“Someday,” he began, “if Pierre wants to return …” He paused, redirecting the thought. “When he becomes a man I want him free to choose if he will be a Corsican. I do not want him turned against us because of what he has been told. So you will tell him nothing. If you agree to this, he can be raised in the United States under Benito’s guidance. If you violate this condition, I will bring him back here.” He watched her eyes, watched the doubt grow there about his ability to keep his threat. He allowed a small smile to form on his lips. “The papers you will have will be false. You will be in the United States illegally. Any attempt you make to legalize your status there I will consider a violation of our agreement. And my people will come and take Pierre in any way they can. Don’t doubt my ability to do this.” Sartene’s voice had remained calm and cold. He let his eyes play against her now. “You must also never tell Colonel Bently about our arrangement. That also would violate the agreement. For my part, I will not see Pierre again, unless he chooses to return to me. That is the pain I will carry.” He stared into her face again, his dark, piercing eyes seeming like small dots coming at great speed from a long distance. “Do you agree?”
She heard the words, and felt her body convulse. She pressed her teeth together to keep her jaw from trembling. “Yes, Papa,” she finally said. “I agree.”
The boy was alone in his room with the dog. He was seated on the bed, his back against the headboard, his knees drawn up to his chin. The dog’s head rested on the bed, its strange, eerie amber eyes staring up at the boy. When Sartene entered the room, the boy looked at him, then back at the bed. Sartene walked to the front of the bed and stood there until the boy looked up at him again. When he did, he smiled at the boy.
“How are you feeling, Pierre?” he asked.
“Why are you sending me away?” The boy’s eyes were cold and hard, holding a strength and bitterness far too old for his years. Sartene had seen it often before, during his youth in Corsica. The young forced to bear too much pain too soon.
“So you can grow up to be an educated man,” he answered.
“I can get educated here,” Pierre said.
“It will be better in America. Better for you. The war here is going to get worse. In America you will be safe, and it will be easier for you to learn all the things you must know.”
“I don’t care about the war. I want to stay here with you.”
“It is what your father wanted, Pierre.”
“I don’t care. Why’d he have to crash his plane, anyway?” His chin began to tremble as if he was about to cry, but he fought to control it.
Sartene felt the ache in his stomach. “He didn’t mean to, Pierre. It was an accident. He loved you very much, and he wanted only what was good for you. Now I must see that his wishes are followed.”
“Then why can’t you come too?”
Sartene walked to the window and looked out into the plain. He kept his back to the boy, not wanting him to see the pain he knew his eyes would reveal. “There’s the family business, Pierre. I can’t abandon all the people who depend on us to earn their bread.”
The boy said nothing, and Buonaparte continued to stare out past the cross pane of the window, his mind drifting back to his own youth, to his conversations with Papa Guerini. He had been right, Sartene told himself. Even then he knew the truth of the years to come. Fate has condemned us to be criminals. And those we love must live with that fate as well. For a moment he allowed himself to wonder if it could have been different, and if it could have been, would he then have been able to keep his grandson with him, or if not, leave with him, without having every police agency in the world watching his movements. Perhaps then he could even have told the child the truth about his father’s death. Or perhaps there would have been no need. He forced the thought of Jean from his mind. Fate is such an uncompromising bastard, he told himself.
He turned from the window and walked to the bed and sat next to Pierre, reaching out and running his hand along his blond hair. “I only do what is best for you, Pierre. And I only do it because I love you.”
Pierre’s eyes brimmed with tears, and he fell against his grandfather’s chest to hide them. Sartene stroked the boy’s back and kissed the top of his head. “It’s all right to cry, Pierre. There is no shame in tears, when they come from the loss of someone you love.”
He eased the boy back and lifted his chin with one hand, forcing the child to look up into his face. The tears moved slowly along Buonaparte’s cheeks. “I miss your father too, Pierre. We had too little time together over the years. There were problems when he was young, and then, later, there was another war that kept us apart. Sometimes I think God has a special vengeance against Corsicans. Perhaps our love for each other is too great for Him to accept.” He smiled softly at the boy. “But just as your father and I were together again, so will we be. I promise you.”
The boy stared up at him, his eyes still filled with tears, then he fell back into his arms, sobbing. Buonaparte held the boy, rocking him back and forth.
“You will come back one day, Pierre. Now there is only us. You must never forget your life here, or your Corsican heritage. And you must always believe that one day we will be together again.”
The boy clutched at him. “I don’t want to go, Grandpère. I want to stay here. I don’t want Colonel Bently to be my father.”
He stroked the boy’s head. “He won’t be your father, Pierre. He’s just going to pretend so we can escape the stupid American immigration laws.”
“I’ll tell them when I get there, and then they’ll send me back.” Pierre’s face was still buried in his grandfather’s chest, muffling his voice, and together with the sobbing it made him sound much younger than twelve.
Buonaparte eased him back and gently brushed the tears from his eyes. “You are not a child anymore, Pierre. You are a young man, a young Corsican man, and you must act like one. Together we must do what is good for our family. You must learn and you must grow strong, so one day you can come back and help me with our businesses here.” He smiled at the boy again. “Do you understand me?” Pierre looked down and slowly nodded his head. “And you must do as I say, Pierre.” He watched as the boy nodded his head again.
“When can I come back?” Pierre asked.
Buonaparte felt the tightness return to his stomach. Too many years from now, he told himself. “When you are a man, and you have learned what you must know. You must go to a good university, and you must go into the American army. You must never let yourself become a part of that army. You must simply take what knowledge you can from them. Then when you come back you will be ready to learn from me, and together we will be stronger than ever before.” He squeezed the boy to him. “We are Sartenes, Pierre, and we are Corsicans. Someday you will understand all that that means.”
“Will you come and visit me?”
The boy’s question struck out at him, driving away the euphoria he had willed upon himself. If only I could, he thought. The irony of it assaulted his senses to a point that it almost seemed comical. I, he thought, who love you more than life. If I came to you it could destroy all your chances, perhaps even your life itself. Fate, you bastard. He stroked the boy’s back, then began to pat it gently. “It’s a long way, and I’m not as young as I used to be, Pierre.” And the police, he thought, would follow these old bones anywhere.
“But what if you die before I come back?”
Buonaparte laughed softly, then kissed the top of the boy’s head. “I won’t die, Pierre. Not until after we are together again.”
Pierre sat back and stared up at him. His face was confused, concerned. “But how do you know?”
Sartene took his face in his hands. “Have I ever lied to you, Pierre?” He watched as the boy shook his head. Buonaparte nodded his head abruptly. “Then I tell you it will not happen. I will not allow it. You have my word as a Corsican.”
Chapter 17
The villa was small, and the garden was overgrown and neglected. T
he faded old house was located on the edge of Hanoi, in a part of the city not often visited by Europeans. For Antonio Carbone it had been a refuge for three months now, guarded by his own men; he had even refused offers by Faydang and Francesco Canterina for additional protection.
He had met Canterina only once during those months. He had asked then that they not meet again. He did not want to chance any breach in security that would allow Buonaparte Sartene to find him. And Francesco was hiding too. Deep in the hills.
They were everywhere now, looking for him. He could not even touch his money in Hong Kong. All he had was the gold he had taken with him. The gold and the few men who had not fled in fear. His only hope was to get Buonaparte before Buonaparte got him. Then he could seek peace with the others, and they couldn’t refuse him. He had the right to survive; no one in the milieu could deny him that. Not even the Guerini brothers. Sartene was not their blood, even though they treated him as such.
But how? Carbone paced the large sitting room of the villa, trying to find some answer. The ceilings and walls of the room were cracked from lack of care. A hole to hide in, he told himself. Like a mouse hiding from a cat that waited outside.
He had lost weight over the months. His pants were loose around his waist and, like all his clothes, were baggy and rumpled. Can’t even send my clothes out to be cleaned, he told himself. Because they’ll be watching even for that.
There was a small Beretta in his right pants pocket. He had not carried a weapon in years. A leader in the milieu never needed one. There were others for that. Now he had the small automatic with him at all times. Un vrai monsieur he thought. Of what? He had even turned to religion. Always the rosary beads in his other pocket. And the damned trembling, it came so often now.
He walked to a small table where the bottles of liquor were kept and poured himself a drink. He was drinking too much, but it was the only thing that helped the trembling. Or maybe it made it worse. He didn’t care. He slumped in an overstuffed chair that smelled of mildew and brought the glass, shaking in his hand, to his lips.
He jumped slightly when the knock came on the door. “Who?” he said, taking the Beretta from his pocket.
The door opened and one of his men, Philippe, entered. He was tall, wiry, with dark eyes that never seemed to blink, and a thin black mustache that always seemed as greasy as his slicked-back hair.
“I just got word that Sartene was seen in Saigon today,” Philippe said.
“You’re sure?” Carbone said.
“Good,” Carbone added, responding to his man’s assuring nod. “Soon we’ll move against him. He thinks we’re beaten, but we’re not. I just let him think so. Then, when I move against him, he’ll be like a sleeping child.”
Philippe nodded again, and the agreement made Carbone feel better. He needed his own bravado. Even more, he needed to know where Buonaparte Sartene was. Sartene would want to be there to watch him die if they found him. He knew that. It would be expected of him. He knew too that as long as Sartene was far away, he was safe. At least for the present.
He slipped the Beretta back into his pocket. Philippe was still standing in the doorway.
“I’m tired now,” Carbone said. “I think I’ll go up to bed. When you talk to our people again, tell them to watch Sartene closely. It will be soon now.”
Philippe nodded and stepped aside to let Carbone pass.
The upstairs bedroom, like the rest of the house, was dank and humid. Even at night the walls were wet, almost as though they were sweating from the heat.
He removed his shirt, leaving his trousers on, the Beretta still in his pocket. Sitting on the edge of the iron-posted bed, he removed his shoes and stockings, then fell back, swinging his legs up. He stared up at the ceiling. Even the fan was broken. There wasn’t even the simplest of comforts. He drifted off to sleep with that thought of deprivation still running through his mind.
It was two hours later when the first of the Malayan pit vipers crawled out from under the bed. The snakes, twelve in all, had been placed there in an open cage; they had been drugged by a Hanoi veterinarian earlier in the day, and only now, with the drug dissipated, had they begun to unravel from their intertwined mass of tan and russet. The vipers were common to the lowland thickets and forests near the seacoast, and had excellent night vision. They were sluggish, almost comically so, but naturally aggressive, and required little or no provocation to strike. The bite of the three-to-five-foot reptiles was extremely painful, and produced immediate bleeding, swelling and discoloration. In severe cases victims lingered for several hours, suffering intense thirst, nausea and general hemorrhage, until respiratory failure finally produced an agonizing death similar to strangulation by the garrote. They were Buonaparte Sartene’s final gift to Antonio Carbone.
The first viper to emerge lay extended on the floor next to the bed, its four-foot body curved into a large S, its head slightly elevated, moving back and forth, the tongue flicking out, testing the room for a sign of body heat. The reptile was hungry after its unexpected sleep, and annoyed to find itself in unfamiliar terrain. Slowly, it moved to the foot of the bed, found the heavy metal post, and entwined itself; slowly, almost lethargically, it moved up. The other snakes began to emerge, moving to separate parts of the strange new terrain, some coiling to lie in wait of prey, others finding objects to climb in search of food.
A light breeze floated in from the open window. The bars on the window, placed there years before for the security of long-vanished inhabitants, cast shadows across the plain wood floors that occasionally caught the movements of the vipers, giving them a broken, near kaleidoscopic effect.
When the first viper reached the foot of the bed, a movement beneath the sheet startled it, and it coiled instinctively, its spade-shaped head arched back over its body.
Antonio Carbone awoke slowly, his eyes blinking. He had been dreaming. Something unpleasant that he could not remember. His sleep had been fitful for weeks now. A few hours at a time, then awake again. Never any decent rest. He had to find a place that was safe, a place where he could rest. He let out a long, low sigh. His eyes were adjusting to the dark. He would be awake for hours, he knew. Something moved. Across the room. He stared, but there was nothing. He thought he had seen something on the small table near the closet. Just the light, playing through the bars on the windows. Bars, he thought. So like the French to bar themselves in to keep others out. The safety of the imprisoned. And now he was imprisoned, locked away like …
Something did move.
Slowly he reached for his pocket and withdrew his Beretta. He raised it to his chest and pulled back the slide, chambering a round. He pulled himself up and leveled the weapon. He screamed. The pain struck his calf and shot up into his knee. Shot, his mind told him. A silencer. He hurled himself from the bed and began to move away. He screamed again. Pain in his other leg. He jumped forward; his foot brushed something and the arch of the foot was engulfed in a searing, red hot stab. “Snakes,” he screamed. “Oh my God! No!” He jumped, looking for some safe portion of floor, hopping from one foot to the next. There was movement near him. Again the pain. He screamed again, them jumped forward, reaching the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled. It moved a half inch but held. Something was holding it from outside. He pulled frantically. “Let me out! Let me out! Oh, Jesus, there are snakes in here! Let me out!” He reached out and twisted the small knob that operated the ceiling light. The light flashed on and he saw the blurred red-brown movement coming toward him from atop the dresser next to the door. The snake struck his shoulder, sending shards of pain up through his neck and down his left arm. Again he screamed, jumping back into the room. Another struck at his leg, buckling his knee. The scream became a wail, and his head darted side to side, searching for a safe place. They’re everywhere! Oh, my Christ, they’re everywhere! One moved sluggishly toward him. He raised the pistol, his hand shaking so the barrel wavered back and forth across its approaching body. He fired, missed, and fired again. Again a
nd again, until finally a bullet ripped into the side of the snake’s body, sending out a spurt of blood. The wounded viper’s head snapped back at the gaping cut in its flesh, its mouth open, the long curved fangs ready to strike out at the unseen attacker. Carbone fired again, missing, then tried again, but the pistol was empty. He pulled the trigger three, four, five times, then stared at it, his eyes wide with terror.
Already he could feel the swelling in his legs and shoulder. His knees wanted to surrender to the pain, to buckle, but he inched his way back into a corner that was free of the rising, twisting bodies. He cringed there, trying to remain standing, feeling his legs turn to mush beneath him, then gradually sliding to the floor. “Help me! In the name of Jesus, help me!” he screamed.
“Don’t you like snakes, Don Carbone?” the voice came through the door, slightly muffled but still clear.
“Help me, please!” Carbone screamed again.
“Help yourself, paceri. Make peace with your enemies.”
Sartene’s voice. Carbone recognized it now. The long, low wail began deep in his throat, then rose to an ear-shattering pitch, finally breaking into short, high-pitched bursts.
Outside, in the hall, Sartene, Auguste and Philippe stood listening. There was a heavy rope tied to the outside door handle of the room that stretched across the hall to the handle of another door.
Sartene placed a hand on Philippe’s shoulder. “You’ve done well,” he said softly. The only sound from the room now was a gentle whimpering, like that of a child suffering the agony of monsters in a dream. “Auguste tells me your name is Francisci. Are you any relation to the gentleman in Marseille?”
Philippe smiled, inclining his head to one side. “No,” he said. “Unfortunately I have no powerful relatives in the milieu.”
“Today you have earned yourself a powerful friend,” Sartene said.
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