way I wanted to come to you. I've just been trained to be careful. The Viet Cong have bounties on American officers,” Their eyes remained locked, each silently acknowledging there was another reason as well, one that would not be spoken about in front of others.

Buonaparte reached up and slapped his cheek gently. His eyes were bright with pride. “I am not offended by the gun, Pierre. I'm only sorry I caused you concern. I should have waited and contacted you in a more normal way. But I couldn't wait. It has been too many years.” He hugged him again, then stepped back, taking his arm and guiding him to a chair. “Sit. We must talk. There is so much to say after all these years. Are you hungry?”

Peter shook his head and took a chair across from his grandfather, then leaned forward. “But tell me how you knew I was here. I just found out I was coming a few days ago. Did Matt call you?”

Buonaparte tapped his fingers together, then held them apart. “It is not hard to find things out here, if you know what you're looking for.” He smiled at his grandson, indicating nothing more need be said.

Peter returned the smile. Corsicans and their secrets, he thought. They never change. But he was like that himself, had been taught to be. He studied his grandfather more closely. Older, so much older. But the strength he remembered was still there. Especially in the eyes.

“How long will you be here, Grandpère? In Saigon, I mean.”

“I must leave in the morning. There is some business that must be attended to in Vientiane.” He tapped his nose with his finger. “This was just the whim of an old man, the need to see his grandson after so many years. So now you must indulge my foolishness, and in the little time we have tonight you must tell me all you can about the last fourteen years. I know you have written to me about the important things. Now I want to hear about the friends you made at university, and during your training in the military.”

They sat across from each other, sharing a bottle of wine, reliving Peter's life in the United States, his years of schooling, all the things Buonaparte now wanted to hear from Pierre's lips. Hours passed, and throughout the conversation, Buonaparte drank in his grandson's words, along with the wine, savoring each bit of information, stopping him only to ask more detail. When their talk finally turned to Peter's military training, Buonaparte's interest seemed even more intense. He questioned him about the details of Ranger training, demolitions, special weapons, shaking his head at it all.