He started back up the street, studying the stalls. The man ahead began to cross the street. No time left to pick a place, he told himself. At the next break in the stalls, he ducked and darted between them, circling one and coming up in the narrow opening between the next two. The stalls were close together, with solid facing on the front and sides. Enough for concealment, but certainly not adequate cover against incoming rounds. He came to a crouching stop between the two stands and reached for the Colt in his hip pocket. Footsteps pounded the sidewalk, coming in both directions. Before the automatic was free the first man, the one who had been ahead of him, came to a sliding halt between the stalls. Peter grabbed the briefcase, shoving his right hand into the side opening, hitting the safety and the trigger simultaneously with his thumb and index finger. The briefcase erupted just as the Vietnamese leveled his own automatic pistol. His chest absorbed the full impact of the double-O pellets. The body of the small man lifted into the air and hurtled back, almost like someone pulled up and away by a parachute harness. Then he dropped raglike into the street, the white shirt now red with blood.
Peter spun, moving mechanically now, and circled the stall, heading back toward the point where he had first ducked between the stalls. The sound of running feet passed him on the sidewalk, followed by gunfire into the position he had just left. He stood quietly, leveled the briefcase and fired again, the pellets smashing into the head of another Vietnamese, shredding pieces from it like chunks of melon.
Dropping the briefcase, Peter yanked the Colt from the holster and threw himself forward, rolling as he hit the ground, then scrambling forward when he reached another opening between the stalls. Around his head the stall began to explode as bullets sent chips of wood slicing through the air. Peter darted forward, rose up and fired at one of the two remaining men. The shot missed and the automatic jammed, breech open. Frantically Peter pulled at the slide, trying to clear the pistol. A short, squat Vietnamese wearing a black T-shirt jumped into the opening between the stands and swung his weapon toward Peter, then suddenly flew from view as if pulled by some unseen hand. The fourth man appeared, his eyes darting to Peter, then back along the street. Peter did not wait. He jumped forward and stuck out with his foot, a sharp, crisp blow that caught the man on the side of the head and sent him flying into the street. More footsteps. He spun. The fifth man, pistol in hand, was four feet from him. Peter was off balance and lashed out wildly with his foot, but the man sidestepped the blow easily and a returning kick caught Peter in the ribs, just below the heart, driving the breath from his body and sending him crashing back into a stall, then spinning to the ground. The Colt clattered into the street. Before his eyes could clear, the man straddled him, pressing the silencer-equipped pistol into his throat.
Through a slight haze Peter could see the hard eyes of the oriental, the flat emotionless face. The tip of the silencer pressed harder against his throat. He waited, watching the man’s face, anticipating the impact of the bullet. The oriental’s face broke into a slow smile.
“You were never very good, Pierre. I always said you were too big and too slow. But you did take three of them, and that’s not too bad.”
Peter’s brain fogged, then quickly cleared. The pistol came away from his throat. “Luc?” he said, his voice still trembling with the expectation of death that continued to course through his body.
Luc stood and held out his hand. “Get up, my brother. You look foolish.”
Peter took his hand and allowed Luc to pull him to his feet, “But how … why?”
“Your grandfather. But now we must leave here.”
A groan came from behind him, and Luc spun with the quickness of an animal, setting himself to fire as he did. The man in the street, the one Peter had kicked, twisted in pain. Luc leveled the pistol.
“No,” Peter said, touching his arm. “I want to find out who sent him.”
“I’ll do it,” Luc said. He moved to the man and jammed the gun against his nose. “If you wish to live you will say quickly who sent you,” he snapped at the man.
Peter heard the name and felt his stomach tighten.
Luc raised the pistol and stood. “Go tell him that he has offended my kaitong, Buonaparte Sartene. Also tell him further offense will mean his death and the death of all his family.”
Luc turned away and grabbed Peter’s arm. His eyes were colder than any Peter had ever seen. “Come, we must get out of here before the police arrive. Get your briefcase, while I get your pistol.” Peter obeyed without question, stopping only to glance at the dead.
Back at his hotel, Peter held a glass of Scotch in his hand, and noticed a slight tremor. He placed the glass on the table before him, looked at his hand, then at Luc.
“I don’t remember it shaking while it all was going on, but it sure as hell hasn’t stopped since it ended.”
Luc watched as Peter drew a long breath. “Sometimes the hand has more sense than the man. It knows when it should be afraid.”
Peter continued to look at his hand. “It also never killed anyone before. I think it’s surprised at how easy it was.”
“Killing a man who tries to kill you is never difficult, my brother,” Luc said.
Peter raised his eyes to Luc. “And harder when the man isn’t trying to kill you?”
“That depends on the man,” Luc said.
“And you’ve done both for my grandfather.” There was no question in Peter’s voice.
“I’ve done both. The reasons and for whom are unimportant.” Luc said.
Peter stood, walked toward the terrace, then turned back to face Luc. “That man,” he said. “You told him to tell the one who sent him that a further offense would mean his death and the death of his family. Will he believe the message?”
“He will believe it,” Luc said. A slight smile formed on his lips. “Colonel Duc will believe it more than if it came from the president of your adopted country. Sometimes presidents forget offenses.”
“But my grandfather doesn’t.”
“That is why he is seldom offended.”
Peter walked back to his chair and sat heavily. He paused a moment. “By the way, Luc. The third man, the one who fell after my weapon jammed. Was that you?”
“It was an easy shot,” Luc said.
“Well, thank you for the easy shot. I thought I’d bought the farm right there.” Peter laughed. “I was sure of it after you knocked me on my ass and shoved your pistol in my throat.”
Luc’s face screwed up. “Bought the farm?” he asked.
“A military expression. American,” Peter said. “It means dying.”
“A strange language,” Luc said, shaking his head. “So different from English.”
Peter poured more Scotch into his glass, and took a long swallow. “I suppose I owe you an explanation about why those men came for me,” he said.
Luc grinned at Peter, reminding him of their days together as boys. “I know why Colonel Duc sent them, Pierre,” he said. “I’ve been close to you for several weeks now.”
“Grandpère again,” Peter said.
Luc shrugged. “He worries. He is old now, and he worries.”
Peter’s eyes blinked. “Luc, when you warned about harm coming to his family. That did not include Ba Lin, did it?”
“She is no longer a member of his family,” Luc said. “She no longer exists for Duc.”
Peter rubbed his face, his jaw tightening. “That’s right,” he said. “She has a price to pay too. I wish I could do something about that.”
“You can do whatever you want,” Luc said.
Peter stared across at him, confused. “I don’t understand.”
“Duc will be visited soon for a …” He searched for the correct word. “For a discussion of this matter. I think he will do whatever he is asked.”
“Even as far as Lin is concerned?”
“If you want, that could be a condition.”
“Well, of course I want it,” Peter said.
“
Then it will be done,” Luc said.
Peter stood and paced again, still not understanding all he was hearing. He turned quickly back to Luc. “Who’s going to meet the colonel?” he asked.
Luc’s eyes widened. “Why, your grandfather, of course. When we telephoned him about this he told me he would be here in the morning.”
His grandfather had not mentioned that when they had subsequently spoken. He had only wanted assurances that Peter had not been hurt. It made Peter wonder why the information had been withheld.
Peter poured another Scotch both for himself and for Luc. They were getting a little drunk, but right now that was exactly what he wanted. He stared across at the smaller Mua tribesman, who had been such a major part of his life as a boy and who now had probably saved his life as a man.
“I’m troubled by something, Brother Two,” he said.
Luc stared across at him, waiting for him to elaborate.
“It seems there are many things I’m not being told. You being so close all these weeks. Grandpère meeting with Duc tomorrow. I understand the reasons for them, but I don’t understand why I wasn’t told. It makes me wonder about the things I was told about.” He stared at Luc. “Will you talk to me about these things?”
Luc shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His eyes were slightly glazed now, and he seemed to be having trouble deciding what to say. “It is difficult for me, my brother. I owe your grandfather much. He has trusted me. He has cared for my family and my people. I do not want to be disloyal to him.”
Peter raised his hands. “I understand that. But as brothers we have a loyalty to each other as well. Do this for me. Let me ask you things. If you can, answer me. If you feel an answer would be an offense to Grandpère, I will understand your refusal.”
Luc took a long drink of Scotch and shrugged his nervous agreement. “I think I’m getting a little drunk.” He laughed softly. “But how can I refuse the man I helped put snakes under Auguste’s bed?”
Peter joined the laughter, and wondered if they could ever recapture those boyhood days together. Luc was far different from the boy he remembered. Tougher, colder. But so are you, he told himself.
“How long have you worked for Grandpère?” Peter asked, hoping to start slowly, to move around his concerns.
“From the time I was twelve, right after you left. I worked as a houseboy. Then later, at seventeen, I began carrying messages to the Meo at Xieng Prabang, taking merchandise from one place to another. When I was twenty-one, my father died of an illness. He was your grandfather’s bodyguard then, and your grandfather honored me by giving me the job of my father.”
“I’m sorry about your father,” Peter said. “I was never told, or I would have written you.”
“Death is only a passing from one place to another,” Luc said. “Your grandfather made it easier for those of us left behind by caring for my mother, and by allowing me to assume the honor he had given to my father.”
“And you’re still his bodyguard?”
Luc nodded, then took another long sip of Scotch.
“Does his business involve that much danger?”
Luc inclined his head to one side. “Southeast Asia is a dangerous place, as you are finding out.”
“That’s not what I meant, Luc.”
Luc remained silent, then smiled. He waved his hands toward the windows and French doors that led to the terrace. “You noticed the windows in this room,” he said at length. “The glass is bulletproof. Let us just say that your grandfather’s life still involves difficult people.”
“Like those who deal in opium?” Peter asked.
“The Meo who grow it are under his protection. Sometimes this offends people.”
“They grow it for him?” There was a hard edge to Peter’s voice, and he realized he must control it.
“They grow it for themselves, Pierre. It is the only way they can live.”
“You mean he takes none of it for himself, none of the profit?”
“I don’t know, Pierre. I know they do other services for him, and that he protects them from the government, keeps others from cheating them, lowering prices. You must understand, Pierre, nothing happens in Laos that your grandfather does not know about. Some things he chooses to involve himself in, others he does not. Very few people know what those things are, and I am not one of those people. It is part of his strength, Pierre, that few people know a great deal about him.”
“He told me he was involved in the opium trade years ago, helped establish it as it now exists. He also told me he was no longer involved.”
“It is as I said, Pierre. People think he controls many things, and he allows them to think so. I don’t believe he would lie to you. I think he might choose not to tell you something, but I do not think he would lie. Your grandfather is not ashamed of his life, and he asks forgiveness of no man, not even you.”
“You sound like Benito and Auguste,” Peter said. “I think you’re more Corsican than I am.” He stood and paced the room for several moments, then turned and spoke softly to Luc. “There are people, in other parts of the world, who think dealing in opium is not an honorable thing.”
“I cannot speak for other parts of the world, my brother. Here it is a way of life. The tribesmen grow what people will pay them to grow. If they do not, they do not live. It has been so for centuries. I know it is abused by some people, and so does your grandfather. It is why it is banned among the Meo.”
“What do you mean, banned? Tell me about that.” Peter returned to his chair and sat on its edge, leaning toward Luc.
“Years ago, an arrangement was made with the headman of the Meo who your grandfather protects. The headmen were angered because some of their people were smoking opium, and the production from their fields had become very low. Your grandfather told them to make it an offense to use opium. Now if a tribesman does so, he is banished from his village and can never return. All his property, even his wives, is taken from him, and he is driven away. If it is found he has given opium to others, the punishment is even greater.”
“What happens then?”
“He is beheaded.”
Luc had spoken the final words as though referring to the death of some insect. Peter sat stunned by the coldness of it, the unreality it registered in his mind. “On my grandfather’s orders?” he finally said.
“There are no orders, Pierre. It is the law among the tribes.”
Peter stared off at a far wall. “I don’t know, Luc. It’s difficult for me to grasp, to understand.”
Luc leaned forward in his chair. His eyes were heavily glazed now, and there was a slight slur in his voice. “What is there to understand, Brother Two? Your grandfather protects these people, just as he has protected you.”
Peter snorted, the Scotch having its effect on him as well. “I guess I have caused him a bit of a problem, haven’t I?”
“I too once caused him embarrassment,” Luc said.
Peter perked up. “Really? What did you do?”
Luc shook his head. “It is something I have great difficulty speaking of, my brother.”
“Come on, Luc,” Peter urged. “Brother to brother.”
Luc twisted in his seat, stared at the floor for a moment, then looked across at Peter, a sick expression on his face. “I will tell you as much as I can. The rest gives me too much shame.” He paused as if not knowing where to begin.
Peter leaned closer to him. “Well?” he said.
Luc twisted again, then began to blurt out the story. “Several years ago, I was sent here to Saigon to help Philippe handle a business matter for your grandfather. I became distracted and the business matter went badly. Your grandfather was cheated out of much money.”
“Grandpère, cheated?” Peter began to laugh. “I didn’t think that was supposed to happen to Corsicans. Who cheated him?”
“That I cannot tell you, my brother. It is still too painful for me.” Luc’s eyes were riveted on the floor again, and he took a long drink of Sco
tch without looking up.
“So what happened?” Peter asked.
“Your grandfather had to come here and correct matters. I was much dishonored.”
“But he obviously forgave you,” Peter said. He hesitated, wondering if he should pursue the matter further. “What was the distraction you spoke of?” he finally asked.
Luc looked at him sheepishly. “A woman,” he said. “It’s a weakness I have.”
Peter began to laugh softly. “It’s a weakness I obviously share with you, my brother. It seems that Grandpère has had to get us both out of bedroom problems.”
“For me it was even worse,” Luc said.
“How so?” Peter asked.
“I never even got to a bedroom,” Luc said.
Chapter 34
Philippe Francisci’s house was small and unassuming, hidden behind a high wall in the same section of the city where Colonel Duc lived. Sitting in the small living room, overburdened with heavy old European funishings, Duc felt fully out of his element. Even his crisply pressed uniform carried none of the weight and power he normally felt when he wore it. He had been summoned and he had come, and much to his chagrin, he knew he had no choice in the decision.
On the table before Duc was a tray of croissants and a silver service of coffee. Across the table sat Buonaparte Sartene, his mood rigid behind a soft voice. They spoke in French, further emphasizing—to Duc—that he was without power within these walls.
“If I had known I would have come to you before acting,” Duc said. “There was no way for me to know.” Beneath his uniform he could feel the perspiration run along his chest and back.
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