The Corsican (60 page)

“Philippe has several places like that, Pierre,” Molly said. “I can arrange something with him as soon as I return.”

“No,” Pierre said. “I don't want to involve anyone who is outside my family.”

Molly hesitated, uncertain for the moment. “I'm not exactly family, Pierre,” she said.

He looked at her softly. “Yes, you are, Molly,” he said. “Yes, you are.”

The noise along Le Loi Street was deafening. Jeeps and trucks vied with cars, pony cycles, motor scooters and bicycles, all blaring their horns and bells, trying to find some minute advantage in the chaotic traffic pattern. Along the graceful, tree-lined sidewalks, Vietnamese men and women moved with an equally frantic abandon, jostling each other without concern, then racing on to be jostled themselves after a few more steps, all apparently oblivious to the beauty of the flower-filled median dividers that cut the street into three separate roadways. At the curbsides peddlers hawked myriad wares, food, vegetable, fish, the smells assaulting the senses in waves, while the peddlers themselves added to the cacophony by banging large steel scissors together to accompany their singsong shouts of quality.

On the south side of the street, Pierre Sartene stood next to a shoe stall examining a pair of sandals. His beard was slightly more than a month old now, his hair longer and shaggier, and to those who passed he appeared to be one of the hundreds of merchant seamen who crowded Saigon's streets each day. He put down the pair of sandals, then picked up another. His eyes strayed across the street to the entrance of a small French restaurant, one he knew to be a favorite of Colonel Benjamin H. Q. Wallace. It was one o'clock, the time Wallace preferred to indulge himself.

A crowd of Vietnamese moved noisily past the door of the restaurant. Two men were arguing, shouting insults at each other as they moved rapidly down the street, their voices becoming louder and higher-pitched as they scurried along, almost running. The crowd kept pace, enjoying the entertainment, commenting to each other on the quality of the hurled insults. Pierre ignored the spectacle, keeping his eyes on the restaurant, waiting, watching.

The jeep carrying Wallace arrived at one-fifteen. The driver, a burly army sergeant Pierre had not seen before, waited outside. The warning had been received, he decided. And Wallace had believed it. He had never seen the man with a bodyguard before. Normally, various clerks in the office rotated as drivers. A smile came imperceptibly to his lips, then left. He turned and walked quickly down the street, to the position Luc had taken earlier.

Standing beside him at a small booth covered with various fruits, Pierre took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Luc.

“Give me five minutes, Brother Two,” Pierre said.

Inside the restaurant, Wallace sipped his martini and looked casually about the room. The place pleased him, always left him feeling a bit mellow. Even the dark brocaded wallpaper had a soothing effect. And, unlike those in most Vietnamese-run restaurants in the city, the waiters did not treat non-French-speaking customers with disdain. Wallace took another satisfying sip of the martini as the headwaiter approached his table.

“Colonel Wallace?” the headwaiter asked.

“Yes, what is it?” The thought flashed in Wallace's mind that he was about to be moved to another table. Bloody hell I will, he told himself.

The waiter held out an envelope. “This was delivered for you, sir.”

Wallace took the envelope, stared at it, then back at the headwaiter. “Who brought it?” he asked.

“I never saw the gentleman before. He was Lao.”

Wallace waved the man away with the envelope, then sat staring at it for a moment. A slight twitch came to his eye. Carefully, he fingered the edges and sealed portion, making sure it held no explosives. Then he took a knife from the table and slit it open. He stared at the terse message for several seconds. It read:
Your driver has been incapacitated. I await your pleasure
. It was signed:
Pierre Sartene
.

Wallace crumbled the note in his hand, then reached for his hip pocket to feel the wallet holster he carried there, and the small .25 caliber automatic it held.

Wallace signaled the headwaiter, tapping his fingers on the table as he awaited his approach. The twitch returned to his left eye.

“Would you be kind enough to have someone ask my driver to come inside?” Wallace asked. “He's sitting in a jeep, parked in front of the restaurant.”

Wallace took the crumpled note and spread it out on the table before him as he waited. Goddam cheek, he told himself. Even signs it with his goddam guinea name.

The headwaiter hurried back to the table. “I'm sorry, colonel, but there is no driver and no jeep outside,” he said.

“Where's your telephone?” Wallace asked.

“It has been out of order all day,” the headwaiter answered.

Wallace crumpled the note again. His jaw tightened, the muscles jumping against the skin. “Is there a back door to the restaurant?” he asked.

The headwaiter's face became puzzled. “Yes, in the kitchen,” he answered.

“I have to use it,” Wallace said. “Show me.” He pulled a ten-dollar MPC note from his pocket and laid it on the table, then stood and took the Vietnamese by the arm. “It's important,” he added, glaring down into the much smaller man's face.

At the rear door, Wallace drew the small chrome-plated automatic from his back pocket and jacked a round into the chamber. He eased the door open and looked out into the cluttered alley that ran behind the building. Slowly, keeping low, he moved through the door, the automatic out in front of him.

Outside, his back close to the building, he looked up and down the alley. Nothing. There would be at least two of them, he told himself. That bastard Bently, and the Lao. His mind clicked with the possibilities. One would be in front, possibly both if they had not known about the alley. He looked up and down the alley again. Each way it ended in a side street, one only about fifty yards away, the other nearly a hundred. If no one's here now, they'll be waiting at the side street, and they'll expect me to go the shortest distance to get out, he thought. But I'll go the other way. He stepped away from the wall of the building, remaining low, and began moving down the alley.

Pierre dropped from the low roof above, his right knee slamming into Wallace's back just below the neck. Wallace fell forward; the automatic flew from his hand and clattered down the alley ahead of him. Wallace spun onto his back. Pierre stood over him, to his left, a silenced High Standard .22 caliber pistol in his hand.

Wallace's mind spun with possibilities. He was too far away for a kick, or any defensive move He would have to talk his way out, if he could.

“Wait a minute, Bently. Just hold on.” Wallace's voice was strained and he struggled to control it.

“The name is Sartene, colonel,” Pierre said. His eyes were flat and cold, and did not move from Wallace's face.

“I didn't know anything about it, until after it happened. You have to believe that. Look, dammit. You're an army officer, you have to understand these things happen. Mistakes are made.”

Pierre smiled at him, a cold, chilling grimace of a smile. “I'm not an officer in any army, colonel. The officer you're talking about died near the Laos border. He was killed on a mission. Another man died that same day. Do you remember him, colonel? His name was Morris. He died trying to hold his guts inside his belly. I'm sure it was very painful. You never should have helped them do that.”

“Now wait a minute, Bently … Sartene, whoever the hell you think you are …”

“There's nothing more to say, colonel. The pistol is loaded with exploding bullets. I'm going to fire one into
your
belly. You won't die right away, colonel. But there won't be any chance to save you either. You'll just lie here and die the way Morris did. Slowly and in great pain.”

“Wait,” Wallace screamed. His voice bounced off the walls of the alley, echoing back and forth.

The sound drowned out the quiet spit as the pistol jerked in Pierre's hand. He looked down at Wallace writhing in pain on the ground, then turned and walked slowly back down the alley.

General Lat arrived home at five o'clock, stepped through the small gateway in the wall that surrounded his house and casually saluted the two ARVN privates who guarded the interior garden walkway that led to his front door.

Inside, he dropped his hat on a small circular table in the large foyer and walked on to the massive living room, where his male servant would be preparing his evening cocktail.

When he reached the living room he was surprised, then annoyed to find it empty. He spun on his heels, determined to find the fool and make his annoyance felt. He stopped abruptly. Two men blocked the doorway. A bearded European with a pistol in his hand, and a Lao with a short, black-bladed
ninja to
sword. Instinctively, Lat's hand moved toward his holster. The bearded man raised his pistol slightly, stopping him.

“Who are you?” Lat said, choosing French to be certain he was understood.

“You may speak your own language,” Pierre answered in Vietnamese. “I am Pierre Sartene, the man you attempted to execute.”

Lat's face cracked; the lips began to quiver. He began to speak, failed at first, then started again. “How did you get into my house?” he asked.

“Without difficulty,” Pierre answered. “Your men guard just as they fight. Poorly.”

“You … must … understand,” Lat stuttered, stopping, then beginning again. “You must understand that I was only following the orders of your own commanders.” Lat watched, his body trembling, as Luc moved across the room and stopped beside him. He was holding the
ninja to
sword in both hands, the black blade held straight up in front of his face.

“Your last words should not be a lie, general,” Pierre said softly. “Are you a Buddhist?”

Lat's lips trembled; his eyes darted to the sword, then back to Pierre. “Yes,” he whispered.

Luc's movements were almost too fast to see. He pivoted, bringing the sword back in the same motion, then, without any perceptible change in direction, brought it forward in a sweeping downward arc, striking Lat on the back of the neck.

Lat's head seemed to hover in the air for a moment, then toppled forward, striking the floor and rolling toward Pierre, as the headless body crumpled to the floor, the severed arteries in the neck spurting blood in a fountain of deep red.

Luc walked slowly back to the doorway, nudging the head out of his way with a foot. He smiled at Pierre.

“A fitting punishment, Brother Two. Now his soul will never leave this land of sorrow.”

Brody had been shaken by the news of Wallace's death, but at first had forced himself to believe it was the work of a VC sapper, not Peter Bently. The VC, after all, had placed bounties on U.S. military personnel. Later, when the subsequent investigation had uncovered the note Wallace had left behind in the restaurant, Brody had realized he was not dealing with a random death. He had contacted Francesco Canterina by telephone to ask his advice. Upon hearing the news, Francesco had just grunted. and hung up the telephone. Now he was among the missing.

Brody had remained in his office until nine o'clock. His quarters were in a villa adjacent to the embassy which housed unmarried members of the embassy staff. It too was guarded by Marine Corps personnel, but he had not wanted to make even the short trip unprotected. He had thought about telling Christopher, but had ruled it out. The charge was best left out of the picture. It would not do well for his record if it became known he had blown the simple assignment of handling a troublesome army officer.

Fucker, he thought, sitting behind his desk now, the chair turned toward the drape-covered window. He spun the chair around violently, pulling open the middle drawer of his desk in the same motion. From the drawer, Brody took a Walther PPK automatic, fitted into an inside-the-belt-holster. The holster had been modified to carry a three-inch silencer in a separate narrow pouch. He dropped the weapon on the desk and stared down at it. Damn, he thought. You're used to being the hunter, not the goddam target. And this bastard is good. Well trained. Too damn well trained.

He jumped slightly in his chair when the telephone on his desk rang. He stared at it for a moment, deciding, then picked it up on the second ring.

“There's a Mr. Sartene on the line for you, Mr. Brody,” the night switchboard operator's voice intoned. The operator repeated his name when Brody didn't answer.

“All right. Put him through.” He listened to the series of clicks as the call was switched to his line. Brody could feel his heart beating in his chest; his palms were covered with sweat.

“Go ahead, Mr. Brody.” The operator's voice banged in his ears.

“What can I do for you, Bently?” he heard himself say. “Oh, excuse me. It's Sartene now, isn't it?”

Pierre's voice came across the line in a soft, gravelly whisper. “I still have some materials you might be interested in having. I thought we might meet and discuss an arrangement.”

“You must think I'm out of my mind,” Brody snapped. “They found Wallace's body and the note you sent him, buddy boy.”

“I presume, then, that they have not yet found General Lat,” Pierre said.

Brody sat there stunned. “If you want to see me, why don't you drop by here?” he snapped.

Pierre's soft laughter echoed through the receiver. “I'm afraid you'll have to come to me. As you may or may not know, I kept a hotel suite at the Continental Palace under the name Bently. There's a private elevator to it. You can bring people with you to the hotel, but they cannot come up with you. The hotel is owned by my grandfather, so you can be sure people will be nearby to see that you follow these instructions. If you don't you will all be killed.”