The Corsican (7 page)

“Yes, Mama.” The boy pouted and looked to his grandfather for intervention. Sartene only shrugged and inclined his head to one side, and the child let out a long sigh, then picked up his stick and marched noisily down the stairs. Max followed him happily.

Madeleine sat next to Sartene. She withdrew a delicate handkerchief from the pocket of the sun dress she was wearing and reached over and patted his brow. She shook her head. “You let him wear you out,” she said in a mildly scolding voice.

“He could wear out the devil himself,” Sartene said.

“And you spoil him,” she added.

Sartene nodded. “Yes, but he has many years ahead when he will not be spoiled. You think I spoil him too much?”

“No, Papa. Not too much for him. Too much for you.” She looked at him with warmth as he waved his hand, rejecting her argument. She had called him “Papa” from the first, at his request, and although she was slightly intimidated by him, there was also a deep and honest affection between them that had grown out of a mutual love for her son.

“How is our home coming?” Sartene asked, more to escape her pampering than to seek information.

“It will be very beautiful, Papa. All except your study. I wish you'd let me do something there. That heavy paneling will make the room so dark it will be like a grave.”

Sartene wagged a finger at her. “The house is yours to do with as you wish. The study is mine. I'll keep the door closed so it doesn't offend you.”

She rolled her eyes, then stood and walked to the railing. “Now I know where Pierre gets his stubbornness,” she said.

Sartene ignored her and joined her at the railing, and together they watched the boy play wildly with the dog.

Behind them Jean lumbered out onto the veranda, and Sartene turned with the sound. His son's large frame moved heavily. Thank God the child has his mother's grace and her looks, he thought. His son, though he loved him deeply, had the heavy, dark features of his maternal grandfather, and with it the dour expression of the mountain people of Corsica. Madeleine was from Marseille and had the delicateness of the French, something she had passed on to Pierre. He had not approved of his son's marriage to a non-Corsican at first, but his grandson's birth had taught him he was wrong.

Jean glanced at his wristwatch. “It is two-thirty, Papa. We're to meet the American in Vientiane at three.”

“Yes, I forgot. I promised Pierre we would take the boat back today. You and Madeleine can drive back in the car, and then you and the others can entertain our guest until I arrive.”

Jean nodded, and Sartene looked hard at his son before continuing. “Discuss no business with this man until I arrive,” he added. “Our friends in Saigon tell me he's with the OSS, and my experience with those people has not been good.”

Madeleine turned to go with her husband, and Sartene took her arm, stopping her. He reached out and touched her cheek. “I promise I won't spoil him on the trip back,” he said.

She withheld a smile and raised her chin slightly. “You'll promise, but you'll spoil him anyway,” she said.

The house in Vientiane was old and spacious and had once belonged to a wealthy French exporter who had been executed by the Japanese during the war. The office where Sartene conducted his business was in the rear of the house and opened onto a walled garden. Had it not been for the boy, the house would have suited his needs. But the garden was small, and within a few blocks of the colonial quarter where the house was located, the filth and stench of the city were overpowering.

The others were gathered in the office when Sartene entered. He had put on his suitcoat and, despite the trip in the open boat, appeared cool and refreshed. The American, an OSS colonel named Matthew Bently, was seated by himself in a leather wing chair. There was a drink on the table next to him, and Sartene noted that it appeared untouched. The others had seated themselves opposite Bently, and when Sartene entered they stood. Bently followed suit, stepped forward, and extended his hand.

“Monsieur Sartene, I'm Matt Bently. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

Sartene nodded, shook Bently's hand, then motioned for him to sit. Jean stepped away from the chair directly opposite Bently, where he had been sitting, yielding it to his father, then walked to the large desk in the center of the room and leaned back against it. Auguste, Benito and Francesco returned to their chairs after Sartene was seated.

“I'm very sorry I was late,” Sartene began. “We were out looking at a new house I'm building, and my grandson wanted to return by boat. His mother says I spoil him, and I'm afraid she's right. I hope you'll forgive the rudeness.”

“Your son was a fine host,” Bently said.

Sartene studied the man closely. He was tall and muscular, with hard gray eyes and a face that seemed steeled by the harsh life of a professional soldier. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but that was not uncommon these days. What Sartene had learned from friends in Saigon spoke well of the man, even though he was part of the same organization as the other American, the fool he had fought with in the mountains of France.

Sartene placed the fingers of one hand against his lips, then moved the hand forward toward Bently.

“You said in your letter you had some business you wanted to discuss with me.”

Bently glanced at the others in the room, then back at Sartene.

“In business matters I trust these men completely and seek their advice,” Sartene said.

Bently smiled. “It's merely a question of witnesses. Normally my organization avoids that whenever possible.”

Sartene nodded. “I respect that. But you don't have to worry about that here. You have my word. We're all Corsicans and we serve as witnesses for no one. Any breach of trust would be an offense against me, and I assure you that won't happen.”

Sartene's words had an icy chill about them, and Bently noted that the others in the room had averted their eyes as he spoke them.

“I accept your word, of course,” Bently said. He leaned forward in his chair. “As I'm sure you're aware, sir, I took the liberty of inquiring about you prior to my request, as I'm sure you inquired about me, following it.”

Sartene gestured with both hands. “A wise man always knows who he's speaking to.”

The statement made Bently uneasy. He felt like a child who had stated an unnecessary fact which had required a patient reply from someone older and wiser. Bently was thirty-two, only a half-dozen or so years older than Sartene's son, he guessed. He had been through much during the war in the Pacific and even more since its end. He had attained the rank of lieutenant colonel, and yet in this man's presence he felt inexperienced, almost immature. He knew of Sartene's wartime background, and earlier he had noticed the extensive volumes on military history in his study. None of it helped.

Nervously he brushed at a speck of dirt on the knee of his tan cord suit, then reached up to his neck, checking the position of the knot in his tie.

“I only say that as a preamble to something else,” he said. “I'm here because my government feels you can do us a service, which will be of great benefit to us and, I hope, to you as well.”

Jean emitted a low grunt, and Sartene looked at him sharply. He turned back to Bently and smiled, nodding his head for him to continue.

Bently glanced at the others in the room. They all were strangely silent. It was like going to church to confess and finding five priests staring at you, he thought.

“As you know,” Bently began, “the communist forces here, who were our allies during the war, have begun an all-out effort to control the region. For obvious reasons we don't want that to happen. We believe they would be as dangerous to the west as the Japanese, and would eventually produce the same result.”

Sartene nodded, but said nothing.

“The key to their control, to anyone's control, really, involves the region's major resource. Opium. The communists know that if they control its growth and distribution they'll have the loyalty of the hill people who produce it and the government officials who profit from it. And they know they'll also have a source of income that could finance their effort to take over the region.”

Bently paused, awaiting some response from Sartene. When none came he continued.

“At present our intelligence tells us that the communists both in Laos and Viet Nam are trying to work a deal with a countryman of yours in Saigon, Antonio Carbone. We also believe he has close ties with a gentleman in Marseille by the name of François Spirito, who is suspected of having collaborated with the Nazis in France. We're also told that you have a longstanding friendship with the Guerini brothers, who are the dominant faction of the Corsican
milieu
in Marseille. What we hope is that you'll agree to compete with Mr. Carbone for control of the opium and in doing so deal with people not aligned with the communists. There would be substantial profit in this for you and you would operate under the tacit protection of my government and the colonial government of France. We're well aware that you have the facilities to move quantities of merchandise, primarily gold and currency, and feel that adding opium to these items would not be difficult for you.”

Bently gestured with both hands to indicate he was finished and sat back in his chair. He had rushed through his preliminary proposal in a clipped military way, a sign of nervousness that had not been lost on Sartene.

Sartene smiled, rose from his chair and walked to the French doors that opened onto the rear garden. He stood there for a full minute, his back to Bently.

The young man had seemed nervous, but he had spoken well, choosing his words carefully, avoiding any insult. He had spoken of the Corsican
milieu
, the loosely knit organization of his countrymen involved in supposedly illegal activities. He had not called it the Corsican syndicate or criminal gang, terms so common in the French press. He had mentioned his
friendship
with the Guerinis, not his business connections. And he had spoken of his importing and exporting of gold and currency, not smuggling, which of course it was. He liked the man's tactfulness. He was not sure he liked his proposal.

Sartene turned back to face the younger man, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.

“When I came to Laos more than a year ago, I had the option of dealing with this merchandise you speak of,” he said. “At that time I chose not to do so. It's a substance that has caused great harm to the people of this region for centuries. So much so that it's probably an irreversible thing.” He shrugged. “So be it. That's the way of things. No one man can change history. But he can choose not to be a part of a thing he finds wrong. So far I've found other ways to earn my bread for my family and my friends.” Sartene paused, looking at the others in the room. “I'm also a man who realizes that he must adapt to the realities of the world. But such an adaptation can follow many paths. As I'm sure you know, my new home will be part of a sizable rubber plantation which will have the benefit of contracts with a large French concern. This together with my other interests will provide me and my friends with more than we need to be financially secure, even if we are eventually forced to leave our new home. If I choose to accept your offer there will be more wealth, and, if your government is successful against the communists, there is also the possibility that our position here will be more secure.” Sartene raised one finger. “But only the possibility,” he added.

Slowly he walked back to the chair and sat down. “Now,” he began again. “If we agree to your proposal we must place ourselves in direct conflict with Don Carbone. This doesn't concern me greatly. We have never been friends and each of our friends in Europe have never been friends.” He paused, clasping his hands in front of him, then gesturing with them together. “What you do not understand is the Corsican way of doing business. We have always believed that each man has a right to earn his bread in whatever way is available to him. We also believe that no man has the right to deny another that opportunity. Perhaps, as you say, Carbone has friendships with men who worked with the Nazis. I fought with the French. But you're wrong to emphasize this difference. I chose the French side, at least in part, because I believed the Nazis would give Corsica to the Italians and I believed we had a greater chance to one day free ourselves from the French than from the Italians and the Nazis, together. Others disagreed. Perhaps they believed Corsica would always be under someone's control and that anyone would be better than the French. Who knows what they thought?” He shrugged his shoulders, indicating the argument was of little value. “Still, I would never stop one of my peers from earning his bread because we disagreed about politics. We Corsicans believe we are each a government to ourselves. If I were to deny Carbone or any other Corsican this right, it would only be because it involved the survival of my own organization.”

Bently drew a deep breath. “I think a takeover by the communists would mean an end to your organization. Probably an end to Mr. Carbone's as well. The communists are not very enamored with free enterprise.”

Sartene laughed quietly. “That's the argument we will have to think about,” he said, almost like a teacher speaking to a slow student who has suddenly discovered the root of a problem. “I'll send word to you, perhaps within a day, certainly no more than a week. If my answer is no, I assure you I'll do nothing to interfere with your efforts, provided you do nothing to interfere with mine.”

Sartene was smiling at him, and Bently was forced to smile in return. He had spoken of Sartene's importing and exporting of gold and currency and had asked him to add opium to his stock in trade. If he agreed he had promised the quiet support of his government and the French. The implication that problems for his other businesses might develop if he refused had been there as well. Sartene had now responded to that veiled threat with a warning of his own.