Rostoff was a large man with thick white hair and bushy eyebrows, and a flat, Slavic face with a large, vein-lined nose that spoke of a love affair with vodka. He held the rank of full general, and his badly fitted Russian suit gave him a further affinity for Hennesey.
Rostoff was flanked by his counterpart in the GRU, the Russian equivalent of the DIA, another general—a tall, still trim septuagenarian named Nicolae Poltikov—whose narrow, aesthetic face and thinning hair made him appear paper-like, despite his physique, someone who might be blown away by a strong wind.
But it was clear Poltikov was there for window dressing, solely because the DIA was involved. The KGB was in charge—would make the necessary decisions—just as Hennesey believed he, and the CIA, would do on their side.
“You must admit this is an unusual situation,” Giordano said. “Your man Ludwig butchered Moran’s wife.”
“The Soviet Union does not employ terrorists,” Rostoff said.
“Oh, let’s stop the bullshit, General. Ludwig, right now, is aboard a Russian vessel headed for Libya. His background is no secret. Whom he works for is no secret. And what he did to Moran’s wife is no secret.”
Hennesey jumped in, cutting off Giordano and the reply Rostoff was readying. “We accept the fact that Moran broke the rules. And we accept what the penalty for doing so is. We are only saying that—in this rare case—there are unusual circumstances.”
A flicker of a smile momentarily played across Poltikov’s thin lips. He likes the terminology used to describe the butchering of an American agent’s wife, Hennesey thought. To him it’s a show of weakness. Hennesey decided to scotch that snake.
“We don’t want open warfare with your agencies. But if you force it, we’ll accept it.” He raised a hand as Rostoff’s face reddened in preparation for an angry response. “We will not interfere with your hunt of Moran. We will even assist it, as per the agreement. What we want—what we insist upon—is the opportunity to give him a final offer before he’s taken.” Hennesey raised his hand again. “And only if we find him first. And only if the final offer is acceptable to you.”
Rostoff sat back, satisfied like a well-fed cat. “It is fair,” he said. “But if we find him first, as we expect to, we will have no obligation to notify you before he is sanctioned. He is a dangerous man, and we will not risk the lives of our men.”
Hennesey turned to Giordano, his eyes saying it was as far as the CIA was willing to go. Giordano’s face reddened, then he gave a curt nod of his head.
“Done,” Hennesey said.
CHAPTER
15
Corsica
Alex sat on a low wall at the edge of the village and stared down at the distant sea. The village of Cervione was perched on the side of the mountain, near the summit, and below it lay the tangled mass of the maquis, and below that the cultivated vineyards in which many of the villagers worked, and which, like so much of the impoverished and insular countryside, were among the numerous holdings of the Pisani brothers, on this, their native Corsican soil.
A narrow, winding road led up from the sea, twisting and turning as it followed the contours of the rising terrain, the sole direct route to the village. The only other road was one which ran parallel to the mountain, moving from village to village just below the summit. It was a fortress, pure and simple, one that no man could approach without being seen. And to which few, save the occasional tourist, ever ventured. Even the French police station serving the village was located halfway down the mountain, a place where the gendarmerie remained behind locked doors, admitting only those who had been scrutinized through a narrow peephole. And only then if absolutely necessary. Seldom would the police venture to the village itself, and then, if forced to, only in overwhelming numbers, and never with even a small hope of success. They were an occupation force imprisoned by their own hand, fully at the mercy of their captives.
The village had been selected as Alex’s rabbit hole while he plotted his incursion into Libya. It was a foolhardy plan, but one he considered his only chance to reach Ludwig before he disappeared into the ever ethereal terrorist network, to be seen again only when he chose.
And that would not do. Alex had to reach him where he felt safe. Where his guard would be as low as it ever got. Reach him while he was resting up for his next outrage. Planning his own strategy of the lives he planned to take. Kill the sonofabitch before he had time to react. Kill him like he had killed Stephanie. Butcher him like an animal being readied for market.
Alex’s hands began to tremble beyond control, and he clenched his fists and turned back toward the village, walking quickly to a small cafe with a tiny, covered outdoor patio. He took a seat at one of three tables, and when the owner’s son appeared, he ordered a Corsican brandy known as marc. The other tables were occupied by village men, all of whom nodded somberly in acknowledgment of his presence. The word had no doubt been passed that Alex was there under the protection of the Pisani brothers. It was as strong an imprimatur as one could receive.
In the narrow street outside the patio, an ancient woman moved steadily up the rising cobblestones on legs accustomed to climbing. She was dressed entirely in black, a coarse black shawl covering her head so only her long nose and pointed chin protruded. She carried a market basket that looked as old as she, and which, when she passed by again on her way home, would undoubtedly hold the bread and cheese and meats she would later serve her family.
Farther up from the patio, the street opened into a small square, where young children played on the sharply rising steps of the village “cathedral,” a small, modest church which had been given that lofty designation centuries earlier, an honor that was still a matter of pride to the village’s few hundred souls whose ancestors had tilled the ground on which it had been built. The other sides of the square were occupied by connected four- and five-story buildings, each so old that pipes for latter-day plumbing ran down exterior walls, which were cracked and scarred and leaning with age.
The floor of each building had a single apartment, rambling collections of rooms which could be easily divided to serve the extended families—often as not three generations—that lived within. It was in one of these apartments that Alex had been housed, as the visiting cousin of a man who worked as foreman for the Pisani vineyard. The household, named Sabatini, included the family patriarch, a wizened, weatherworn grandfather with a flowing white mustache, addressed solely as Grand-père, his equally ancient wife, whom villagers and family alike referred to as Madame, their son, the vineyard foreman, Rene, his wife Juliet, and an eighteen-year-old daughter, Michelle, who had been designated as Alex’s guide and protector during the weeks he would be with them.
The mere presence of a young Corsican woman with a lone man outside the safety of her family’s home was normally enough to produce a flash of weapons. But in Alex’s case the couple were never alone. Trailing at a distance behind him, at all times, were the ever present figures of two Pisani bodyguards, men whose coats concealed automatic weapons that could deter any but the heaviest assault. And in the insular mountain village that was the Pisanis’ domain, any assault at all would require miraculous intervention to succeed.
Alex sipped his marc, allowing the warm, rich liquid to sear his throat and spread a comforting warmth through his stomach. He felt safe and secure, almost as though he had returned to the womb. Across the narrow street he could see the two young men who would make that safety inviolate, even at the cost of their lives.
He watched the young woman cross the street and smile innocently at the two men. She had collectively dubbed them the duegne, insisting with only a hint of a smile that the Pisani brothers had provided these chaperones not to protect Alex, but to ensure her honor remained intact.
Young Michelle, as Alex thought of her, was truly beautiful. He had noticed the beauty of her face when he first arrived at the family apartment two days before. It had soft, delicate lines made even softer, more delicate by long, flowing brown hair that he
ld faint hints of red and blond. And there was a lovely sense of childish innocence about her. Her brown eyes flashed with life, and her wide mouth seemed to burst into a smile at any provocation.
He hadn’t noticed her figure then, other than that she was only moderately tall and slender. But as she crossed the street, headed toward him, he couldn’t help but notice her lithe, supple movements, the delicate curves and shapes of a recent child who had blossomed in ways any woman would covet, and he wondered why two days had passed without him noticing she was much more woman than child. But, of course, she wasn’t. She was lovely and gentle and naive. And he envied her her innocence.
Michelle smiled at him as she approached, the warmth of it flooding Alex’s face like sunlight. It was a smile that in another place might be mistaken as something else. But not on Corsica, where such a misinterpretation could mean a man’s life. Here, as Alex knew, a woman could offer warmth and friendship if she chose, without fear it might be misunderstood as something more.
Before she reached Alex’s table she stopped at another, where one of the village men who had nodded so somberly to Alex was seated. His young son had joined him there, a boy of perhaps five or six, and Michelle commented on how much he had grown and what a truly beautiful child he was. The boy blushed and lowered his eyes, and the father beamed with pride, his hands running over the boy’s head and shoulders—stroking, almost petting him—in a display of affection common for Corsican men, something seen so seldom in other places.
Watching the man made Alex think of his own father and the absence of overt affection in his own childhood. It was not an absence of love, Alex told himself. He loved his father, needed to believe even now that his love was returned, had always been. But for his father, as for so many men of his time and place, such displays were avoided lest the child’s sense of masculinity be somehow subverted. It was permitted with daughters—although even then it was sometimes withheld—and he wondered now if it was due to some fear of misinterpretation. That a child might lose some sense of parental authority or, even worse, that a father’s public image might somehow deteriorate.
It was not so with Corsican men, something, Alex realized now, he had noticed even as a child, the many times he had visited the island. Displays of affection were given freely, openly. It was part of the fierce loyalty Corsicans felt toward any member of their family, he decided. Part of their idea of honor that they would defend at any time, at any cost. But it was not a personalized sense of honor, he told himself. It was more the belief that those they loved were worthy of honor and should be treated honorably. And no exception to that idea could be tolerated. And that they themselves must offer the same to others. To do otherwise would be akin to an act against nature.
Michelle turned from the boy and his father, and came and sat next to him. She smiled again, and again he felt the warmth of it. “Why are you sitting here in the shade on such a beautiful day?” she asked.
Alex nodded toward the other men on the patio. “They seem to find the shade comforting and pleasant,” he said.
“Ah, but they have been working in the sun all day,” she said, her smile returning, a bit more mischievously now. “You have been locked away in your room, studying your strange maps and papers.”
Alex looked at her. “How do you know about my strange maps and papers?” he asked. There was no hint of anger or irritation in his voice, none felt.
“I saw them, of course, when I went to make your bed. Are they secret?”
“No.”
“Good. Because if they were, you should certainly hide them away. I am a very curious woman.”
Alex smiled at her use of the word. She was certainly a woman, albeit a very young one. But he had difficulty thinking of her that way, was surprised to hear it was how she thought of herself. He was fifteen years older than she, but it seemed a much greater expanse of age. He wondered if she were twenty-six or twenty-seven, and he forty-one or forty-two if he would feel the same. He pushed the thought away. It was foolish, pointless.
“From now on I shall hide my papers,” he said.
“Oh, no, don’t hide them. Simply put them away. If you hid them, it would be like a game, a challenge to find them.”
A faint smile flickered across Alex’s lips, then disappeared. Michelle watched him, taking in the depth of his sorrow.
When Antoine had brought him to her home, she had asked about him. Antoine had been reluctant to tell her, but then he had. He always gave her what she wanted, had done so since she was a small child. He often snarled at her, accusing her of being a nosy little girl, as he had this time. But he always acquiesced. He had never, in all the years she could remember, found the courage to deny her anything. She thought it was because he knew she loved him.
Meme Pisani was different. She loved him as well, but the depth of feeling between them had never been as strong. And yet Meme seemed to regard her more seriously. He seemed more aware of her intelligence and abilities. Seemed to view her more as a whole person rather than merely a child who charmed him and brought him pleasure.
Michelle continued to look at Alex, taking in the pain that seemed ingrained in his eyes, the weariness that drew the life from his face. He must have loved his wife deeply, she thought, and it helped her understand the anger and hatred she had seen flash across his face, although she wished it were not there, not such an integral part of him.
“Dinner will soon be ready,” she said. “Madame is making a special soup that is so rich with garlic, I will not need the duegne to protect me from you.”
“Your honor is safe,” Alex said. “Garlic or no garlic.”
“Ah, you say so. But we are not so primitive in this tiny village that we have not heard about Americans.”
“Let us eat the garlic soup, then,” Alex said. “It will guarantee safety for both of us.”
Alex watched Grand-père eating his soup, his flowing white mustache twitching with each mouthful, his eyes twinkling with the pleasure of the meal. His wife, Madame, watched as well, and it seemed to Alex that she still took pleasure in the way he looked, the dignified, almost regal bearing he exuded in the way he held his head, the way he smiled and spoke in his soft, gentle voice. Madame was a woman who had grown thick with age, with sturdy features that spoke of strength and eyes that seemed to look at all around her with satisfaction. She was proud of her family, proud to be with them. He decided he would not want to encounter her if he ever abused any of them.
Rene and Juliet, Michelle’s father and mother, were in their forties, and seemed more than content with their lives. Rene spoke of the vineyard he supervised with great pride, complaining only of the French government’s practice of denying Corsicans the right to export their fine wines to France, but turning their heads when French winemakers illegally used smuggled Corsican vintages to doctor their own wines when a poor year made that necessary.
Juliet nodded with her husband’s complaint, supporting his views, then distracting him from anger by urging more food upon him. She seemed intent on forcing food and comfort on Alex as well, and he was certain it was not merely out of respect for a Pisani guest in her home, but rather a genuine wish to make her home a place that gave pleasure to all who entered it.
She was a beautiful woman, Alex thought, and it was easy to see that Michelle would look almost exactly the same twenty or twenty-five years from now. He found himself wondering how Stephanie would have looked in middle age, and he felt a rush of hatred that he would never now know.
And the man who had denied him that was less than nine hundred miles across the Mediterranean, sitting in safety and comfort, satisfied with what he had done.
Michelle watched the fury come into Alex’s eyes, and she knew he was thinking of his dead wife again, and of the man who had killed her, and of the vendetta that would soon take him across the sea and perhaps to his own death. She understood vendettas. The word had originated in the Corsican language and was soaked into its soil like the blood that had
flowed so freely for so many generations. And she knew she could do nothing to stop it now for this strange, handsome American for whom she felt such attraction.
“You are making a face. Is it Madame’s soup that displeases you?” she asked, startling him.
“Oh, no. Not at all,” Alex insisted. He smiled at the old woman and nodded his head stupidly. “The soup is wonderful.”
Juliet immediately picked up the terrine that held still more, and began ladling another portion into Alex’s bowl. She sprinkled a spoonful of grated cheese atop the soup. “We have a wonderful roast pork that Michelle cooked especially for you,” she said. “The soup is so light you will still have room for it.”
Alex glanced at Michelle. She had not said anything about cooking any part of the meal.
“I’ll be sure to save room,” he said. He was surprised to see that Michelle was blushing.
They walked along the dusty dirt road that ran parallel to the summit, the two Pisani bodyguards—Michelle’s duegne, as Alex now thought of them—trailing behind. It was morning, but the sun was already warm, and from below, rising on winds from the maquis, the air was scented with the smells of buckthorn and juniper and bayberry and wild thyme.
Napoleon, Alex recalled, had once said that he would know his native Corsica solely by its smell, and he knew now that the French emperor had been speaking about the wild beauty of the maquis, that impenetrable, tangled mass of foliage that burst forth every spring in a blinding sea of flowers, and which throughout the year filled the air with its spicy scents, just as the wild boar to which it was home filled the larders of the Corsicans who hunted them.
“You came here to Corsica as a child, did you not?” Michelle asked. She was walking beside him, dressed in loose-fitting slacks and sturdy shoes, and a billowing blouse that hid all her youthful womanliness. “A number of times. My father worked for the American government in Paris, and he and the Pisani brothers had become friends after the war, and they often invited him to Marseilles and here to Cervione during his holidays. They used to hunt boar here, and once, when I was ten, I was allowed to go with them. It was very frightening and very thrilling for me.”
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