The Corsican (48 page)

Her body, long and lithe, yet full with a delicate, graceful ampleness, responded in a series of rapid orgasms, each seeming to reach higher than the one before, each threatening exhaustion, before recapturing her passion and lifting her again.

Finally, she intertwined her hands in his hair, lifting him away from her and urging him up. “Come to me. Now. Please.” Her voice was rough and pleading, and when he entered her she seemed to explode in a wild, rhythmic acrobatic dance, delighting in her own movements, joining her pleasure with his.

When his own climax could no longer be withheld, Peter felt his own passion and pleasure flowing through him in a rush longer and more shattering than he had ever known. Even when it was over his body continued to move with a will of its own, thrusting against her, into her, grasping for the warmth that seemed to rise from her, the scent of lotus overpowering.

He lay next to her, stroking her, drained, exhausted, eyes closed, mind continuing to enjoy the pleasure that had just ended.

Minutes passed. He could not be sure how many. She rose up next to him on an elbow; her hair hung down, surrounding her face like a dark, silken veil. He felt a smile come to his lips, matching her own.

“You've had your way with me,” she said, her eyes glistening with mischief. “Now it is my turn to have my way with you.”

And so it began again.

Chapter 32

“I think he should be told who this woman is.” Molly Bloom sat in the dark-paneled study, her eyes intense, her delicate body appearing almost childlike in the oversized leather chair.

Buonaparte Sartene steepled his fingers before his face. He looked at the woman thoughtfully. “We have no reason to believe that she knows Pierre's identity. Or that she has had any recent contact with Francesco. Your people still follow her? And Pierre?”

Molly nodded, but the note of concern remained in her eyes. “My man, Po, remains close to him. I have kept it that way, even though Luc is now also nearby.” She shook her head. “But there are times when we cannot be close enough. There are times when they are alone, Buonaparte. The other night, in his hotel room, for example.”

Auguste spoke from the corner of the sofa. “Philippe had someone in the kitchen then. There was protection.”

Molly twisted in her seat. “There is also the question of Cao's possible contact with Francesco.”

“There has been no evidence of that,” Buonaparte said.

“No, but I can't be certain.” Molly sat forward in her chair. “Cao wields a great deal of authority in Saigon, and Francesco's protection, when he is in the south, comes from her people. We have a servant Working in Colonel Duc's home, and we know whenever she leaves the house and are able to follow her. But when she goes to Cholon we have no way of knowing who she meets. There are dozens of entrances to the tunnels there.”

Sartene remained silent, then looked across to Auguste.

“Molly may be right, Buonaparte,” he said, responding to Sartene's questioning stare. “We know she met with Francesco almost two years ago. It was something we learned by chance, and we have watched her since then without success. But she could be meeting with him even now.”

Sartene picked up a letter opener and balanced it between the index fingers of each hand. “This woman is still the closest contact we have to Francesco's movements in the south.” He placed the letter opener back on the desk. “We did not anticipate this
friendship
between Pierre and this woman. But perhaps it is a good thing.”

“It is also more dangerous for Pierre,” Molly said. “There's Colonel Duc. If he knew of their friendship …” She let her words fall away.

“And there's the woman herself. She is very clever and very committed. I don't doubt she finds him attractive, but her reasons for being with him go beyond that.”

Sartene steepled his fingers again and nodded. “Yes, Duc could present a problem, and we will have to watch for that.” He sat up straight and leaned forward. “But we know this woman has had other ‘friendships' with both American and Vietnamese intelligence people. It is the way she stays one step ahead of them. And our pompous little colonel always remained ignorant of it all. As far as the woman is concerned, you are right. She is very clever. But that's another reason why Pierre should not know who she is. If his reaction to her suddenly changed, she might be even more dangerous.” He drew a deep breath. “But the main threat is still Francesco. And the only way we can protect Pierre is by drawing Francesco out in the open. Pierre understands that. I only hope we can do it before Pierre becomes too involved in this heroin plan of his, and draws in others who are just as dangerous to him as Francesco.”

Molly was silent for several moments, as if trying to decide if she should say more. Buonaparte noticed the hesitation and smiled. “Is there something else?”

“Yes. But I'm not sure it's something you want to hear.”

Sartene lowered his voice to a soothing near-whisper. “Molly, we have worked together for several years now, and I know you always speak for the good of our group.”

“This is more about your own good, Buonaparte. And Pierre's.” She hesitated again, then set her jaw firmly and continued. “Have you considered that he might become emotionally involved with this woman, and then learn later that certain facts. were kept from him?”

Sartene stared at the top of his desk, then back at Molly. “I understand what you are saying. I can only hope he will understand.”

Sartene stood, walked around his desk and took Molly's hand. “You are going back to Saigon this afternoon?”

“Yes.” Molly stood and looked into Buonaparte's eyes. She had a great affection for the man, and she knew he was gambling with things that meant more to him than his own life.

“Watch Pierre closely, Molly,” Sartene said. “We are entering a very dangerous time.”

Auguste walked Molly down the long hallway, noting that she seemed distant, worried. He took her arm, stopping her.

“You are bothered by Buonaparte's decision,” he said.

She nodded. “There are too many risks in it,” she said.

“Yes. But we always knew they would exist. And so does Pierre.”

Molly's green eyes flashed at him. “He doesn't know them all.”

“The woman worries you.” He paused, then smiled at her. “Perhaps you too find our Pierre attractive?” he teased.

Molly looked at him sharply, then laughed. “I've told you, Auguste, I'm saving myself for you.” She looked away. “Besides, I doubt Pierre would be interested in a woman who operates my type of business.”

Auguste took her arm again. “We have raised him to be a better man than that.”

It was late afternoon when his “chance” meeting with Lin took place amid the flower stalls of Nguyen Hue Street. She was wearing a simple western dress, a pale blue that seemed almost silver in the muted sunlight. She smiled discreetly as he approached, but in her eyes he could see the same desire he felt spreading through his body.

“What a lovely surprise, Ba Lin,” he said in Vietnamese. “And such a wonderful afternoon to be among the flowers here.”

“It is also good to see you, captain,” she said, her voice demure and proper for any who might overhear. “I seem to be getting carried away with my purchases and I was beginning to wonder who I would find to help me.”

“Ah, Ba Lin. We Americans are here to assist in any way we can. President Johnson has ordered it.”

She stepped closer and whispered in English, “Don't you get carried away, captain. If I ask for the assistance I truly want, we shall be the scandal of Saigon.”

“That's a lovely thought,” he whispered back. “But I'm afraid all these flowers would wilt if that happened.”

She spun quickly, moving like a dancer, and gathered up her flowers, then turned and thrust half of them into his arms. “I must get them home before they do wilt,” she said, repressing a smile. “I have left my car on Cach Mang. Will you help me with them until there?” She had begun speaking Vietnamese again, and the high, lilting tonal quality of the words seemed almost songlike.

“Of course I will, Ba Lin.”

They walked slowly along the crowded street, turned into still another and continued on until they could see JFK Square in the distance. Peter could not help but notice that no angry eyes met them as they walked. There was no open displeasure at seeing this American with a Vietnamese woman. Not this woman, anyway.

Peter glanced at Lin, and immediately understood. The dignity and self-possession with which she walked defied any accusation, no matter how veiled. Her obvious social stature and presence were such that her chance meeting with an American officer and his willingness to help her simply could not be questioned.

As they approached JFK Square the crowds thinned. Peter shifted the shotgun-weighted briefcase that he now carried at all times. Doing so, his grip loosened on the flowers and several fell to the ground.

“Clumsy occidental oaf,” Lin whispered.

“I thought the term was ‘big hairy American,'” he whispered back.

“That too,” she said. “But such lovely soft blond hair.”

He stooped to pick up the fallen flowers. A quick movement caught his eye, a man turning away. Too abruptly, he thought. It was a swarthy man, with graying hair. Innocent enough. But still turning away too quickly. He picked up the flowers and they started again. At the center of JFK Square he paused and looked around, playing the tourist. The man had continued to move behind them, and now had turned away again, this time to light a cigarette.

“Where are your bodyguards?” he asked.

“Only my driver is with me today, and I had him wait at the car.”

Concern began to mount in Peter. Not for himself, but for Lin. He did not want trouble with her there. He would make an excuse, get her to her car, then find the man and learn his reason for following them.

She pouted openly when he told her he had to return to the office.

“But this evening, for dinner?” he said.

“It's the dessert I really want,” she said. “But I can't. I have a commitment I cannot escape.”

“Then tomorrow,” he said. “Dinner at the hotel?”

She smiled. “And dessert,” she added. “Definitely dessert.”

When her car was off, he doubled back quickly, cutting down a nearby alley that ran into a short side street, then led to another alley that would place him behind anyone following. When he emerged back on Cach Mang there were few people, none that were European. He doubled back through the two alleys and returned to where Lin's car had been parked: Again no one. His imagination? Probably. But he doubted it.

The disappearance of the swarthy man, and the prospect of being alone that evening—without Lin—depressed Peter, and he decided he would treat himself to dinner at the Room of a Thousand Mirrors.

When he entered the elaborate old mansion shortly after seven o'clock, Molly Bloom was descending the elegant stairway that led to both her office and the exotic playroom above. She was dressed in a shimmering silk
ao dai
of emerald green, and even from a distance it seemed to accentuate the green in her eyes.

She nodded to Peter as she moved down the stairs, the look knowing and slightly deprecating in an amused way. He watched her descend, again struck by her fragile yet enduring beauty. Immediately he began to compare her with Lin. She was more beautiful, more exotic, he could not deny it. Yet there was something about her, something hard and … no, not hard, he corrected himself. It was an inner toughness he found difficult to accept in a beautiful woman. He immediately wondered why. It was something he found agreeable in men.

She approached him with an effortless grace that seemed to contradict everything else about her. She stopped beside him, lifted a cigarette set in a gold holder, and smiled. “Do you have light, Peter?” she asked.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a battered Zippo lighter, opened its large, clumsy top and lit her cigarette.

She blew the smoke to one side, then turned back to him. Her eyes were amused again.

“Tell me, Peter. You don't smoke, so why do you carry that decrepit old lighter?”

“To light cigarettes for ladies who ask unnecessary questions,” he said, damned if he would allow her to use her extraordinary verbal combativeness on him tonight. He softened his words with a smile that matched her own. “Actually it was my father's. He carried it through his war, and gave it to me as sort of a good-luck charm when I left home. He told me it would come in handy. Now it has, hasn't it?”

She ignored him, glancing instead into the crowded bar to her left. “Did you come for dinner, Peter?” She watched him nod, then looked toward the front door. “It's going to be crowded and noisy tonight. I was going out to the My Canh floating restaurant in Cholon. Would you care to join me?”

“Only if you'll be my guest this time,” he said.

Molly allowed her eyes to close slightly, as if recalling their last dinner together. It forced Peter to remember it as well. “Of course,” she said, smiling as if reading his mind. “My car is out front.”

Molly Bloom's car was a large black Citroën, with a glassed and curtained divider between the driver's compartment and the rear passenger area. The interior was a deep-green velour, soft and sensual, with seats that seemed to engulf and caress the body.

Molly turned toward him, her eyes picking up the color of the seats, as the car moved slowly into the evening traffic. “We have not seen you in several days, Peter. But from what I hear, you have been very busy.”

“From what you hear?” Peter questioned.

“Ah, Saigon is such a gossipy place, especially among your military. And intelligence officers seem to gossip more about each other than anyone else.”

“I doubt that, Molly. But I don't at all doubt your ability to keep watch on all of us.”