The Corsican (54 page)

Her eyes hardened, glared at him for a moment, then became amused again. “He was outraged. And he had the poor taste to die with outrage on his lips. But then, he was more pompous than you.”

“You must have gotten along well together.”

Lin pursed her lips, shaking her head slightly. “Don't ruin it, Peter. Don't become predictable. I regret this. Truly. You could have been very useful to me. And you were an enjoyable diversion.” She watched the pain flash across his eyes. She laughed softly.

He continued to talk, knowing he would have to move against her soon. He hoped he would not have to kill her. “How long have you been with the VC?”

“Oh, a long time, Peter. Since school in Paris. It is the wave of the future for my country. A country without outsiders.”

“May I sit?” he asked.

She smiled at him, her face as beautiful as he had always found it. “No, I'm afraid not. You have the quaint little holster in your back pocket, I suppose,” she said.

He nodded.

“Then I think I'll just let you stand until my man can relieve you of it.” She jerked her head toward the doors that led to the garden. “Tran,” she called. “Come here. At once.”

She kept her eyes on Peter, the trace of a smile remaining on her full lips. Her voice had held full command as she called her man, and now her eyes showed the hard coldness that would make others obey. He wondered why he had never seen it before.

“It will all be over soon, my love,” she said.

“Very soon, Cao.” The words came from the garden door, soft and tonal, a woman's words.

Peter's eyes jerked toward the sound as the spit of the silenced automatic filled the room. His eyes jumped back to Lin, his mind screaming the word
no
to his brain.

The white blouse blossomed with red, spreading, filling the area around her breasts. The smile was gone, her mouth a twisted circle now, no longer beautiful. Her head tilted to one side, her mind fighting to comprehend. She staggered slightly to one side. One step, two. The pistol fell from her hand, clattering against the top of the table, then falling silently to the carpet. Her body spun, twisting, and fell to the carpeted floor, a rag doll thrown away by a bored child.

He watched it, unable to move. It had happened in seconds, but seemed longer, drawn out, burning itself into his memory. He stared down at her. Her body was slack, almost sinking into the carpet. Her eyes stared up at him, unseeing. He turned back to the garden doors. Molly Bloom walked slowly toward him. Behind her a squat, square oriental moved stiffly, a silencer-equipped pistol in his hand, the barrel still smoking.

Peter's eyes filled with hate as he watched them approach. His eyes stopped her.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“You knew.” His voice was low and hoarse.

She nodded.

“How long?”

“Several years,” she said.

Her face was impassive. The knowledge mattered little to her. What she has just witnessed, even less, he thought.

“And you told no one.”

“It wasn't my business to tell anyone, Peter.”

“But you followed me here. Why?”

“We should go, Peter. It's not wise for us to stay here now.”

“Why?” he shouted.

Po stepped forward, his eyes hard, ready to halt any violence against Molly. She raised her arm, stopping him.

“I was told to keep watch on you, Peter. I work for Buonaparte. He owns the Room of a Thousand Mirrors. It was Carbone's house once. You might say he inherited it.”

Peter drew a deep breath, then looked away, concentrating on a far wall.

“And he knew about this too,” Peter said. “About Lin.” He jerked his head toward her body.

Molly nodded.

“And he told you not to tell me?”

She smiled softly. “Buonaparte could not interfere in these matters. He told you that. His only concern was to protect you from danger. We made sure of that by remaining close to the situation. If she had not intended to …” She let the words die, tilting her head to one side. “Perhaps she would have left the VC for you. There was no way to know that.” There was compassion in her eyes.

“All along my grandfather has kept his little secrets. Even in this,” Peter snapped.

“He wanted to tell you about her, Peter. But he was afraid she might sense your knowledge. She would have killed you.”

A sound came from outside, the street or the garden.

“She had a man with her,” Peter said.

Molly nodded. “I know. We followed him as he followed you. Po eliminated him.”

Peter glared at her. “You're all very efficient, aren't you?” he snapped. “Just like my grandfather. Very efficient at using people.”

“Come, Peter. We must leave.”

“What about her?”

“They'll think the VC did this. In some ways they did. Years ago.”

Peter turned and looked down at Lin's lifeless body. The white blouse was saturated with her blood now, and it gathered in a widening pool beneath her. All color was gone from her face, the soft, sallow skin becoming gray, the lips drawn tight, against slack jaws. He looked away, closing his eyes, then turned and walked toward the garden door.

“What shall I tell Buonaparte?” Molly called after him.

“Tell him I'm tired of Corsican games,” he said. “He hasn't trusted my abilities from the beginning. Now he'll have to. I'm through playing the pawn in his personal end game.” He could feel the anger building in his gut. “Tell him I'm well trained and I'll do what has to be done. My own way.”

The bedroom was dimly lit, the only light coming from outside, inching through the not fully drawn drapes on the window. Molly sat in a green velour chair in one corner, her feet beneath her, hands held in her lap, clenched but still shaking. She was wearing a light full-length robe, and her hair was wet. She had showered as soon as she had returned, wanting to wash away all that she had witnessed; all that she had done.

Lin. Cao. She had observed her activities from a distance for several years, and had long before become an admirer of the woman's strength, her ability. She had no admiration for her philosophy, her tactics, but the woman herself, that was something different. She closed her eyes. It had been so easy. So necessary and so easy. A vision of Lin's body rushed into her mind, then was replaced by the pain and hatred on Peter's face. Yes, he would hate her now, and perhaps he should. Almost from the beginning she had wanted to reach out to him. There had been an attraction, more emotional than physical, although the physical had been there as well. But she had known from the start he was Buonaparte's grandson, and there had been work to do, the need to protect him. No, not protect. To watch over him while he made his own way through the covert labyrinth that surrounded every step he took, and still did.

Perhaps if you had allowed feelings to be known, reached out even slightly, allowed him to reach for you. Perhaps then the involvement with Lin could have been avoided. A slight sense of envy gripped her, and she dismissed it, sensing the unworthiness of it. No, there had been no time for emotions, for personal desire or need. Throughout her life there had never been enough time for those luxuries. There had been time only for struggle. She thought of Peter again, his face, the pain, the hatred. Then earlier, the small knowing smile, the sense of gentleness hidden beneath the strength. Tears came to her eyes, and she brushed them away with one hand. Molly Bloom does not cry, she told herself. Again the tears returned.

Chapter 37

Morris had noticed the change in Peter. He did not know Peter well, hardly at all really, but the flip confidence and the quiet, amused intelligence had dulled, hardened into something else. Morris had seen it before. Young reporters out to save the world, young people who had had their tails kicked severely for the first time, jaded now, realizing nothing would be saved by them or anyone else, could not be, and, perhaps even worse, was not worth saving even if it could be.

Still, he was pleased with the new devotion to the cause, the trail of heroin inside the paper war his country was inexplicably fighting. And Peter's new intensity heightened his own. They just might find out, he told himself, wanting to believe it, needing to, just to make the day-to-day madness tolerable. But still he wondered about the man, the change in the man.

Nine miles west of Vientiane, Buonaparte Sartene wondered as well. The anger his grandson felt preyed on his mind. But he did nothing, knew from experience there was nothing he could do. Pierre had to learn by himself, come to his own understanding of the life that surrounded him. He hoped it would happen. His people would keep watch over Pierre while he waited, and he knew the major danger to his grandson would come now from Pierre himself. That, he knew, was something he could not control.

Another man also worried about control. Hidden away in Cholon, Francesco Canterina mulled over his repeated failures, tried to rationalize them, knowing in his own mind that he was still fighting the protection of the man he had hidden from for fourteen years. The fool Duc had failed him. Even Cao, whom he had used even though it jeopardized his own safety, had failed. Only Buonaparte could be behind it, controlling it all. He knew it, felt it. It left only one alternative, one he had hoped he would not have to use. But now it was a question of his own survival. He would use this man Morris to lead Pierre to the heroin supply route, and to the men who would then have to destroy him. It might also destroy everything he had, everything he had worked to achieve for himself. It would, unless he was clever, more clever than he had been so far. But he had no choice. Eventually Pierre would find him and try to kill him. Only a fool would not strike first. And he was not a fool.

Morris was hung over and irritable. Eight o'clock in the morning was not his time of day, not anywhere near it. As he stood in the Tan Son Nhut terminal the fact was made clearer every moment. The crush of bodies, moving in and out. Fresh, young, expectant faces of new troops arriving. The anxious anticipation of those about to leave. The uncaring faces of the Vietnamese, themselves tolerating the crush they had no hope to control, merely living with it, just as they had lived with the French and all the others who had come before, and would probably come after.

Morris mopped his forehead. Eight o'clock, and already the heat made you sweat. He smiled to himself, thinking that the better part of a bottle of Jack Daniel's the night before might have something to do with it as well. He wondered if he would ever stop pouring booze down his throat that way. He doubted it. At least he didn't drink in the morning, not yet anyway.

He stretched his body, craning his neck to see over the mass of humanity moving through the terminal. It made his head hurt, so he resigned himself to wait patiently. He had met the Frenchman three days ago, a casual conversation in the Caravelle Bar. Somehow they had begun talking about heroin, about the drugs the kids fighting the war were pumping into their bodies. He wasn't sure how the conversation had begun, but he was not surprised that it had. It was part of the war to him, perhaps the worst part, and if it continued the way it was going—children fighting a war no one was trying to win—even those who went home would not survive it. So he talked about it to anyone who would listen.

The Frenchman had said he could help him, show him something that would open the door for him. He had laughed at the time, but the Frenchman had insisted. He had been in Southeast Asia for more than a dozen years, he had explained. He knew things, he had said, things a reporter interested in heroin would like to know. They agreed on a price of two hundred dollars, U.S., if the information was worthwhile. Cash on delivery. He reached in his pocket and fingered the money, hoping he would spend it, not believing he would. He had gone this route too many times before. He looked at his watch. His newfound friend and benefactor, Edouard, was ten minutes late.

“You look worried, my friend. Impatient and worried.”

Morris looked to the sound of the voice. The man he knew as Edouard grinned at him, the cigarette dangling from his mouth twitching with the curve of his lips.

“I was beginning to think you were going to stiff me, Edouard,” Morris said.

Francesco Canterina laughed, enjoying the aptness of Morris' choice of words. “Never, my friend. I'm going to show you something you've been wondering about for a long time.”

“Really?” Morris smirked. “And what would that be?”

Francesco took Morris' arm and began walking him toward the stairs that led to the observation desk. “Oh, nothing very much on the surface. But if you have a friend who can investigate within the military compound here, I can show you where to look to find how heroin leaves Saigon. Something those involved call the long silver train.”

When Peter reached the observation desk, Morris was pacing back and forth like a circus cat awaiting his daily ration of meat. He looked terrible, more rumpled than usual, Peter observed, and his attempt at shaving had been only partially successful. But you know the feeling, Peter told himself. Especially over the past weeks.

Seeing him now, Morris raced toward him with a degree of energy that forced Peter to smile. Morris grabbed his shoulders between his hands. “We got it,” he said. “By Jesus, I think we really have got it.”

Peter eased himself back. The smell of stale booze that poured off Morris was overwhelming.

“What have we got?” he asked. “All you said over the phone was that it was big and to get my ass down here. What's so big?”

“I'm sorry about all the mystery, but I didn't want to risk saying anything on the phone. If it's right, and goddammit, all of it seems to fit like a glove, then we've got the bastards. We can follow the stuff right back to the people behind it.”

“Where'd you get this?” Peter asked.

“That's the one thing I can't tell you, buddy. It cost me two hundred bucks and the promise of confidentiality. I'm afraid that still means something in my business.”