Corsican Honor

by William Heffernan

  He was almost back to the village when he stopped along the edge of the road and looked down into the maquis, taking in the earthy smells of buckthorn and juniper and all the other herbs and flowering plants that permeated the tangled mass of vegetation. So beautiful, and yet so impenetrable that the resistance fighters in World War II had adopted the name as their own. And so much like life. A dense covering that left all but the surface unseen.

  He had never brought Stephanie to Corsica, had never shown her the beauty he had found here as a boy. His uncles had offended her sensibilities, and she had bristled the one time Antoine had spoken of his nephew’s Corsican blood and how much he was a part of their lives. She hadn’t understood—had no way of knowing how much that praise, that affection, had meant to him. And he hadn’t tried to explain, certain she could never comprehend how two aging gangsters had been more a father to him than his own had ever attempted to be. And now she never would understand, and, oddly, all that was left of him was the Corsican blood that would exact the price of her life.

  He turned and started back the final fifty yards to the village. As he rounded the last bend he stiffened at the sight of a man walking slowly toward him. Then he relaxed, telling himself it was only someone headed home from the cafe. Killers, unless they were fools, didn’t come alone. Even Ludwig worked with the support of a group and his Russian protectors. And no stranger, he knew, could make his way into Cervione, even at night, without being noticed.

  There was a half moon, but still not enough light to make out the man’s features, but when he was twenty yards away he called out to Alex.

  “Ça va, monsieur. Comment allez-vous?” It was a young voice, but one Alex did not recognize.

  “Ça va,” he replied, the man only five yards from him now.

  He stiffened again. This man too, he realized, could not make out his features. The blade of the knife flashed in the faint moonlight, but Alex was ready for it and slipped away from the thrust, then grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting the arm to one side. His knee drove into the man’s groin—a glancing blow, but enough to cause pain and force him to drop the knife.

  Alberto was young and agile and strong, but the stiffened fingers Alex next sent to the base of his throat took the breath from him, and the chopping strike that followed to the side of his neck dropped him to the ground, temporarily paralyzed along one side of his body. Still holding his wrist, Alex pulled his arm straight, then drove his knee into the back of his elbow, snapping the joint and bringing forth a scream of pain.

  When he dragged the man back to the village, he found one of the bodyguards standing in the square, having a cigarette. The guard quickly got the other, and within minutes additional men had been summoned by telephone.

  “Who is he?” the one who seemed in charge asked.

  “I have no idea,” Alex said. “He was good, and he got close enough. But he made a mistake.”

  The young man glared at him through his pain.

  “I made no mistake, American,” he spat. “You were just lucky this time.”

  Alex stared at him, wondering at his rage, knowing it really did not matter.

  “You spoke French to me. Not Corsican, or a mixture of French and Corsican, as you would have with another villager,” he explained. “But you couldn’t see me. You couldn’t have known I wasn’t just another Corsican making his way home. Not unless you’d been following me.” He paused, still staring at the man. “You fucked up, kid. And I don’t think you’re going to get another chance.”

  The leader of the group of bodyguards grabbed Alberto by the hair and yanked his head back. “Who are you? And who sent you?” he demanded.

  “Fuck you, and your whore of a mother,” Alberto spat back.

  The head bodyguard drove his knee into Alberto’s groin, producing a cry of strangled pain.

  “Not here,” Alex snapped. “I don’t want the young girl or her family to know of this.”

  The head guard grunted. “You are right,” he said. He looked down into Alberto’s stricken face. “We will go someplace where it is quiet. And then we will have a long talk.”

  Alex watched them drag the young man away. He regretted what would happen to him, but there was little he could do about it. It was as Antoine and Meme often said. When you go into the whorehouse, you must pay the price for the whore.

  The two Russians got off the ferry in Bastia, walked through the large parking lot and across the street to the car rental agency. The consulate in Marseilles had reserved a car for them, and it was waiting, cleaned and fully gassed.

  While one of the Russians filled out the papers, the second consulted a map, reassuring himself of the best route to take them to Cervione. It seemed simple enough, he thought. Only twenty or so kilometers to the south. With luck they should be able to get there, kill the American, and be at the airport for the afternoon flight to Marseilles.

  They had taken the overnight ferry to Corsica so they could bring weapons with them. There were no security checks or metal detectors for the ferry, and when they took the flight back they would no longer have the weapons in their possession. They would leave them behind for the group of separatists, whose leader had told the consulate of the American who was being hidden in the mountain village. This particular man was a communist, a rarity among those fighting the cause of Corsican nationalism. They had been lucky. It had been nothing more than that.

  The car was a Citroën, long and sleek and low to the ground, and it maneuvered easily through the heavy morning traffic of the northern capital city. Unlike most countries, Corsica had two capitals, Bastia on the northeastern coast and Ajaccio on its central western shores. As in most things Corsican, even the location of a capital could not be agreed upon. Corsica was little more than a chain of mountains surrounded by four hundred miles of coastline, and the rugged, isolating terrain that divided the island so severely had also created a parochialism that could not be breached.

  But the Russians had no knowledge of this, and would have cared little if they had. They were from the Action Directorate of the KGB, and had been brought in from East Berlin at Moscow’s direction to perform a specific task. The Russians called it “wet work,” and despite the wishes of contemporary fiction, any assassinations, kidnappings, and other acts of violence in foreign countries required approval at Politburo level. The fact that they were there only emphasized how seriously Moscow regarded Alex Moran’s actions.

  The Russian who drove remained silent, his bulk and massive hands dwarfing the steering wheel, his flat, Slavic face pointed intently at the road. The man beside him was equally large and even harder looking. He had a narrow, rat-like face and small dark eyes that looked as though they would see in the blackest night. He concentrated on checking their weapons, making sure they would function properly, then stowed them under his seat. Both men were dressed as tourists, in loud, short-sleeve shirts. The man in the passenger seat even had a camera around his neck.

  About five kilometers from the turnoff to Cervione, the driver slowed the car. Ahead, a French gendarme stood before a barricade, waving all southerly traffic to a halt. At the roadside next to him, a work crew swung picks and shovels at the berm. The gendarme spoke briefly to each of the three drivers ahead of the Russians, then when northern traffic cleared, directed them around the barrier. The Russian who was driving checked his rearview mirror, and was surprised to see there were no cars behind.

  When the Russian pulled up to the barrier, the uniformed gendarme walked to the lowered window, bent down, smiled, and placed the barrel of a revolver against the driver’s temple. Across the car a sawed-off shotgun had been leveled at the face of the passenger.

  Without a word the Russian driver was pushed away from the steering wheel, replaced there by the gendarme, as three of the laborers piled into the rear seat and placed weapons against the heads of the Russians. The gendarme drove away, while another laborer threw the barrier into the rear of a van and followed.

  They drov
e another four kilometers, then turned east along a short road that led to the coast. At the end of the road was a large garage, and there another man waited, opening the door as the car approached so it could drive inside.

  As the door closed behind them, the Russians were forced from the car, and found themselves standing before the body of a man tied into an old, battered swivel chair. They could clearly see the man had a single bullet hole in his forehead, and as the gendarme kicked the chair and the body slowly turned, they were offered a view of the gaping hole the exit wound had made.

  “Take off all your clothes. Shoes and socks, everything but your underwear,” the gendarme said in surprisingly good German.

  The Russians remained silent and did as they were told.

  “You now have three choices,” the gendarme said. “You can remain here and explain this body to the police. You can leave—and I suggest you walk along the beach in your state of dress—and arrange for new clothing and weapons, then come to Cervione and die as this man has died. Or you can re-clothe yourselves and return home to your masters, and explain that no Russian, or friend of Russians, will live more than an hour after he steps on Corsican soil. You may also tell them that Alex Moran has no interest in killing Russians unless they come to kill him first.”

  The Russian who had been the passenger looked again at the dead man before him, then back at the gendarme.

  “Who was he?” he asked.

  “The man who telephoned your consulate,” the gendarme said. “The milieu also has its informants. And no one of significance comes to Corsica without its knowing.”

  The two Russians looked at each other, then at the car, where their concealed weapons were now being removed. The one who had been the driver nodded at no one in particular. “We go now?” he asked.

  “Whenever you wish,” the gendarme said.

  “You are an interesting policeman,” the other Russian said.

  “I am not a policeman,” the gendarme answered. “But please try not to come back,” he added. “It causes unnecessary traffic delays.”

  Alex had no knowledge of the confrontation taking place a few kilometers below Cervione. The message that had been delivered in his name had come from Meme Pisani, along with instructions that the Russian hit team be harmed only if they refused to listen to reason. It was a political message to the Russians, one Meme hoped they would heed.

  Walking with Michelle now, back along the road to the village, Alex contented himself with the beauty of the maquis stretched out below him. At first, when they had started out, he had struggled to understand why he had unburdened himself to the young woman the day before. But he had given up any hope of an answer, finally attributing it to the low ebb of emotion that had dominated his waking hours since.… He had pushed the thought away then. Now it returned again. Since.… He found he couldn’t even finish it in his mind.

  “Have you spent all your life here on Corsica?” he asked Michelle, again driving away the thought.

  “I have visited France with my mother,” she said. “We have relatives in Brittany. The coast is very beautiful there, only colder and without the mountains. And, of course, I’ve been to Marseilles. This fall I’m supposed to go to Paris to study at the Sorbonne.”

  “That should be very exciting for you.”

  “Yes. But I shall miss Corsica.” She looked at him and smiled, but there was still some sadness in her eyes. He wished he could remove it.

  “My father has never been off our island, and has seldom gone far from our village.” She smiled again. “He likes to say he lives on the most beautiful island in the world, and in the most beautiful village of that island. So there is no need to go somewhere else.” She looked away, down at the maquis. “It is very provincial of him, but in many ways I agree.”

  “There are much worse places to spend one’s life,” Alex said.

  “And worse ways?” Michelle added.

  “And worse ways,” Alex said.

  They entered the village and went to the cafe, deciding to have the breakfast they had forsaken for their walk. They took a table on the small patio, the duegne taking up their positions across the road. The coffee and croissants had just arrived when a man approached the two bodyguards, spoke to them briefly, then walked to the café and seated himself at their table.

  The man, who an hour earlier had been dressed as a French gendarme, and who the night before had dragged Alberto away, nodded respectfully to Michelle, then to Alex.

  “Two Russians were stopped on the road from Bastia,” he began without preamble. “They have been sent away unharmed, but I was told to advise you that these men now know where you are.”

  Alex responded only by narrowing his eyes, and the man continued. “If they come back—even if they come back with many men—they will never enter this village. But it would be wise for you to remain close to the village.” He hesitated, then added, “And to remain alone.” He spoke the final words softly, not wishing to give offense.

  “Thank you,” Alex said. “And please thank the other men who helped protect me.”

  The man nodded, smiled again at Michelle, then stood and left. Alex remained silent.

  “Why do the Russians come for you?” Michelle finally asked.

  “This man—the one who murdered my wife—he works for them.” Alex drew a long breath, wishing he didn’t have to explain but knowing not to do so would hurt her, perhaps even intensify her fears. “When I needed to find out where he had gone, I forced the information from a man in their government, their intelligence service. It is something that is not permitted, and it carries a heavy penalty.”

  Michelle looked down into her coffee, her hands gripping the edge of the table to stop her trembling.

  “I’m afraid it means we will not be able to take our walks,” Alex said.

  Michelle looked up at him, and her eyes filled with pain. She rose quickly from the table and rushed out into the street. She ran toward her apartment, had difficulty seeing the way. There were tears staining her cheeks.

  CHAPTER

  17

  The limousine pulled up in front of the Pisani brothers’ home. The passenger in the rear waited for the driver to open the door, then gradually stretched up to his full height and stood staring up at the impressive, familiar facade.

  Piers Moran was in his early sixties, but had the look and bearing of a much younger man. He was tall and slender, with longish white hair that turned silver in the sun and seemed due more to premature whitening than to age. Moran had a long, bony face that looked more British than American, as did the off-white linen suit he wore, complete with Scots Guards regimental tie. All together it made him appear somewhat arrogant rather than commanding.

  Yet he would have been pleased by the description, although unlike many American anglophiles who worked for their government, he had never served in Britain. He was pure American WASP, and as such simply admired the certain flair the British demonstrated.

  If Piers Moran was anything, he had often thought, he was a man with flair. If others thought him arrogant, so be it.

  The door to the Pisani house opened, and Antoine rumbled down the stairs and rushed toward him. Behind the bull-like Corsican, Meme followed at a more sedate pace.

  Antoine threw his arms around Moran, pinning his own to his sides and hugged him ferociously. “God dammit,” he bellowed. “You don’t ever age. You must have one of those paintings in your attic that does it for you.”

  Antoine released him, and Moran stepped back, gasping slightly. “I didn’t know you’d read that story,” he said.

  “I didn’t,” Antoine said. “I saw the movie.”

  Moran threw back his head and laughed, then turned to Meme and clasped his hand warmly.

  “It is good to see you, my friend,” Meme said, using the French they always spoke. “We have missed you.”

  “And I, you,” Moran said. “I’m only sorry I come to you with difficulties.”

  Antoine wav
ed his hands. “There are no difficulties among friends.” He wagged a finger at his old comrade. “In the old days, then there were difficulties. I thought you would kill me that day I threw that labor leader—that communist pig of a Frenchman—into the harbor.”

  “He almost drowned,” Moran said. “And we needed him. You could have asked him if he knew how to swim.”

  Antoine shrugged. “One assumes some things of a man who has grown up around water.”

  “Besides,” Moran added. “I would never have killed you—at least not myself. I was terrified of you in those days.”

  Antoine wagged his finger again. “You have never been terrified of anyone,” he said.

  They entered the house and went immediately to the large study the brothers shared, and a third chair was drawn up before the unlighted fireplace.

  The place of conferences, Moran thought, wondering how many times he had sat in this very place and discussed things that had eventually cost other men everything they had.

  “The Russians know where Alex is,” Meme began. “They will never reach him there, not even with an army of men. But they know.”

  “Yes. Walter Hennesey told me. He was not pleased with your intervention, but he understands there is little he can do about it.” Moran leaned forward, his features slightly pained. “The Russians won’t come for Alex. They know it would be a public bloodbath, and they don’t want that. They will sit and wait for Alex to move. And even if you take him over the mountains where they can’t follow, they know where he will go. And by now Ludwig knows too. Alex doesn’t have a prayer of succeeding.”

  “I have told him that,” Meme said. “It does not seem to matter to him.”

  “Yes,” Moran said, drawing out the word. “That’s the part that may get him killed. He seems to believe that what happened to Stephanie is worth dying for.” He shook his head. “Romantic nonsense.”