The Corsican (56 page)

Warren hesitated, his face showing concern. “That's unusual, isn't it? We risk the whole load sending it out that way, don't we?”

“What's to risk?” the major general said. “Once it leaves here nobody's going to open it until it gets to the funeral home. Besides, this time it has to go this way. That's how the directive came in from stateside. And I'm not about to question those orders. Are you?”

Warren snorted false laughter. “Not today,” he said.

“Or tomorrow, or the day after,” added the brigadier. “Where's the merchandise?”

“In my office,” Warren said, turning to lead the way for the others.

The conversation replayed in Peter's mind as the trio retreated into the office. Orders were coming in from somewhere, someone, who made one- and two-star generals jump. He had been watching them through the telephoto lens of the second camera, closing in on their faces individually as they talked, catching the venal expressions in their eyes.

He switched cameras, moving slowly, avoiding any possible noise. Even under the cover of the refrigeration generator he did not want to risk exposure.

The three men emerged from the office, the scene comical, even in its venality. The brigadier and the colonel each carried two wrapped packages, held one atop the other; the major general carried only one. Even in a drug deal rank held sway, Peter told himself.

The packages were placed on one of the stainless-steel carts, and as the major general began to unwrap them, Warren and the brigadier moved off to the storage area, hoisted an aluminum coffin between them and carried it back to a second cart.

Peter worked the cameras. He had already reloaded once, and now did so a second time. Using a penknife, the major general had cut through the exterior wrapping on the first package. Carefully he removed the inner covering, then lifted a plastic bag and held it up to the light. Peter focused in on the package. The outer plastic covering was stamped with an emblem depicting a tiger running above a globe.

“Huh, Tiger and Globe brand. I haven't seen this stuff in a while. Is it number four heroin?” he asked.

Warren nodded his head. “Guaranteed. Should be between eighty and ninety percent pure. It usually runs on the high side. Last shipment we got was eighty-seven. Do you want me to get the equipment and test it, general?”

“No. What the hell difference does it make? We don't have time to reject it and get more. With those problems at the Vientiane plant we'll just have to take what we get.” He moved the bag up and down in his hand, weighing it. “It seems light, though,” he said.

“You're used to the Double U-O Globe brand,” Warren said. “They ship in full kilo packages. This stuff is packaged at seven-tenths of a kilo. Our friend in the north claims it's better for smuggling at that weight.”

The brigadier chuckled softly. “Shit, he could package it in duffel bags for our purposes. Except for the stuff kept locally.”

“That reminds me, sir. What amount do I hold back for our local buyers?” Warren asked.

“Two kilos,” the two-star answered. “The rest goes. When are your local people due here?”

Warren checked his watch. “Forty-five minutes.”

“Well, we'd better get our asses moving. I want to be out of here long before then.” He turned to the brigadier. “Jim, you have the paperwork?”

The brigadier retrieved his attaché case, removed a folder and handed it to Warren. “Everything you need is right there. Can you handle the rest from this point?”

“No problem. I'll have the coffin packaged and sealed in ten minutes,” Warren said.

“All right, then, get to it,” the major general said.

With the generals watching, Warren began loading the coffin, setting aside the packages that would not be shipped. The heroin was placed in the center of the coffin, with heavy canvas body bags around the sides. On top of the canvas, Warren carefully placed several lead weights, distributing them along the length of the coffin, then covering them with more canvas. Then he replaced the top and began the process of sealing it. As a final step, the colonel prepared the label, detailing the shipping instructions, and affixed it to the side of the aluminum container. Peter focused in on the label, clicking off five frames of film.

Through the lens of the camera he read PVT. WALTER MONTANA, the name followed by U.S. ARMY and a serial number. Below was the name of next of kin, and a final destination. Paglietti Funeral Home, 249 Fifth Avenue, Brooklyn, New York, U.S.A. It was followed by the words: POSSIBLE CONTAGION. NOT TO BE OPENED. NOT TO BE VIEWED BY FAMILY, in large red letters.

Warren showed the generals to the door, opened it, then stopped. “Will somebody be by for the money from the locals tomorrow, sir?” he asked.

“Oh nine hundred, sharp,” the major general said.

“It'll be here, sir. In an envelope addressed to you and marked ‘Eyes Only,' as usual.”

When the generals had left, Warren picked up the remaining heroin and returned to his office. Forty minutes later new visitors arrived, an ARVN major, accompanied by two armed sergeants. Warren led them into his office, closing the door behind them. Peter ground his teeth. There would be no film of the exchange of heroin and money. He could only hope they were vocal about it, and that the bug he had placed in the office was working properly.

When the ARVN trio left, Warren remained in the outer room, pacing back and forth near the coffin. Fifteen minutes later two men from Graves Registration arrived. One of them glanced at the label and grimaced.

“Another ‘Do not open,' huh. Doc?” he said.

“Heavy decomposition,” Warren said. “You always have to be careful of contagion in those cases.”

The man who had spoken took a small step back.

Warren laughed. “Don't worry. As long as it isn't opened, nothing can get through the container.”

“What happens if they open it on the other end?” the second man asked.

“They don't,” Warren said. “That seal carries a lot of weight. For all they know, it could mean typhoid.”

The men lifted the coffin and carried it outside. Warren followed, locking the door behind him. Peter remained in place for a half hour, in case of an unexpected return. When he was certain, Peter manipulated each tape recorder, listening through earphones, hearing again the conversations he had just witnessed. It seemed even more unreal, Peter thought, but combined with the film, and what he still had planned, it would present quite a conclusive package. Soon Francesco would ask his new surrogates to move against him, but now he would be ready to use them himself.

Chapter 39

“Peter, he feels it's important that he speak to you. I think you owe him that small degree of respect. If you can't go there, a telephone call would do.”

Molly Bloom was seated on a small sofa in her office. Her beauty bordered on the luminous; the silver
ao dai
she wore, the brilliant green eyes, sent out waves of attraction. Sitting across from her, Peter tried to ignore it, just as he tried to avoid the image of Lin's body falling to the floor, the crimson stain of blood pushing through the white blouse. Molly and her man. The automatic in his hand. She had looked every bit as beautiful then as she did now.

She had sent him an imploring note, and he had come. Now he wished he had not.

“I have nothing to say to him right now,” he said. She began to object, but he cut her off. “I would like to know something from you, though.”

“What is that, Pierre?” There was a defensiveness in her voice in response to his antagonism.

“I'd like to know how you happened to join his happy band of Corsicans.”

“Why don't you ask your grandfather?” she said.

“I'd rather hear it from you. Or is it another Corsican secret that I have no need to know about?”

Molly leaned back and stared at him. Her look was hard, but only for a moment; she sympathized with the pain he felt, the sense of betrayal, and understood it. “There's no secret, Pierre,” she said at length. “I came here several years ago, wanting to start my own business. This business. Your grandfather had this house up for sale. It was to be sold with the furnishings, some of which were quite valuable, especially the art works. In any event, it was much more than I could afford. Prior to putting the house on the market, your grandfather asked Philippe and Luc to have the house and the furnishings appraised. I managed to pass myself off as an art expert, and I gave them a very low estimate of the value of the paintings and ceramics, low enough so I could afford to buy it all later through a third party.”

“So you outwitted the Corsicans,” Peter said.

She tapped her fingers together and smiled, remembering her short-lived coup. “For a time. Later, your grandfather found out, but he did nothing until I had finished some rather expensive renovations and had opened for business. Then he had the local police close me down.”

“But you opened again,” Peter said.

“The day after I was closed down, he came to visit me. He suggested I sell the house back to him at the price I had paid. I agreed, and when I did, he asked me to reopen and run the business for him as an equal partner. In short, he gave me what I had always wanted, what the rest of the world wouldn't give me, a chance to make my own way. He simply refused to allow me to do it at his expense.”

“No wonder he trusts you so much. You outwitted his lieutenants. And through them, him. Luc still winces when he talks about the time he let my grandfather down.”

“We have learned to be friends since then,” she said. “Just as I have learned to be your grandfather's friend. Will you call him now?”

“I told you, I have nothing to say to him.” He watched Molly's face fill with exasperation, and then soften again.

“Pierre, Buonaparte knows you've found out about the heroin supply, and he wants you to discuss it with him before you go to anyone else. He said you promised you would do that. He also says it's important that you keep that promise.”

Peter smiled and looked off to one side. “Another matter of Corsican honor, Molly. I think I have to finish this my way.”

Her eyes, her silence, drew his attention back. “It will be more dangerous that way. Let him help you.”

He stood, stared down at her for a moment, then started for the door. “I have to finish what I started. If it doesn't work, then I'll seek his help.”

She stopped him as he reached the door. “There's something else you still have to learn, Pierre.” She watched the cold smile form on his lips, wishing she could slap it away. “Someday you'll learn, Pierre. Someday you will realize you can trust the people in this life who love you.” She allowed a soft smile to form on her own lips. “Even though they may disappoint you at times. Buonaparte is one of those people. He loves you, Pierre.”

Peter shifted his weight. He turned his head and stared out into the hall. “I know he does, Molly.” He turned back to her. “You tell him this is something I must do by myself.”

What the hell do you mean, I
don't
get the information?” Morris paced his small, unkempt hotel room, kicking at a pair of shoes that lay in the middle of the floor.

Peter sat in a corner chair, waiting for Morris' rage to subside.

Morris spun on him, jabbing a finger toward him. “We had a fucking deal,” he snapped. “You
used
me.”

Peter nodded. “I'm afraid so. But it was necessary.” Morris began to object, but Peter stopped him with a raised hand. “Someone once told me that nothing here is as it seems to be, neither the place, nor the people. It's very true, Joe. The man you dealt with, for example, the one who told you how to find the long silver train, was Francesco Canterina. The man who provided them with the heroin.”

Morris began to stutter. “But why?”

Peter smiled. “He wants me dead, and he wants, the people whom the information would threaten to kill me for him.”

“That doesn't make sense. He'd be cutting his own throat to get you.”

Peter stared up at him, wondering if he could ever make him understand. “It makes sense, Joe. You'd understand it if you were Corsican.”

“So what do you do with the information now?” Morris asked. His face was still crimson with rage.

“I trade it for what I want, what I've always wanted. Francesco Canterina.”

“And they're just going to hand him to you, and give up all the loot? Bullshit,” Morris snapped. “They'll blow your brains out.”

“Perhaps,” Peter said. “But if they do, they'll know that the information will end up in your hands or, if they try to harm you, some other reporter's. If they try to kill me and fail, then I'll kill all of them and Francesco, and then use the information to buy my safety.”

Morris glared at him. “You're a bastard, Bently.”

Peter stood, preparing to leave. “I expected you to think that,” he said, smiling. “But you can always hope that they kill me.”

“I just might,” Morris snapped.

Peter's smile broadened. “I hope to disappoint you, Joe.” He let the smile fade. “But remember this. If you don't hear from me again, make sure the person who comes to you can be trusted, and isn't from Francesco Canterina and his friends.”

Robert Brody smiled at Peter from across the desk of his modern embassy office. Stretched out before him were copies of the photographs and tape recordings.

“Very impressive, captain,” he said. “But why bring it to me?”

Peter stared back at him, his eyes cold and hard. “Let's not play games. I told you these were only copies, and I was only going to make my request once. Francesco Canterina worked with you. You found out about Cao through him. And that means you're the man who can deliver him.”

Brody grinned at him, but his eyes gave off pure hatred. “You know you're not dealing with a bunch of dope pushers. I admit some of this stuff gets skimmed off the top, but that always happens. This is used to finance our activities here,
for
the country.”