The Corsican (50 page)

His thoughts turned to his grandfather. The man amazed him, even more so now than as a child. It was as though a network of wires went out from the massive old house, reaching everywhere, then reporting back on all that occurred. Even unimportant things. Yet nothing, no small bit of information, seemed unimportant to the old man. He was like a senile old pack rat. But instead of old newspapers and bits of string, he collected old happenings, scraps of conversation, and Lord knew what else.

This last time their talk had strayed away from anything to do with his grandfather's business, or his own. Only when he was about to leave did the old man again caution him to move carefully, to reconsider the method of his search for Francesco. Their talk had been just that. Talk. They spoke in more detail of his life in America. His growing up with a lack of interest in team sports—anything involving chasing a ball, as he liked to put it—preferring activities that challenged him alone against an obstacle or a solitary individual. It had seemed to please his grandfather, to be something he could understand. He had also understood the loneliness Peter had felt growing up. Unsure of his place throughout his teenage years. Remembering past places he could not return to, nor speak about to others for fear of discovery.

But it had been like that for his grandfather as well. In that one way, at least, they were alike. He had questioned him more intently about his youth in Corsica, the days in Marseille and later in the resistance. He had not asked about the years in Laos, knowing somehow he should not. The only exception had been questions about his father, more details about his death. And he had regretted those questions almost as soon as they were asked, seeing the strain and the suffering they caused the old man. He had wondered if his life made any sense at all without the life of his grandfather, and the past that it involved. And if that was true, how then could his life, so different, relate to the life of that old man sitting on the banks of the Mekong?

Peter ran his tongue over his lips, realizing his mouth was even drier now. Too much work, all this thinking, he told himself. Ahead, at the corner joining Nguyen Hue Street, an old peasant woman was beginning to gather her merchandise together after another day of street sales. Among the items were small boxes of dried fruit, which he thought might ease his growing thirst.

The old woman looked up at him expectantly as he stopped before her. She was small and thin and had a conical hat pushed back on her head, and as he squatted down to face her, the shape of the hat reminded him of the halos in religious paintings, a golden circle that surrounded her wrinkled, flat-featured head.

“A bag of fruit, Grandmother?” he suggested in Vietnamese. “But just a small bag that I can eat while walking.”

His clear use of the language, properly spoken, appeared to amuse her. He could see it behind her eyes. She turned her head to the side and spit red betel nut juice into the gutter beside her.

The old woman extended the small bag of fruit. “Fifty P,” she said, her voice high and broken with age.

The price was so outrageous Peter was forced to laugh. He looked at the old woman, sternly, noting the small gold cross she wore around her neck.

Peter reached into his pocket and took out the money, pulling it back as she reached for it.

“Will you go to church tonight, Grandmother?” he asked.

The old woman gave him a strange look, then shrugged her shoulders.

“I want you to go to church tonight, Grandmother. And I want you to confess to the priest that you robbed a poor young American.”

He held out the bill to her and she took it, raising it to her mouth to hide her giggling. “One cannot steal from the rich,” she said. “One can only take back what they have already taken from the poor.”

Peter widened his eyes. “Grandmother,” he said, feigning shock. “You talk like a communist. Are you VC, Grandmother?”

The old woman tittered again, hiding her mouth from him.

“You must confess that also,” Peter said. “The Pope, in Rome, he does not approve of communists.”

“The Pope in Rome is rich also,” she said, again giggling over her outrageous sacrilege.

Peter walked on, leaving the old woman behind. He shifted his shotgun-filled briefcase up under his left arm, so he could hold the bag of fruit in his left hand and pick into it with his right. He could hear the old woman's laughter fading behind him. Another name to add to the list of Cao suspects, he told himself.

He had begun his list of suspects last week, partly to amuse himself, partly to relieve his own frustration with his search for Francesco. He had told Molly that he had placed her chief barman on the list; Lin, that her maid was his primary suspect. Even Morris' pet hate, a notorious Australian journalist who reported the war from Hanoi and specialized in fictitious American germ-warfare stories.

Peter walked on, telling himself none of it mattered. Every army throughout history had believed its side just, its enemies evil. He thought of his grandfather's words, used to describe, but not explain, his own life.
I never tried to understand what was good and what was evil in the world
, he had said.
I only tried to understand how the world was, and what I had to do to survive in it
.

Peter smiled to himself. Not a very ethical view. Certainly not according to Judeo-Christian standards.

He continued along the sidewalk of this street, which had become his favorite in Saigon. The Street of Flowers. Now nothing but empty stalls, only the fragrance of the cut flowers left behind.

Peter popped a piece of fruit into his mouth and sauntered on. He would not see Lin tonight, and had not yet decided if he would go to the Room of a Thousand Mirrors. Perhaps a quiet meal alone and early sack time. It would be a novelty, certainly, he decided.

Across the street, about twenty-five yards ahead, a casually dressed Vietnamese stepped from a doorway, looking in his direction. He continued up the street at a pace slower than Peter's. Alerted to the man's interest, Peter forced his senses to sharpen. There was movement behind as well. He paused at a flower stand, picking up a wilted stem. Directly behind him, thirty yards away, two more Vietnamese kept pace, eyes on him. Across the street from them, a fourth, and twenty yards behind him, a fifth, who might or might not be part of the others.

Peter felt his stomach tighten; his mouth began to turn dry again. Perhaps his imagination was playing games with him, but every instinct in his body told him otherwise. Slowly he shifted the bag of fruit to his right hand and allowed the briefcase to drop down into his left. The 12-gauge over-and-under shotgun was loaded with double-O buck magnum shells that would drop a bear in its tracks at close range. But there were only two shells, and four or five men. He thought of the .25 caliber Colt automatic in his wallet holster, knowing he would have to get to it before they moved. Once they did, if they were good, if they were professionals, there would not be time. He erased all thought of the men's being amateurs. They had moved in on him without his knowing. They had bracketed him. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he told himself. Out walking in a deserted area alone.

He started back up the street, studying the stalls. The man ahead began to cross the street. No time left to pick a place, he told himself. At the next break in the stalls, he ducked and darted between them, circling one and coming up in the narrow opening between the next two. The stalls were close together, with solid facing on the front and sides. Enough for concealment, but certainly not adequate cover against incoming rounds. He came to a crouching stop between the two stands and reached for the Colt in his hip pocket. Footsteps pounded the sidewalk, coming in both directions. Before the automatic was free the first man, the one who had been ahead of him, came to a sliding halt between the stalls. Peter grabbed the briefcase, shoving his right hand into the side opening, hitting the safety and the trigger simultaneously with his thumb and index finger. The briefcase erupted just as the Vietnamese leveled his own automatic pistol. His chest absorbed the full impact of the double-O pellets. The body of the small man lifted into the air and hurtled back, almost like someone pulled up and away by a parachute harness. Then he dropped raglike into the street, the white shirt now red with blood.

Peter spun, moving mechanically now, and circled the stall, heading back toward the point where he had first ducked between the stalls. The sound of running feet passed him on the sidewalk, followed by gunfire into the position he had just left. He stood quietly, leveled the briefcase and fired again, the pellets smashing into the head of another Vietnamese, shredding pieces from it like chunks of melon.

Dropping the briefcase, Peter yanked the Colt from the holster and threw himself forward, rolling as he hit the ground, then scrambling forward when he reached another opening between the stalls. Around his head the stall began to explode as bullets sent chips of wood slicing through the air. Peter darted forward, rose up and fired at one of the two remaining men. The shot missed and the automatic jammed, breech open. Frantically Peter pulled at the slide, trying to clear the pistol. A short, squat Vietnamese wearing a black T-shirt jumped into the opening between the stands and swung his weapon toward Peter, then suddenly flew from view as if pulled by some unseen hand. The fourth man appeared, his eyes darting to Peter, then back along the street. Peter did not wait. He jumped forward and stuck out with his foot, a sharp, crisp blow that caught the man on the side of the head and sent him flying into the street. More footsteps. He spun. The fifth man, pistol in hand, was four feet from him. Peter was off balance and lashed out wildly with his foot, but the man sidestepped the blow easily and a returning kick caught Peter in the ribs, just below the heart, driving the breath from his body and sending him crashing back into a stall, then spinning to the ground. The Colt clattered into the street. Before his eyes could clear, the man straddled him, pressing the silencer-equipped pistol into his throat.

Through a slight haze Peter could see the hard eyes of the oriental, the flat emotionless face. The tip of the silencer pressed harder against his throat. He waited, watching the man's face, anticipating the impact of the bullet. The oriental's face broke into a slow smile.

“You were never very good, Pierre. I always said you were too big and too slow. But you did take three of them, and that's not too bad.”

Peter's brain fogged, then quickly cleared. The pistol came away from his throat. “Luc?” he said, his voice still trembling with the expectation of death that continued to course through his body.

Luc stood and held out his hand. “Get up, my brother. You look foolish.”

Peter took his hand and allowed Luc to pull him to his feet, “But how … why?”

“Your grandfather. But now we must leave here.”

A groan came from behind him, and Luc spun with the quickness of an animal, setting himself to fire as he did. The man in the street, the one Peter had kicked, twisted in pain. Luc leveled the pistol.

“No,” Peter said, touching his arm. “I want to find out who sent him.”

“I'll do it,” Luc said. He moved to the man and jammed the gun against his nose. “If you wish to live you will say quickly who sent you,” he snapped at the man.

Peter heard the name and felt his stomach tighten.

Luc raised the pistol and stood. “Go tell him that he has offended my kaitong, Buonaparte Sartene. Also tell him further offense will mean his death and the death of all his family.”

Luc turned away and grabbed Peter's arm. His eyes were colder than any Peter had ever seen. “Come, we must get out of here before the police arrive. Get your briefcase, while I get your pistol.” Peter obeyed without question, stopping only to glance at the dead.

Back at his hotel, Peter held a glass of Scotch in his hand, and noticed a slight tremor. He placed the glass on the table before him, looked at his hand, then at Luc.

“I don't remember it shaking while it all was going on, but it sure as hell hasn't stopped since it ended.”

Luc watched as Peter drew a long breath. “Sometimes the hand has more sense than the man. It knows when it should be afraid.”

Peter continued to look at his hand. “It also never killed anyone before. I think it's surprised at how easy it was.”

“Killing a man who tries to kill you is never difficult, my brother,” Luc said.

Peter raised his eyes to Luc. “And harder when the man isn't trying to kill you?”

“That depends on the man,” Luc said.

“And you've done both for my grandfather.” There was no question in Peter's voice.

“I've done both. The reasons and for whom are unimportant.” Luc said.

Peter stood, walked toward the terrace, then turned back to face Luc. “That man,” he said. “You told him to tell the one who sent him that a further offense would mean his death and the death of his family. Will he believe the message?”

“He will believe it,” Luc said. A slight smile formed on his lips. “Colonel Duc will believe it more than if it came from the president of your adopted country. Sometimes presidents forget offenses.”

“But my grandfather doesn't.”

“That is why he is seldom offended.”

Peter walked back to his chair and sat heavily. He paused a moment. “By the way, Luc. The third man, the one who fell after my weapon jammed. Was that you?”

“It was an easy shot,” Luc said.

“Well, thank you for the easy shot. I thought I'd bought the farm right there.” Peter laughed. “I was sure of it after you knocked me on my ass and shoved your pistol in my throat.”

Luc's face screwed up. “Bought the farm?” he asked.

“A military expression. American,” Peter said. “It means dying.”

“A strange language,” Luc said, shaking his head. “So different from English.”

Peter poured more Scotch into his glass, and took a long swallow. “I suppose I owe you an explanation about why those men came for me,” he said.