The Corsican (44 page)

“By helping Francesco?”

“Yes. That much I will tell you. But only because you have to know that to protect yourself. If Francesco Canterina learns you are here, he may simply try to hide from you. And then you will have to find him.” He raised his finger. “But if he learns who you are, and that you are trying to eliminate the way he earns his bread, then he will seek the help of these others to kill you. And no matter how good your training, don't underestimate these other men. Francesco may want you dead just because you're my grandson, and because he is afraid to come after me. But for these others, a great deal of money is at stake, and because of that they could be even more dangerous to you.”

“This may be a way to force Francesco into the open.”

“It would. But there are other ways that are less dangerous. And don't ignore what I said about the others.”

Sartene's eyes suddenly held all the pain he had carried over the past fourteen years. “In this country, the men who control opium are called kaitongs. It means ‘little king.' But they are not kings, and they control nothing. Opium is kaitong here. Opium controls this region. And it corrupts everything it touches, every man who goes near it, every government who deals with it. Those involved with opium pay a price, Pierre, just as I have paid.”

Sartene clasped Peter's shoulders in his hands. “You are all I have, Pierre. What I have built here is yours, if you want it. This is your country, Pierre. My people are your people. When you have finished what must be done, if you find you don't want it, then take the money from it and build your own country, your own people. I've talked to Auguste about this, and he agrees. The others will take what you don't want. And no one will oppose this decision.”

He spoke the final words with such force, Peter was left staring at him. Did this man, this old, frail man, still wield that kind of power, or was he simply living in his past?

“There will be time later to decide these things,” Peter said. “After I do what must be done.”

“You know you don't have to stay in the army. I
understand your reason for doing so.” He took Peter's shoulders between his hands again. “But your death can be arranged. On paper. And I assure you, even those who know will never question it. Peter Bently would simply be dead. And Pierre Sartene would have returned from Corsica. Then you could do this thing from within the family.”

Peter shook his head slowly. “It's for me to do alone, Grandpère. And what about my mother, and Matt? I would like to see them again without always looking over my shoulder.”

“You give governments and police who work for them too much credit. They are so busy always moving papers from one desk to another, they lose sight of the people those papers are about. Those papers become everything they believe. And if something is written on a piece of paper, that is all they have to know.” He took on a comically sly look. “Papa Guerini taught me something many years ago. He told me that sometimes the best place for the fox to hide is under the nose of the hound. I promise you, if you choose to do this thing, you will give up nothing.”

“You make a very convincing argument,” Peter said. “But I think I can use the resources of the military now. And that will help in what I have to do.”

A look of defeat crept into Sartene's eyes, but he masked it quickly. “And this heroin thing to force Francesco out?” he asked.

“I feel it will be the quickest way to get to Francesco. And I want to get to him before he comes after us. I know your concerns about the others, but believe me when I say I can handle any danger. And I consider it a matter of honor that I try.”

“You were taught some things too well, Pierre,” Sartene said, turning back to the pond. “If you feel this way, I cannot argue with you. But I'll ask you to do one thing out of respect for me.”

Peter felt uneasiness spread through him. Was there more to learn now, or was his grandfather setting him up for some crafty Corsican ploy that would get him what he wanted, while appearing not to? “If you ask from respect, Grandpère, I can't say no.”

Sartene nodded his head. “And that makes you suspicious.”

When Peter did not respond, Sartene let the moment draw out, playing on the silence. “It is not a devious request,” he said at length. “I only ask that if you somehow succeed in finding out who else is involved in this thing, you seek my counsel before you speak about it to anyone else.”

“Yes, if I can. But I don't promise to follow your counsel. Only to respect it.”

Sartene looked to the heavens and shook his head. “You are so much like your father. Thick and stubborn.”

Peter laughed softly. “Isn't there any of my grandfather in me?”

“That, we wait to see,” Sartene said. “And part of that will be seen in how cautiously you move.” He turned, raising a bony finger like a lecturing parent. “You are smart, and I see you've become a strong-minded man, but I don't know if you are clever. When you deal with some people, it's best to let them think you really don't know everything that is going on. A truly clever man never lets others know how smart he really is. Remember that, Pierre.” He slapped his shoulder. “Now, come and we'll have dinner. Then you can enjoy a night in your old room. It is just as you left it.”

“I'd like that. But I have to contact people in Vientiane. I'll have to telephone. I'm supposed to be here on a mission for a very unpleasant Vietnamese colonel.”

Sartene's face seemed to reflect the pleasure he felt in his own guile. “Yes, I know,” he said. “The next time you come here there will be a prisoner for you to bring back to Colonel Duc. It will ensure your future travels. Auguste has some information you can take back this time.”

“You mean you're going to do my job for me?”

“It's not a difficult thing to arrange. If you did it yourself you would just waste time we could spend together.”

They started up the stairs. Halfway up Sartene stopped. “How do you feel about the men you work with?” he asked.

“I'm not sure.” His voice was flat and hard.

Sartene nodded. “Good,” he said. “It's good to be cautious with people you must work with.”

“You're really asking if I trust them,” Peter said.

“Trust no one here,” Sartene said. “It's the only way to survive.”

At ten o'clock Sartene and Auguste sat alone in the study. Peter had gone to his room, and the two old men sat quietly now over a glass of wine.

Auguste had watched Sartene throughout the day, and had taken pleasure in his friend's joy. Buonaparte's life was almost over, Auguste told himself now. Perhaps there would be some fulfillment for him after all these years of pain.

“What do you think of our grandson?” Auguste finally asked.

“In some ways I wish he weren't here.”

“What the hell are you talking about? For fourteen years you've waited for this day, and now you sit there and say you wish he weren't here. You know, I always wondered when your age was going to catch up with you. I think it's finally happened.”

Sartene waved a hand at him. “You know what I'm talking about, you old fool.”

Auguste looked down into his wineglass. “You can't stop him from being a man, Buonaparte. If you try, you'll only make him weak.”

“You know what he wants to do. And you know these people.”

“He's been well trained,” Auguste said. “You know that. I see great power in him.”

Buonaparte nodded. “Yes, the power is there. But training means nothing in dealing with these people.” He banged his fist against his chest, showing rare emotion. “You survive from inside yourself. And that you learn when you are very young. Pierre was robbed of that, just as I was robbed of him.”

“You don't think he was born with it, Buonaparte? I tell you, I do.”

Sartene shrugged. “Perhaps I'm just being a frightened fool. But I lost his father. I don't want to lose him.”

“We're not helpless, you know. We could tell him who these people are. We could even do what has to be done for him.”

“I lived by my honor all my life, and even though I have no respect for these men, I promised I would never interfere with them. If it weren't for Francesco, I would go to them and make an arrangement. But I could never gamble on what Francesco would do.”

“Then let's kill him. We should never have agreed not to follow him into North Viet Nam.”

“It was necessary. You know that. Besides, he comes to the south. We know he does. We just haven't been clever enough to catch him there.”

A light knocking on the door stopped Sartene from continuing. Auguste rose and opened it, then stepped aside to admit a short, slender Meo tribesman. He was in his mid-twenties, dressed in a cord suit and white shirt, open at the collar, and except for the flat facial features of the Meo, he could easily have passed for a young Lao businessman.

Sartene gestured with his hand and waited for the man to be seated.

“I'm very sorry I had to ask you to hide yourself away today, Luc,” Sartene said. “I want you to know that Pierre asked for you, but I told him you were in the north on business. I have reasons for this. There are things I must ask you to do for me, and it would be better if Pierre did not recognize you.”

Luc sat in silence and listened to Sartene's instructions, showing neither happiness nor displeasure.

When he had finished his instructions, Sartene looked at the young Meo warmly. “I know what I ask you to do is a burden. It will take you away from your family for many months. But it must be done.”

A trace of a smile showed on Luc's face. He bowed his head slightly. “When my father became old and ill, you cared for him, kaitong. You have always assumed the burdens of your people. For me to do less for you would shame all Meo.” His smile broadened. “Besides, kaitong, it will give me a chance to observe the brother of my youth.”

Sartene nodded with satisfaction. The young man had answered as he should. The loyalty he had always demanded had again been delivered. He placed his palms on the arms of the chair and pushed himself up, then reached out and placed one hand on Luc's shoulder. “You have been like a second grandson in my house,” he said. “Your respect is something that will not be forgotten.”

He took Luc's arm and walked him to the door, speaking quietly to him as he did. Auguste watched the scene as he had so many before. Buonaparte was still a master at making people do his will. And they always felt pleasure in doing it. He wondered again what this man would have become if he had not been born to a poor Corsican family. But what difference does that make? he told himself. He could not have more power if he was the head of a country. In fact, he would probably have less.

Sartene walked slowly to his desk and eased himself into his chair. He was tired, exhausted by the emotions of the day. He opened the center drawer and took out the gold medallion he always kept locked away there. He fondled the rectangular emblem of his power within the
milieu
, then raised his eyes to Auguste.

“It's long overdue that I pass this on,” he said. His voice was soft and distant. “There must be some continuity of our strength for all those who depend on us for their bread.”

“And you worry now that Pierre is not the person. You find him lacking in just one meeting?” There was annoyance in Auguste's voice.

Sartene chuckled softly. “Don't be impatient with me,” he said. “Pierre is a good boy, a fine young man. A good grandson. Whether he has the strength to be
un vrai monsieur
, I cannot yet tell. But what is more important is that he may not want to be.” Sartene wagged his head from side to side. “And who could blame him? There is wealth, there is power, but the price for it is very large. I've worked all my life for the day he would take my place. What a foolish thing to work for, eh?” He placed the medallion back in the drawer, then closed and locked it. “Who could blame him if he didn't want it now?” He stroked his nose thoughtfully. “I don't doubt his love. But he may see our life here as the life of criminals.”

“I don't believe he thinks of us that way,” Auguste said.

“It is possible, my friend. Though he would never say it to us. Remember, I sent him off to be raised in a country where everything is viewed as this or that.” Sartene used his hands to emphasize the difference. “Even their history ignores the bad in people they choose to make heroes, and puts a mark on the people they decide are evil. And it's a mark that doesn't wash away.” He watched Auguste twist uncomfortably in his chair. “You've never read their history, Auguste. I have. The men who built the railroads across their country. How many oriental workers they slaughtered in that no one really knows. How many Indians, how many farmers who were in their way. But these people are great heroes to the Americans. The men who led the revolution were slavekeepers, but no one writes about these Africans who lived in filth and suffered and died at their hands. And the men we dealt with, the men from the embassy who came to us asking us to help build the opium trade. They will go down in American history books as statesmen.” He jabbed his fingers into his chest. “And we will be the monsters who helped put heroin into the arms of their children. Not them, Auguste. Never them. And I tell you, my friend, these heroes have committed more crimes with the points of their pens than you and I ever dreamed of. You and I have killed, Auguste. More than any man should ever kill, and I don't excuse us for it. But when we killed it was to preserve our own lives, or those who depended on us. How many men have these heroes killed? How many are they going to kill in this war that they could have won in a year, but choose to go on with so their friends and the people they owe can make money? These are the things that Pierre does not yet see. But he sees us. And to some degree he may see us through their eyes.”