The Corsican (45 page)

“But you've done good for your people too,” Auguste said. “He will see that.”

Sartene shook his head slowly, dismissing the idea. “I have a good grandson, and I have seen him grow into a man of power within himself. Perhaps the rest was all a dream, and dreams are for children.”

“It can still happen, my friend.”

“Anything can happen, Auguste. But we must also look to others now. If I die before you, it will be you who will have to pass on the medallion.

“I will give it to Pierre,” Auguste said.

Sartene laughed, loving his friend for his stubborn loyalty. When he spoke his voice was firm. “No. A man has to want the medallion. And he has to want the burdens of others that go with it. You will choose for the
milieu
, not for me. But for now, we must just keep our Pierre alive.”

“Have you told him about the woman?” Auguste asked.

Sartene shook his head. “She will be no danger to him. And she is being watched by our own people.”

“But if Pierre succeeds with this plan of his, she may act to protect Francesco.”

“I am hoping we will lure Francesco out before that. And if we do, Luc will be waiting. If the woman becomes a danger …” Sartene shrugged his shoulders. “Then we will do what must be done.”

Peter lay on his back, his head propped on a pillow. The room was like a trip back in time, familiar yet distant. It gave him a sense of warmth to see so much of what he remembered. Yet it all came out of a haze, something that was a part of him that no longer existed. He let his mind wander back. This same room, lying in the bed. His mother coming to say good night to him. His father. Then waiting expectantly. Knowing his grandfather would come. Telling him stories. About Napoleon, the great battles, the earlier life as a poor child in Corsica, the scorn at military school in France that eventually drove him on to become emperor.

He smiled in the darkness. He had been raised with those stories as some children were raised with stories from the Bible. Told with the same degree of love, the same sense that they were necessary, would benefit the person who heard them.

It had been a good life as a child here. He felt that strongly. Playing in the fields and the outskirts of the jungle. Along the riverbank. Luc, his only friend then. Alone much of the time, but enjoying it. Allowing his mind to run, creating the games, his own world existing only in his head. It had strengthened him, he thought. Given him an understanding of competing alone, facing whatever obstacles happened to present themselves.

He looked down from the bed. Max was asleep on the floor. Old and thin and withered now. Too many years had gone by. Too many things that could not be recaptured. Perhaps should not be.

Perhaps his relationship with his grandfather was like that too. A loving memory that could remain only that. The love could remain, the affection. He was certain of that. Understanding, this was something else. And it was really a moot point. Why should he even concern himself with his grandfather's life? It was something beyond his experience, even though he had unknowingly grown up in the midst of it all.

He stared at the ceiling, the faint light from the window filtering through the mangosteen trees, creating strange, twisted shadowgraphs on the plaster. Frightening now, as they had sometimes been as a child? He wondered. Disturbing, anyway.

He must find this man Francesco. And kill him. He had trained for three years, knowing the time would come. He smiled to himself. He had been trained all his life for this, without ever knowing it. Now he would do it. And he would do it in his own way.

Chapter 28

The resort city of Vung Tau sat on a hook of land that curved out into the South China Sea, forming a wide peaceful bay. Within the bay, multicolored fishing boats rode the whitecapped green water. Beyond the broad white-sand beach, a small city of dusty streets and tile-roofed buildings seemed more suitable to a Greek island than a country torn by years of war.

“There is no war here,” Lin said, as they walked slowly along the edge of the water.

Peter looked out across the wide bay. “Over there there is.”

“Yes, but not here. It is why I like to return here often. It is the one place in my country where I can feel there is sanity.”

A wave crashed in, and Lin jumped back against Peter.

“Afraid to get your bare feet wet?” he teased.

“I know. It is silly, isn't it?”

He looked down at her and smiled inwardly. He had called her mother's home before arranging with Philippe for the forty-five-mile flight from Saigon. When he had told her he could come for the day she had seemed pleased, and when she met him at the small, dusty airport, he had realized how much seeing this woman was beginning to mean to him.

“I don't think you could ever do anything silly, Lin,” he said. “But I know you could cause others to.”

“Have I caused you to be silly, Peter?”

If you only knew, he told himself. He thought of the lie he had told Wallace, about the need to do some apartment hunting, then arranging for the unauthorized trip that could easily put his butt in a very large sling. But Wallace had been so pleased with the information Auguste had provided about new North Vietnamese supply routes that he had happily agreed. If he found out, or even worse, if Colonel Duc found out, life would not be very pleasant for Peter Bently.

“You haven't answered me, Peter,” Lin said, her voice holding the hint of inner laughter.

“I was thinking of your father-in-law.”

“Oh, I see. Then perhaps I have made you do something silly.”

“I hope you continue to,” he said.

They stopped, and Lin looked out across the bay.

“When I am here, the concerns and prejudices of my people are like the war—they are hard for me to understand.”

“It's a very beautiful place. It must have been wonderful growing up here.”

Lin turned and smiled up at him. “Yes, it was. I always loved it here. I always thought that this is what my country would be like if there were no war.”

“Sometimes I forget that the people here have never known peace. It's a hard thing to grasp.” Peter looked down at the wet sand, drew a line with his toe, then watched it disappear as the next wave inched across it. “All I've ever known is peace. Until now, anyway.”

“That was also true for the people here in Vung Tau.” Lin looked back across the bay again, as if searching for something that was there. “I never really understood the war when I was a child here. I'm afraid I led a rather sheltered life. It was when I was at school in Paris that I first understood the depth of what was happening here. I felt guilty then. Being there in safety while others were suffering at home.”

“Have you ever thought of going back to Europe?”

She turned back and smiled at him, but there was a sadness in her eyes, a melancholy, that for the moment seemed to accentuate her frail beauty.

No,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I would like to visit some day. But I shall never leave Viet Nam. It is my home, it is where I belong.” Lin seemed to sense her own mood and shook the melancholy away. She hugged herself, her hands moving along her arms. Doing so, dressed in a simple skirt and short-sleeved blouse, she looked very much like a schoolgirl. “Don't you look forward to returning home, going back to a place you feel you belong?”

Peter stared past her. But I have come home, he thought.

“I guess it's all still too new to me.” He looked back at her and noticed she was watching him closely. “I studied the region so extensively, I suppose I developed a certain feeling of closeness to the place and its people. I've wanted to come here for many years now. But the war, my part in it, has made it very different than I had hoped it would be. I would like very much to see it without the war.”

They began walking again, back along the beach to where they had left their shoes. Peter was dressed in uniform, the trousers rolled up to his knees, his cap hanging from his rear pocket. It was almost noon, and the sun beat down on them, nullifying the breeze that came off the bay. Ahead there were seafood stands along the beach, with umbrella-covered tables nearby.

“Would you like something to eat?” he asked.

“Yes, that would be nice. And then I shall take you to
cai luong
. There is a performance this afternoon.”

“Cai luong?”
Peter asked.

“Ah, your studies of our country have not been as complete as you have led me to believe.” Her eyes glittered mischievously.
“Cai luong
is our opera, folk opera really. It is very stylized, very dramatic, and everyone goes to it, the rich and the poor alike. The actors speak and sing and gesture wildly. It is very stylized and yet sophisticated at the same time. And still it is simple and very colorful. We can lose ourselves in it, and in doing that we can forget the sadness in our own lives.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Peter said.

Lin began to laugh. “It may be hard for you. Westerners have difficulty appreciating oriental music. Your Colonel Wallace once told me he thought our music sounded like a dozen cats fighting.”

“Music is like food,” Peter said. “Often it takes time to acquire a new taste.”

“Ahh, but the new is often very disturbing. To discover something new, something unexpected, can disturb the harmony surrounding a person's life. Often it can force new directions upon that person that were never anticipated.”

“Yes, I know,” Peter said.

It was four o'clock before the performance ended, and as they walked together along a crowded, dusty street, Peter realized how much the opera had captivated him. It had brought him back to days early in his childhood, before he had mastered Lao, days when he had struggled to understand the tonal jabbering of the Mua tribesmen who worked for his grandfather. Days after that with Luc, when things oriental were so much a part of his being. He had thought he had lost much of the past, but realized now it had only been driven beneath the surface, waiting to be recaptured.

“You are very quiet, Peter,” Lin said, breaking into his thoughts. “Did you find the opera upsetting?”

“In a way. But not in the way you mean. It's hard for me to explain. It was very beautiful, and it made me think of things I have not thought about for many years.”

“And you find that disturbing?”

“I find it disturbing that I was able to put them out of my mind so easily.”

They entered a small park, walking slowly along pathways bordered with flowers. Ahead, a group of young Vietnamese officers stood talking, their uniforms sharply pressed.

“I've noticed a great many young officers here,” Peter said.

“Many have been assigned here,” Lin answered. “Like Saigon, Vung Tau is a popular military assignment for the sons of the wealthy. Their parents pay a great deal of money to assure them safe places in which to serve their country. I'm afraid only the poor, and those without influence, are considered worthy of dying in battle.”

There had been a hint of bitterness in Lin's words, but it had been almost indiscernible.

“It's been that way in most wars,” he said.

She looked away, not answering him. “We should not talk of war,” she said finally, turning and smiling at him. “When we return to Saigon it will be with us again all too soon.”

“You're right,” Peter said. “I wish very much I didn't have to go back tonight. When will you be returning?”

“The day after tomorrow,” Lin said.

“I should be settled in at the hotel by then. Would you have dinner with me there when you return?”

“It would be difficult that night. But perhaps the following evening.”

As they left the park a group of children rushed forward, calling out in pidgin English for Peter to give them money. He reached into his pocket, but Lin suddenly grabbed his arm. He was surprised by the strength of her grip.

She glared at the children, a ragtag collection of five boys and two girls, all eight or nine years old. “Go from here,” she snapped in Vietnamese.

The children stood their ground, glancing from Lin to Peter. Lin took a quick step forward, raising her hand as if preparing to strike out at them. The children turned and ran. She spun on Peter, her eyes flashing with anger.

“You must not encourage their begging,” she said.

Peter was momentarily stunned. Lin's lips were trembling, and for a moment he thought she would strike out at him.

“I didn't mean to offend you,” he said.

“No. You think it is a kindness to encourage them.” She caught hold of herself and looked down. When her eyes went back to his face, the anger was gone. “We have little here, Peter, but our pride. We must not allow our children to lose that as well.”

He reached out and touched her arm, then let his hand fall away. “You're right,” he said. “I still have a great deal to learn.” To remember, he added to himself. “You must tell me when I act foolishly.”

She laughed quietly. “Would you believe me if I did?”

“I want to understand, Lin.”

“What is it you wish to understand, Peter? My people, or yourself?”

“Both,” he said.

Chapter 29

Joe Morris had seemed surprised by Peter's call, but had quickly agreed to meet with him. When Peter had suggested privacy for the meeting, Morris had named a Tu Do Street bar, assuring him that no one there except the hookers would pay any attention to two men sitting alone.

Peter had no trouble finding the Friendly Bar. Its neon sign flashed like a beacon, bathing the seediness of Tu Do Street in gaudy reds and blues. Outside, young Vietnamese men, dressed in the traditional white shirts and black trousers of students, stood on either side of the door, offering looks of contempt to the Americans who passed between them.

The interior of the bar surprised Peter. It was even seedier than its exterior. Behind the bar, which ran the length of the long, narrow room, more neon lighting sent out a sickly blue glow, and it caught the cigarette smoke, giving it an unpleasant, toxic quality. At a table near the door, a large, muscular young man, wearing the shoulder patch of Special Forces, leaned drunkenly toward a strikingly ugly Vietnamese woman. She giggled at his slobbering suggestions and ran her hand up and down his leg.