The Corsican
A Novel
William Heffernan
This book is for Sally C. Heffernan,
whose love, friendship and support
can never be adequately acknowledged
“But how meager one’s life becomes when it is reduced to its basic facts … And the last, most complete, reduction is on one’s tombstone; a name, two dates. This man was born, and died. And few ask why.”
The Venetian Affair, Helen Maclnnes
BOOK
ONE
Un Vrai Monsieur
Prologue
LAOS, JANUARY 1967
The road began on the outskirts of Vientiane, then followed the Mekong River west, away from the garish lights of the city. At the edge of the bush it seemed to disappear, taken by the sudden blackness of the tropical forest. There the road changed from steaming black macadam to cracked, heat-hardened earth that left the bordering vegetation covered in thick brown-black dirt, cleansed only when the monsoon rains came in spring.
Even at night the heat along the road was oppressive. The forest rose on each side, then closed above it, keeping out the slight breeze that came off the river at sunset. The forest seemed to swallow everything. Only the incessant sounds of insects appeared undisturbed, their steady beat filtering through the dense, impenetrable growth, mixing there with the occasional scream of a dying animal.
The road continued for nine miles, following the sharply winding course of the river. Over the last three miles the road narrowed slightly, and there back in the bush sentry huts were set at regular intervals. Beside each hut, small, intense men squatted in silence, their eyes concentrating on the road, their presence undetectable to any who passed. Each man had an automatic weapon, and nearby a field telephone; the vegetation in front of them had been cut into gradually widening swaths that opened onto the road, offering a broad killing ground.
At the end of the nine miles the road ended abruptly, replaced there by two divergent paths, each wide enough for only a single vehicle. The northern path continued for a half mile to a small dirt airstrip. The southerly path ended where the jungle gave way to a broad plain. There the river dipped south, then turned back again before continuing west, leaving behind a narrow jut of land on which a dock had been built. Along the dock two motor launches rode idly in the water, partially obscured by the heavy ground mist that came each evening. There was another sentry at the end of the dock, an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the white mist for any shadows that would reveal the movement of men.
As it always did, the mist began in the high hills above the river, moving in isolated patches through the dense vegetation to the plain below, then out across the water to the opposite shore. In the center of the plain, one hundred yards from the river, a large white house stood above the mist, its lighted windows illuminating much of the surrounding ground. The house was of a solid European design, built far back from the river to protect it from the flooding monsoon rains, and at night it seemed to float on the mist, its encircling veranda resembling the deck of some misplaced ship. On either side of the house, lone mangosteen trees rose thirty feet until level with the roof, the thick branches refracting the light from the windows, casting strange patterns on the mist.
At the rear of the house was a Japanese garden, visible now only in sections as the mist moved toward the river. A pond at the garden’s center gave off flashes of light from the house as the patches of mist moved above it, and along its edges the sounds of insects played against the steady cacophony of the bush.
The garden began at the foot of a wide stairway that rose steeply to the veranda. There, another sentry stood next to a set of open French doors, an automatic rifle cradled in his arms, his flat oriental face and squat body hidden in the shadows. Beyond the doors, an old man could be seen seated behind a heavy teak desk. He was in his early seventies, but his sharp European features and thick gray hair disguised his age. On the wall behind him there was an equestrian portrait by Meissonier of Napoleon leading his troops to Montmirail, his right hand thrust into his greatcoat, his dark eyes, like the old man’s, staring straight ahead.
The man seemed deep in thought, then suddenly turned his attention to an interior door across the room, as if anticipating something. There was a knock on the door and another man entered carrying a tray. He was approximately the same age as the man behind the desk, but he too seemed younger. He was dressed in a white jacket and together with the tray it made him look like a servant, but he was not, and he bore himself without a trace of servility. His name was Auguste.
“I brought you some dinner, Don Sartene,” he said. There was a deliberate humor in his voice.
The man at the desk noticed the formality of the title and raised his finger to his long curved nose and shook his head.
“You’re too old to play nursemaid, Auguste,” he said.
“And you’re too old to need one.”
They spoke in the Corsican dialect they always used with one another. Short staccato sentences that snapped back and forth.
Sartene waved his hand in a gesture of surrender and waited as Auguste placed the tray on the desk. His nose wrinkled at the food, but there was a faint smile on his lips.
“When are you going to learn to speak with respect, Auguste?” He was continuing the game the other man had begun, but each knew it was only a way of avoiding the subject they feared.
“I’m like you. I’m too old to learn anything new.” Auguste’s hard face softened and he gestured toward the tray. “You should eat,” he added seriously. “You haven’t had anything all day.”
“Has there been any word yet?” Sartene asked.
Auguste lowered his eyes. “Nothing. But he’s young and strong. And he’s also Corsican. He’ll survive.”
Sartene’s dark, vulpine eyes warmed to the man standing before him. He drew a deep breath. “Youth and strength and nationality haven’t shit to do with life and death,” he said softly.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Above him a fan turned slowly, circulating the dank, humid air. “That damned fan. It squeaks when it moves,” he said, dismissing the subject.
“It’s like us. It’s an old fan,” Auguste said.
Sartene smiled, revealing uneven teeth, the gift of an impoverished youth. “How long have I put up with you now?”
Auguste turned his palms upward, thinking with them. “Twenty-one years here. Before that five years in France, during the war. But I’m not sure who did the putting up.”
Sartene nodded. “We’ve changed, haven’t we?” he said. “Now we have wealth and power and this damned foolish house that we built to remind us of home.” He grunted to himself. “At least in France we killed the Boches and anyone else who deserved killing.” He waved a self-deprecating hand in front of his face. “Look at what I’m doing now. You have me talking like an old woman. Get out of here.”
Auguste walked to the door, then turned as he opened it. His eyes hardened again, like a schoolmistress preparing to scold a child. “Eat,” he said. “Even in this godforsaken heat the food will get cold.”
He watched as Sartene waved his hand again, then stepped out and closed the door behind him. As he did, the hardness he had fought to keep on his face disappeared.
Outside Sartene’s study, fine paintings hung above the ornate tables and chairs that lined the walls, making it seem more like the corridor of a museum. The hall, like the house, was empty and quiet, and Auguste’s heels echoed against the hardwood floors as he walked back to the kitchen. Once there, he took a bottle of wine from the sideboard, poured a glass and seated himself at the long table that dominated the room. He grimaced, then opened his jacket and removed a large automatic
pistol from his waistband and placed it on the table before him. He sipped at the wine, hoping it would quell the uneasy feeling in his stomach. It was hard for him to think of Sartene as an old man. True, he knew it as well as he knew that he too was old. He had admitted his own age to himself. But never before had he heard Sartene do so, except when he was joking. And he knew why he did it now. It was because he was afraid. A man admitted he was old only when fear forced him to.
“But not for himself.” Auguste spoke the words to his wineglass. He’s afraid for Pierre, he thought. Afraid to lose the one thing that means more than life to him.
He drank the wine and poured another glass, looked at it for a moment, then pushed it aside. Remain alert, he told himself. Even though the others aren’t Corsican, they’re still dangerous. He stood and walked to the window, cupping his hands over his eyes as he stared out across the plain to the edge of the dense forest. He knew where each of the sentries should be, but he had to stare a long while at each place before he could see them. But that was as it should be.
He walked back to the table. Twenty-six years, he thought. A long time for two men to serve each other. Buonaparte Sartene and Auguste Pavlovi. Through so much. He smiled to himself, thinking of 1946, the beginning of their second year together in Laos. Little Pierre, only six then, watching, mystified, as the house was built, when he saw his first tiger, his first python. Auguste laughed, thinking of the trip they had taken in the old surplus jeep. Along the canopied forest path, where the squat female ape had stepped suddenly out of the bush, curious about their presence, refusing to move. The child’s wide eyes and open mouth, trying to understand the “big monkey,” as he had called it.
He rubbed his hand across his forehead, then down his face, feeling the growth of beard already there. They were all gone now. Sartene’s son, his daughter-in-law, even his own brother, Benito. And the other one too, the friend who had proved himself a pig. Worse than a pig.
There had been a vendetta then, but not as complete as it should have been. The North Vietnamese had not allowed it. This time it would be, no matter who objected, especially if …
He stood abruptly and walked to the heavy black telephone that connected the main house to the hut where the radio transmitter was kept. A voice answered in Lao.
“Have you had any word from the Meo?” Auguste asked in French.
“Je n’ en ai pas,” came the reply.
“Has there been any from the men along the road?”
“Non,” the voice answered.
“Let me know as soon as you hear anything.”
He returned to the window and stared into the dark beyond the plain. Out of habit he began rubbing the scar of an old wound on his chest.
When he returned to the study an hour later, Sartene was not there. Auguste glanced at the tray of food, noting that it had not been touched, then walked out to the veranda, where Sartene stood, staring into the Japanese garden.
As he heard Auguste’s quiet step behind him he turned. “Is there some word?” he asked.
“None. But there will be. The Meo have been alerted, and they’re good at this sort of thing,” he answered.
Sartene turned back to the garden. The mist had cleared somewhat under a gentle breeze coming from the distant hills, and more of the garden was now visible. In the distance a Theravada Buddhist shrine could be seen across the pond, something Sartene had included in the garden out of respect for the Laotians who worked for him.
“The orientals say it takes several generations for a garden like this to be perfected.” He spoke without looking back at Auguste. His voice, as always, was near a whisper. “They always understood that a man creates for those who come after him. They’re very much like the people of Corsica in that way.”
Auguste leaned against the railing beside him. “There’s nothing we can do now but wait,” he said.
Sartene clasped his hands together and began flexing his thumbs. His eyes were sharp and piercing even in the darkness. He was several inches taller than Auguste; there was no stoop to his shoulders despite his age, and he had the same sense of command that his friend had first noticed years before in France.
“I should have never dealt with those American bastards,” he said softly, still looking into the garden.
“If you hadn’t, someone else would have. The result would have been the same,” Auguste said. “This way, at least, we know more about our enemy. Don’t blame yourself, Buonaparte. It’s just that now we’re forced to wait. That’s always difficult.”
Sartene turned and walked along the veranda, his hands behind his back. After a few yards, he stopped abruptly.
“We’ll wait. But we’ll also act,” he said. He turned and walked back to Auguste and placed a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “You’ve done much for me all these years. Now I have to ask you to do one thing more.”
Auguste’s eyes did not move from Sartene’s. He would do what was asked; there was no need for words between them.
Sartene slid his arm around Auguste’s shoulder and guided him back to the study, speaking softly as they walked.
“You must go to Saigon and gather the information that we’ll need when all this has ended,” he said. “They may think we’re no longer strong enough to fight them and they won’t be expecting you, but you’ll still have to be careful. There are very few friends there we can still trust. But it’s necessary. When this is over, no matter how it ends, I’ll want to strike quickly.”
They stopped in front of a bust of Napoleon that sat atop a pedestal near a wall of books.
“It will be hard with all the powerful people involved.” Auguste’s words held no resistance to the request. It was a simple statement of fact.
Sartene nodded. He was staring at the bust. “As my namesake once said, the situation doesn’t require victory, it only forbids surrender.”
“What will you do while I’m gone?” Auguste asked.
Sartene smiled at him. “Are you afraid I won’t take care of myself?”
“In part.” He avoided Sartene’s eyes, not wanting to see the pain he knew he would find there, despite the humor in his voice.
“I’ll wait for word and …” Sartene gestured toward a table across the room, then walked to it. The table held soldiers, horses, cannon and the various miniature accouterments of battle, arranged to show strategies used in campaigns of the past. Sartene picked up one of the five-inch wooden soldiers that dated back to 1792. He turned it in his bony fingers, his hand trembling slightly with age. “As my son used to say, I’ll play with my toys,” he said. “And I’ll study.”
He pointed to the battle scene that lay before him. It depicted the Leipzig Campaign of the autumn of 1813. The soldiers had been placed to show the position that had existed just prior to Napoleon’s march on Dresden.
“The allied army under Schwarzenberg delayed its attack on the city and, in doing so, lost the battle.” He was speaking more to himself than Auguste, and he continued to stare at the table. “War is an art, like music or pure mathematics. It’s disciplined. While I wait, I’ll study it and I’ll do the things that must be done here.”
Chapter 1
FRANCE, MARCH 1940
The cell was dark, and even during the day the narrow slit of a window near the ceiling gave just enough light to let them make out each other’s darkened features.
It had been that way from the first. When the heavy steel door had swung open, the light from the corridor had blinded Auguste and he had not been able to see the face of the man who was pushed inside.
You can always tell French prisons by the stink. Those had been the first words Auguste had heard him speak in his Corsican-accented French.
“You’re lucky you arrived when you did,” Auguste had said. “They just emptied the piss bucket. Later it gets worse.”
They remained together for over two months in the dark sweating stench-ridden hole, talking about their homeland, their beliefs, their friends and familie
s back in Corsica; everything except the actions, committed separately, that now brought them together. Often they spoke about women, because doing so made it easier to be without them. Sartene spoke of his wife back in Corsica, of their first meeting, their formal courtship and the birth of their son. He spoke more with a sense of reverence than passion, but in his words it could be seen that passion had been there as well. For Auguste the conversation was different. There was no wife, only the available women of Marseille and Bastia and the other seaport towns and cities that had taken up his youth.
Together they fought off the loneliness and despair with their words. And with their hands and feet they fought the rats that came out to compete for the dry meat and tasteless soup that was pushed through the narrow opening at the bottom of the cell door each evening. Sartene said there were five rats, insisting he had learned to distinguish them by the sound of their movements and methods of attack. The smallest and most devious he had named Napoleon, recalling that the king of Austria had once called the French emperor a Corsican gutter rat and had then given him his daughter for a bride.
Sartene’s knowledge of military history had amazed Auguste at first; his discussions of battles and strategies seemed endless. Auguste had not been sure if the stories were accurate, but he had listened to them and discussed them, fascinated, like a small child hearing Bible stories told by nuns. And he had grown to respect the man’s quiet sense of dignity. Despite the misery of the cell, he had never heard Sartene complain, other than expressing his contempt for French authority. He had simply accepted what had been forced upon him with the knowledge that he had the ability to endure.
It was June 21, 1940, when the cell door swung open again, blinding them. They were led down a long stone corridor, feeling their way with their hands, stumbling on the stone stairs that led up to even brighter light. Ten minutes passed before their eyes began to focus, the pain that had seared them fading into a mild throbbing in their temples. They were in a large stonewalled room, furnished only with a long writing table and a chair placed behind it. A French officer stood next to the chair, but they ignored him, staring instead at each other, two men who in the past months had become as close as brothers, clearly seeing one another for the first time in full light.
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