The Corsican (39 page)

“Tell him Bently. And tell him I'll be in the bar, but only for ten minutes.”

The Glenlivet felt soothing, and he sipped it slowly, alert to any unexpected movement.

“Captain Bently?”

He turned to the sound of the voice and found a man in his late fifties, whose appearance seemed to match the soft silky tone. He was tall, thin, and immaculately dressed in a white suit, with dark eyes that seemed never to blink. There was a pencil-thin mustache, which, like his hair, was gray-black with a hint of oiliness.

“And you are Mr. Francisci?” Peter asked.

“Philippe, please. I am so pleased you could find time to come. May I join you?”

He slid onto a stool next to Peter. The bar was still quite empty, the lunch hour in Saigon being traditionally set at one. He ordered a Perrier on ice, then smiled warmly at Peter.

“You're curious, no doubt,” Philippe said. “But my request to meet you is really very simple. There is a gentleman here who wishes to see you privately. I have just such a place here. A lovely suite of rooms on the top floor. Very private.”

Peter exhaled and shook his head. “You're a very interesting man. You deliver messages but tell me nothing.”

Philippe tapped the side of his nose. “Just good business, my friend. It is the only way to survive here in Saigon.”

“Let's meet this man,” Peter said.

He reached for his bar check, but found Philippe's hand there first.

“Please,” he said. “For the inconvenience of bringing you here at midday.”

Peter nodded and stood, men picked up his briefcase from the bar. The sawed-off shotgun within seemed less foolish now than when he had first decided to bring it with him. He held it in his left hand, the false side that led to the pistol grip and trigger facing out, easily available to the quick movement of his right hand. “You lead the way,” he said. He was smiling warmly.

The ornate old elevator carried them to the top floor and opened into a small hall, onto which only three doors faced.

“This is the uppermost floor,” Philippe said. “And the suite occupies it entirely.” He gestured to one of the doors. “That leads to a small kitchen. The door opposite it, to a staircase. This other door is the main entrance to the suite.”

Philippe reached into his suitcoat pocket and withdrew a single key, not seeming to notice that Peter had shifted the briefcase slightly with his movement. He opened the door and entered, with Peter close behind.

There was a small foyer, with rooms to the left and right, closed off by doors that were now open, showing the unoccupied rooms beyond. Ahead lay a large sitting room, which appeared gracefully furnished at first glance. Philippe stepped into the room, Peter just behind him.

To the left side of the room a man stood at a window, his back turned. Peter slammed the forearm that held the briefcase into Philippe's back, knocking him forward and to one side, then twisted the briefcase and slid his hand into the false side, taking the pistol grip of the shotgun firmly in his hand.

“Don't move,” he snapped, backing away from the entrance to the room, so he had a clear view of the front door and the foyer. “Now, who is
that?
”

The man at the window turned slowly and smiled at him.

“Are you going to shoot me, Pierre?” he said in the Corsican dialect of Peter's youth. “Your grandfather tells me you are very quick with a gun now.”

Peter let the briefcase fall away. “Uncle Auguste,” he said, shaking his head. “Are the members of my family ever going to meet in a conventional way?”

Auguste smiled. “In time, Pierre.” He extended his arms. “What the hell's the matter with you? You too big to kiss your uncle? You haven't seen me in four years.”

Peter walked to him. The longing he had felt with his grandfather returned to him now. He hugged Auguste with one arm, then kissed his cheek. Like his grandfather, Auguste felt small and frail to him. He stepped back. “Is Grandpère here?” he asked.

Auguste shook his head. “He's like some wines. He doesn't travel well anymore. This last trip tired him badly.” Auguste tapped his finger to his heart. “The doctor tells him not to.” Peter began to voice concern, but Auguste waved it away with his hand. “He could still give you a good spanking if you needed one, but still, it's better if he doesn't travel in this heat, and the altitude of airplanes is no good for him.” He grinned. “So, he sends me.” He wagged a finger in Peter's face. “And I too can still spank.”

Peter couldn't help himself. He began to laugh. The tension, the concern, seemed to slip back for the moment, then reemerge.

“Uncle Auguste, there are things I must discuss with you.”

Auguste nodded, raised his hand. He looked toward Philippe. “My friend, please excuse us for a moment, so we can discuss family matters.”

“Of course, Don Auguste,” Philippe said. He looked toward Peter and smiled again. “It has been a pleasure to meet you,” he said.

“I'm sorry for the rough treatment,” Peter said.

“You just outwitted him,” Auguste said. “Didn't he, my friend?” He gestured with his hand to Philippe, a circular movement, conveying the humor of the situation.

“It is not unusual to be outwitted by a Sartene,” Philippe said.

After Philippe had left, Peter took Auguste's arm and led him to a large overstuffed contemporary sofa. When they were seated, he turned to face him. “Our family seems to meet in odd places,” he said. “First the kitchen of a restaurant.” He paused, looked around the casual, yet well-appointed sitting room. “And now this.”

“Buonaparte owns this hotel. This”—he gestured to the room— “was the place he stayed whenever he came to Saigon. But it's been years since he's used it. Now it is yours if you want it.”

Peter rubbed his face with his hands, then lifted his eyes to Auguste. “I just might,” he said. “The military life is becoming a bit trying.”

“Why did you choose to remain in it?” Auguste asked. “It was not necessary. And this so-called war isn't worth fighting.”

“It will help me in what I must do,” Peter said. “Find the man who killed my father.”

Auguste nodded. “My brother, rest his soul, had a big mouth.”

Peter did not speak for several seconds. His uncle's digression annoyed him, but his affection for the man was too deep for the feeling to remain.

“You told me that four years ago, Uncle. You also told me that when I returned, I would learn the truth.”

Auguste smiled at him. “Your memory is good, Pierre. But I also said you would learn it from Buonaparte.” Peter began to speak, but Auguste stopped him. “For now, I will tell you what Buonaparte feels you must know.” He leaned back, his mouth and eyes becoming hard, as though anticipating the pain He would feel from his own words. “Do you remember, when you were a boy, a man named Francesco Canterina?”

Peter felt his own facial muscles tighten. “Of course,” he said, trying to recall the long-forgotten face of the man. “He was the one?”

Auguste lowered his eyes; his face filled with a seething hatred. He nodded his head. “He is the friend who became a pig. The man who killed your father, and nearly killed Matt as well. The man who on that same day sent men to kill your grandfather, and instead turned my brother into a cripple.”

Peter found difficulty forming the words. “But why? He was like a member of our family.”

“He wanted what we had. But that you will learn from Buonaparte. What you must know now is that this man is still dangerous. He knows he will never be safe while there is still a Sartene on this earth. He still seeks your grandfather's death, but he knows Buonaparte is too well protected. So now he waits for him to die to be safe again. When he learns you are here, he will know that waiting will do no good.”

Peter stared at his uncle. He felt the muscles in his stomach tighten. “Why is he still alive? Everything Benito ever taught me tells me he shouldn't be. But he is, and I'd like to know the reason.”

Auguste let out a long breath. “He too is protected,” Auguste said. “But now he will know that protection is ended.”

“The protection involved me, then,” Peter said.

“I can tell you no more, Pierre. It is Buonaparte's right to speak of these other things. For now you must only know he is a danger to you. He is in the north now. We know that, so for now you are safe. But soon his business will bring him to the south. Then, when he learns you are here, he will try to kill you.”

Peter's hard eyes stared at his uncle. “What business will bring him here?”

“Opium, Pierre. Opium and heroin. It is his business.” Auguste's eyes softened with the words, as he watched confusion spread across his nephew's face.

“Is that the business he killed for, Uncle?” Peter's eyes had become hard again, but there was no recrimination in his voice.

“From me you will hear nothing more, Pierre.” He raised his hand again, stopping Peter's objection. “It's not for me to tell. In a few days you will be going to see your grandfather. Then Buonaparte will tell you everything. Everything you have to know and, perhaps, more than you want to know.” Auguste shrugged his shoulders. “Then you will either understand what you hear, and why it could not be any other way, or you won't. Buonaparte always knew it would be this way. He is a man who believes in the truth of things. But you'll see that in three days.”

“Uncle Auguste, I don't know if I can go to Laos in three days. I have superiors who decide those things.”

Auguste smiled at him, as though he were looking at the small boy he had known fourteen years earlier. “Your commanding officer will order you to go there. A certain Vietnamese official, whom he can't refuse, will ask for an American officer to help in an inquiry. The man will have to speak Lao, and since you're the only officer who does, you'll be sent. It will involve a matter that will require you to go to Laos often during your time here, and so it will give you easy access to Buonaparte.”

“He has that degree of power here?” Peter asked.

“It's not power,” Auguste corrected. “Power always involves force in one way or another, and your grandfather always tries to avoid that. It's simply a business favor his friend is happy to offer him. One that's owed many times over. Don't concern yourself about it.”

Auguste reached in his inner suitcoat pocket and came out with the business card of an airline. “This little airline is the one you should use. It is also one of Buonaparte's businesses. Philippe operates it along with the hotel, and he will make certain it is always available to you. If you need anything while you are here in Saigon, Philippe will serve you, just as he does your grandfather. Don't hesitate to ask him for anything.”

Peter felt as though he were suffocating under the weight of everything that now assaulted him, everything he had to know. He tried to speak, hesitated, then tried again.

“Auguste. You
must
answer some of my questions,” Peter insisted.

Auguste patted his arm. “You want to know about good restaurants, things of that type, I'll be happy to help you. If you want to know about these things, you must ask Buonaparte.” He smiled. “But you. You can tell me much. You can tell me all the things you have done since I last saw you.”

Chapter 24

Peter had spent the remainder of the day reading and rereading the dossier on Cao, struggling to keep Francesco Canterina from his mind. But he had failed. The vision had constantly reappeared. A face that was no longer clear, an out-of-focus image too long in the past. He had wondered if he would even recognize him if they passed on the street, this man who would have him dead, have his grandfather dead. He thought about his father, Matt, Benito. His life for the past fourteen years, the charade he had lived. All of it had now been linked to this one man, Francesco Canterina. Out of frustration, Peter had fed into the intelligence computer the few things he knew: name, opium, North Viet Nam. The effort had produced nothing.

Sitting in the back of a Bluebird taxi now, he decided to put it out of his mind. He twisted his body, searching for some comfort in the cramped back seat of the tiny Renault.

It was 0800, and still the traffic along Cach Mang was at the volume of an American rush hour. The taxi hurtled through the traffic oblivious to everything, weaving crazily between buses and trucks. The driver barreled into Truong Minh Giang, pressed the accelerator to the floor and shot forward amid the sound of blaring horns and shouted curses. The traffic eased as they sped past the crowded outdoor market, the smell of rotting food vying with the Rach Thi Nghe River beyond, its dark chocolate water little more than an open sewer.

All along the riverbanks there were shacks covered with flattened beer cans, converted packing crates, and any other salvageable material turned into little tin ovens in which the poor of Saigon lived out their lives with the rancid smell of the river as an added blessing.

The taxi crossed the river, passing by the Chantareansay Pagoda, where saffron-robed monks plotted their own domination of an endlessly dominated country. He had seen a group of monks that morning, walking the streets with their wooden bowls, begging rice for their morning meal, their shaved heads bowed in supplication. Seeing them it was hard to conceive of the terror their displeasure could produce among those who ran the government.

He glanced back through the rear window at the receding filth and poverty. Here, on this side of the river, there was no hint of the squalor left behind. The tree-lined streets and shaded sidewalks held a sense of quiet harmony that reminded Peter of Vientiane years before, the walled houses recalling the days when the colonial French, longing for their homeland, hid themselves away from the people they exploited. Now it was the Americans, together with the wealthy Vietnamese.