The Corsican

by William Heffernan

  “You lied,” Francesco screamed. “You lied.”

  Pierre smiled at him. “Of course,” he said.

  Francesco jumped forward, bringing the knife across his body in a downward, slashing motion. Pierre moved easily to his left, blocking the attack and guiding the knife away with a deflecting strike of his closed left hand. Francesco stumbled toward him. Pierre struck with the heel of his right hand, an upward, driving blow that struck Francesco on the chin, then continued up, splitting the upper lip and smashing the teeth, continuing on, crushing against the nasal cartilage and bone.

  Francesco staggered backward, the knife falling from his hand. Pierre moved with him in a fluid, flexible flow.

  “Remember my father, and how he lay there and died for hours,” he breathed.

  Pierre’s right hand continued its smooth flow as he spoke, moving in a rapid circular motion, then down, his hand forming a claw, ripping across Francesco’s eyes.

  “Remember Matthew Bently and Benito Pavlovi,” he whispered.

  Pierre slid to his left, turned, the left palm slamming into the side of Francesco’s head, then continuing in the same circular motion before ripping down across his eyes again.

  Blood streamed from Francesco’s mouth, nose and eyes. He gasped for breath.

  “And Lin and Morris,” Pierre whispered.

  The right hand flew out in a short, thrusting, open hook to Francesco’s throat, then continued as he gagged for air, moving in the same flowing circle, then up and under in an open-hand slap to the groin. Francesco buckled forward as Pierre’s hand closed over his testicles, pulling up and away.

  “And for the Sartene family.” Pierre’s words were drowned out by Francesco’s scream, echoing and bouncing off the walls, the sound, like the images within the labyrinth, fragmented and broken.

  Francesco fell and Pierre took his wrist, twisting the arm against the movement of the fall, snapping it at the shoulder joint. Again Francesco’s screams filled the room, as Pierre’s right fist struck down, breaking the arm at the elbow.

  Francesco slumped to the floor, still on his knees, his face pressed against the tile, blood flowing freely from every orifice. Pierre stood over him. The fighting technique he had just executed was called the kata dan’te, the dance of death, by the Japanese masters. There were several more moves to follow, inflicting still more pain and punishment.

  Pierre stared down at the bleeding pulp of a man who had been the murderer of his father. “You bore me, Francesco,” he whispered.

  Reaching down, he took Francesco by the hair, ripping his head back and snapping it to one side. His neck broke with the sound of dry kindling. Pierre released him, allowing his lifeless body to flop to the ground. Weariness filled Pierre’s body, and the pain he had not felt as they fought throbbed in his wounded shoulder. He staggered forward and slapped his hand against the locked door.

  The door opened. Molly stood there, pale and frightened. Behind her stood Buonaparte Sartene.

  Pierre stared at them for a moment, his mind needing time to accept their presence. “What had to be done here is finished,” he whispered.

  Pierre stepped toward his grandfather. Buonaparte studied his face, his eyes. They would talk soon, he knew. And he saw now, in Pierre’s eyes, that the conversation would not be what he had hoped for over all the years.

  Chapter 43

  VIENTIANE, APRIL 1967

  Buonaparte Sartene’s bed had been placed in front of a large open window overlooking his Japanese garden. As he lay there now his breathing was slow, his mind contemplative. It was a pleasant evening, one of many in recent weeks. The pond at the garden’s center shimmered peacefully with the day’s dying light, and at its edges the water hyacinth and lotus blossoms sent out soft, subtle fragrances that seemed to blend into one pleasing scent. Buonaparte looked down at the garden, regretting for a moment that he would not live to see it reach perfection. But perfection in these gardens, as in so much else, he knew, took generations to achieve. The others would all leave this place soon. He understood that. The war would be lost, and with it his garden. Reclaimed by the forest it once had replaced. Perhaps that was the proper order of things after all. All things evolve, often returning to what they were.

  He watched a large insect skim across the top of the pond, oblivious, like so much of the world, to what he had struggled for all his life. He shook his head weakly at the thought, then turned to the sound of soft steps coming across the room.

  Auguste walked slowly toward him, his creased, wizened face showing the hint of a smile. Buonaparte watched him come. Auguste still moved spryly, and Buonaparte thought he always would, until the day God claimed him.

  “Why are you grinning like an old fool?” he said as Auguste drew near.

  Auguste stopped before him. “It’s seeing you this way,” he said. “Lying there, looking out at your fancy garden like some padrone. I still remember you killing rats in a French prison. I think it suited you better.”

  Buonaparte shook his head in mock exasperation, until he was no longer able to keep the smile from forming on his lips. “How did it go, old friend?” he asked.

  “The Americans are learning,” Auguste said. “This chargé d’affaires, Christopher, sees our position clearly. He agrees that certain papers will be issued, stating that an army captain, Peter Bently, was killed in action.” Auguste chuckled softly. “He even gets a medal. It’s something they do automatically.”

  “And the documents?” Buonaparte asked.

  “They remain in our care. The Americans understand that copies will be with our friends in various parts of the world, and will be released if any future actions are taken against Pierre. For Pierre’s part, he must take no more actions against their people in this region. ‘Forgive and forget,’ I think, was the term this man Christopher used. He also gave some recent news from the United States. It was about the accidental deaths of three retired military officers who served here in Viet Nam. Mr. Christopher said he and his associates were not concerned about that.”

  Buonaparte nodded his head. “The Americans greatly dislike failure. But at least now Pierre is safe.” He turned his head and looked out at the garden again.

  Auguste hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed. His friend’s face was gray, and there were dark circles under his eyes, and the skin sagged against his cheekbones. Only the eyes were strong now. The doctor had said it would only be a matter of weeks, even days perhaps. His heart was just too weak.

  “There was a letter from Pierre,” Auguste finally said. “I opened it because I wanted to be sure it was nothing that would upset you.”

  Sartene turned back to Auguste. “You open my mail now.” His voice was little more than a whisper, but the trace of the humor they had used with each other over the years was still there.

  Auguste reached out and stroked his cheek.

  Sartene’s eyes softened as he looked up at his friend. “What does it say?” he asked. “I am not so weak that his words will kill me.”

  Buonaparte turned his head away. His voice was weak, and the words came slowly. “You know, I don’t apologize for the way I lived my life. I lived it the way I had to live it. But there were mistakes too. And men always have to pay for their mistakes.” He paused, catching his breath. “You remember how I once told you that no man can change history, but that he could choose not to be a part of something that was wrong?”

  Auguste nodded his head. “I remember,” he said.

  “Pierre remembered also. And he was right to remember. He will not make the mistakes I made.” Buonaparte looked out at the garden again. The sun was almost down now, and the pond reflected its dying light. “I was thinking of Papa Guerini before you came in,” he said. “When I was very young he told me that every man lives within his own circle, and in that circle he finds the paths he can follow.” He paused again, almost as though he had forgotten his next thought, then continued. “But when he goes outside that circle he is lost. For a time I
was outside my circle, Auguste. And because of it I lost Jean, and now Pierre.”

  “You have not lost him,” Auguste said. “He loves you very much.” Auguste unfolded the letter. He reached out and touched Buonaparte’s arm. “Here, in the letter, he writes to tell us that he and Molly have been married. They went to America to visit Madeleine and Matt, then on to Corsica, Buonaparte. They were married there. Married in the same village as you and your wife.”

  Buonaparte turned to his friend. “The same village?” His mind seemed to wander for the moment. “I remember that village, Auguste. What a wedding that was! Everyone was drunk and dancing. And I was so frightened I could hardly speak.”

  “You see,” Auguste said. “Pierre does not forget you. He does not forget his heritage. Perhaps he will live there.”

  Buonaparte looked at him; there was a flicker of hope in his eyes. “He told me he could not live here, or in America again. But he did not say where he would go.” He shook his head slowly. “But no. Even if he goes there, he still does not want to be part of us. He is a good boy, a good grandson. But he will not be part of our thing together. He has chosen his own path. I hoped it would be different, but it could not be.” He began to cough, then turned his face toward Auguste. “You must take the medallion now, my friend. And then someday you must find someone who can carry on for our milieu.”

  “It will go to a Sartene,” Auguste said.

  Buonaparte stared at him. There was hope in his eyes again, then it faded. “No, not a Sartene.” He waved his hand weakly, then closed his eyes. “I must sleep, my friend. Now I must sleep.”

  Buonaparte dreamed he was strolling along the path that circled the garden. He was with Auguste, and their pace was slow, deliberate and relaxed.

  “Buonaparte?” Auguste began after a time. “What of the medallion?”

  “It is still in my desk, old friend. Pierre still has much to learn, but one day soon, I think, it will be offered to him. Then, if he chooses, it will be his.”

  Auguste looked out across the pond and smiled. Tears slowly formed in his eyes, and he kept his head turned as he brushed them away. “That’s good, Buonaparte,” he said. “That’s very good.”

  The two men walked together down the path, Sartene’s arm still draped around Auguste’s shoulder. He was taller than his friend, and it made it seem as though Auguste was supporting him as they walked. Buonaparte knew it had been that way many times. He also knew it was how men survived. It was the only way they could survive in this world.

  Epilogue

  The study was dimly lit; only the desk lamp at the opposite end of the room kept everything from total darkness. The faint light played against the room itself, the bust of Napoleon, the rows of books that lined three walls, the heroic military paintings. Even the toy soldiers on the table seemed affected, appearing at times to move, to advance position in their mock battle.

  Auguste sat in the leather club chair watching it all, as he had many times before. It had been a year since Buonaparte’s death, but he seemed very much alive in this room. Not the same room as before, Auguste told himself, but the same objects that were so much a part of the man.

  He thought of their days together. So many days. Much of it so long ago. The French prison at Marseille. The years of fighting. Mount Ventoux, Carpentras. And that small farmhouse outside Bellegarde where he saved you. Auguste rubbed the old wound on his chest. But you couldn’t save him in the end. Save him from the pain he knew.

  He shook his head slowly. He had not expected to outlive the man. Buonaparte had seemed so indestructible. Even when he lost, he seemed to gain more strength. But in the end there was no strength left. Only enough to endure the last bit of suffering, the final feeling of failure.

  And you could offer him nothing then. Only promises. Promises that still must be kept.

  The distant sound brought him back, erasing thoughts of the past. He rose quickly from his chair and hurried out of the study. He walked rapidly down the hall, then up the stairs that led to the second floor. Anyone watching him would think he was observing a much younger man. His movements were too spry, too fast for a man his age.

  Outside the bedroom he eased the door open. The child’s cries filled the room, and he crossed to the cradle and reached down and began stroking its small heaving chest.

  “My God, what lungs you have,” he cooed. “Everyone will think we are beating you.”

  He picked up the child and cradled it in his arms, rocking slowly, then lifting it higher so he could kiss the soft down atop its head. He crossed slowly to the window, still rocking the infant.

  The door opened behind him, and Auguste turned to the sound. Pierre’s large frame filled the doorway, and he looked severely at the older man and began shaking his head.

  “You are going to spoil my son,” he said, his voice as severe as his look.

  The child stopped crying. Auguste looked from Pierre to the child, then back at Pierre. “I don’t think he agrees with you,” he said. “Besides, life will not spoil him. A little spoiling now can’t hurt.”

  “Since when did you become an expert on children?” Pierre asked.

  Auguste snorted. “I admit I failed with you. But a smart man learns from his failures. Now why don’t you get out of here and leave us alone.”

  Pierre shook his head, struggling to drive away the smile that was forming on his lips. He turned to leave.

  “Pierre,” Auguste called softly, stopping him. Pierre turned, questioning Auguste with his eyes.

  “It is good what you have done,” Auguste said.

  “What, Uncle?”

  Auguste held the child away from his body and stared down at it, then looked up at Pierre and smiled. “Calling the boy Buonaparte. It was a good thing.”

  Pierre could see the tears that had begun to form in Auguste’s eyes. He nodded his head. “I hope somehow he knows.”

  Auguste smiled again. “He knows, Pierre. He knows.”

  Auguste turned back to the window and began rocking the child again. The door closed behind him. Pierre is learning, he told himself. And he has begun running his own businesses, just as Buonaparte did. And now he has all of Buonaparte’s belongings. All, except one. And soon he will have that as well.

  He raised the child again and kissed it. “And after him, it will be yours,” he whispered.

  The child let out a slight whimper, then was quiet again.

  “I know. I know,” Auguste whispered. “First there is much for you to learn. But Uncle Auguste is here to teach you. And after me there will be others. And it is a good place for you to learn.”

  He rocked the child slowly and gazed out the window. Below, the sea crashed against the rocky Corsican coast, the beauty, violence and power seeming to blend together. From the beach below, anyone looking up at the house would see only an old man, holding a small child. In no way could that watcher know what the vision truly held.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Alfred W. McCoy, who together with Cathleen B. Reed and Leonard P. Adams wrote The Politics of Heroin in Southeast Asia, a masterwork of journalism that saved me much research time. I would also like to acknowledge the support and help of Martin Poll, Herman Gollob, Linda Grey, Lawrence S. Freundlich, and, as always, Gloria Loomis-Miller.

  A special thanks to Russell Bintliff, whose past military and intelligence work in Southeast Asia were the basis for portions of this novel.

  About the Author

  William Heffernan began his career as a reporter for the New York Daily News and was nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize for his work there. He also received the Robert F. Kennedy Journalism Award. Since his leap to novels, Heffernan has written eighteen books, including the Edgar Award–winning Tarnished Blue in the Paul Devlin series. Heffernan lives on the Florida Suncoast.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or
mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1983 by William Heffernan

  Cover design by Drew Padrutt

  ISBN: 978-1-4804-1737-3

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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