“As you know,” Ferri continued, cutting himself a small slice of cheese, “the communist labor unions, and those among the city council who share their ideology, are attempting to manipulate this increase in the tram fares to bring violence to the streets, and use it to pave their way to power.”
Antoine and Meme remained silent. They knew that nothing of the sort was true. The men who led the Communist-Socialist labor coalition were being blackjacked into support of the unauthorized strikes that were spreading throughout the city. These labor leaders, many of whom had fought with the communist-led Resistance, were far from wild-eyed revolutionaries, but conservative middle-aged men who now wanted some part in the governance of their country. But they were also realists, who understood that the mayor’s hike of tram fares was needed to curb a growing fiscal deficit. And while communist politicians had jumped to the side of the strikers, Ferri’s assertion that this was a combined plot between communist-led unions and politicians was nothing more than a means to beat back dangerous political opposition.
But none of that mattered to the Pisani brothers. What did matter was that they were being offered the chance to gain strong political alliances. And they had learned, from both Carbone and Spirito, that this, even more than the knife and the gun, was the strongest path to dominance in the milieu.
“Our American friends are concerned that this is only the beginning, that it will lead to a communist wave throughout Europe.” Ferri moved his hand in a flowing gesture to emphasize his point. “And Europe is at its most vulnerable. The people are hungry and ready to follow anyone who will offer them power.”
Meme nodded agreement, although he knew this too was false. The people only wanted adequate food and shelter and work. What they didn’t want was the heel of any politician’s boot, no matter what his stripe. They were not ready for revolution. People who were preoccupied with getting enough food into their mouths would accept anyone they thought could help them, and throw them out as quickly as they failed. France, he believed, would be going through constant political changes for many years. And in those changes there would be great profit. And it was the Americans who would direct the flow of currency. And if the Americans wanted to believe in a communist menace in France, who was he to argue? The Americans, he knew, would change political allegiances as one anti-communist faction ebbed and another surged ahead. And throughout it all those who remained with them would become rich.
“My brother and I are honored that you would share your concerns with us,” Meme said. He was a small, slightly built young man—a sharp contrast to his bull-like brother, who looked as though he would burst from his suit at any moment—but his hawk-like face and dark, penetrating eyes spoke of someone who could be taken lightly only at peril.
Jorgenson leaned forward and offered a false smile. He knows we speak only shit here, Meme thought. And he knows that we know it too.
“My government is well aware of both of your heroics during the Occupation,” Jorgenson continued. He gestured to Meme. “We know how you were so deservedly awarded the Légion d’Honneur. And we believe you are men who can be trusted. Men of honor, who will do what is necessary.”
Antoine raised his heavy hands, as if lifting something from the table, then let them fall back. “We always do what is necessary,” he said. “Corsicans learn that simple truth in the cradle.”
Jorgenson’s smile became more genuine. He liked venality in those with whom he dealt. Venality was something you could hold on to, something you could manipulate to your own ends.
“My government, through its newly formed Central Intelligence Agency, wants to cut off any possibility of a general strike,” he said. “But if that’s not possible, we want the strike crushed, and we want it crushed quickly.” He tilted his head to one side. “We would like it done with as little bloodshed as possible, but we’re realists enough to understand that circumstances may lead us down a different road. And we know we will need forceful people to handle that. People who are not outsiders.”
Meme folded his hands in front of him, offering the sincerity and innocence of a schoolboy. “We, my brother and I, are of course anxious to help the American friends we learned to trust during the war.” He spoke the lie smoothly, easily. “But there are others in our group whose welfare we must consider, and we must be able to explain what benefits our faction will receive for our help.”
“There will be adequate benefits,” Jorgenson said. “There will be monetary benefits now, but even more important”—he glanced at Ferri—“and I believe I speak for those who run the government”—Ferri quickly nodded agreement—“there will be a certain amount of leeway and protection offered your many enterprises in the future. This as a way of additional compensation. Let us just say you will be making friends who will not forget you.”
Meme gestured expansively. He knew that Ferri and those he worked for might lose power, but that those who replaced them would be obligated by the Americans, to that same promise. “One could ask for no more,” he said. “Tell us what you would have us do.”
Jorgenson nodded, reached below the table, and lifted a briefcase to his lap. From inside, he withdrew an envelope and laid it on the table between them.
“This is for your use,” he said. “It will cover any initial expenses you might have. It’s fifteen thousand dollars U.S., and there will be more when it is needed.”
Antoine picked up the envelope, opened it, and slid out the money. He did not count it, not wishing to insult the American. The amount, a virtual fortune in France at this time, made Ferri’s eyes bulge. Antoine discreetly slid the money into his suit coat pocket.
“At some time within the next month,” Jorgenson continued, “the CIA will be sending in a psychological warfare team to make a general strike unpalatable to the population.” He nodded at each of the brothers in turn. “You will follow the direction of the man who heads that team. He will be here for several years, we expect—even after the strike threat has passed—just to ensure we maintain a level of political stability.”
Ferri smiled broadly at the use of the terminology, but the Pisani brothers knew it did not necessarily mean political stability for him and his masters. It meant the Americans would only allow those they could work with to remain in power, and that they would interfere with the choice of the electorate only to that degree.
“In the meantime,” Jorgenson added, “we want your faction to do whatever is needed to disrupt any street demonstrations. We are well aware that historically in France the street demonstration has always been as important as the ballot box in influencing politics. And we just can’t allow that to be the case.”
“I believe we can serve you very well,” Meme said.
Jorgenson smiled his false smile. “I believe you can,” he said.
When Jorgenson and Ferri had left, Antoine and Meme went to their office at the rear of the club and counted the money.
A broad smile creased Antoine’s face. “There are people who would gladly kill us for this much,” he said.
Meme returned the smile. “There are people who would kill us for free.”
“You are thinking of Marcel Francisci,” Antoine said.
“He is one,” Meme said. “But I am very happy the Americans came to us instead of him. With this much”—he patted the stack of bills that lay on a desk between them—“and the support of the Americans, Francisci’s faction would be stronger than us. And he is like a wolf. When he sees something weak, he must kill it.”
Antoine nodded. “Maybe we should show the wolf what it is like for the lamb.”
Meme shook his head. “I would rather see Francisci come to us to beg our benevolence. It would hurt him more than death.”
Antoine drummed his fingers on the desk. “The only thing that offends me is that the Americans think they have bought us with this money.” He too patted the stack of bills. “But then …” He finished the sentence with another smile.
“Sometimes those who rec
eive the money are the ones who have done the buying,” Meme said.
Antoine inclined his head to one side, weighing the idea. “Let it be that way with us,” he said.
“We shall see to it,” Meme answered.
CHAPTER
21
The man from the CIA was no older than they themselves, and the fact of it surprised the Pisani brothers, although they said nothing. It was November 12, almost a month to the day of their meeting with Jorgenson and Ferri, and during the intervening time Pisani men had moved against barricades the strikers had set up to stop the trams, smashing them and the heads behind them with whatever force was needed. Yet no one had died, as the CIA had instructed, and many of the barricades had not been discovered in time. They were like the fleas on a dog, first here, then somewhere else, and it was impossible to anticipate where they would next appear.
But those who manned the barricades had learned to go to them in fear. But they also went with resolve, and that was something more difficult to crush.
Richard Pierpont Moran—Piers, as he said he preferred to be called—was a tall, angular young man with the bearing of an aristocrat. He spoke French formally and well, having difficulty only with the odd idiom or the colloquial terms used among members of the milieu. But soon he was referring to the police as flics, money as the blé, a strong-arm soldier of a faction as a casseur, and myriad other terms that had grown out of custom from years past.
Moran had arrived five days earlier with his psychological warfare team, a full week ahead of the time indicated by Jorgenson. The Pisanis could only assume it was an indication of American resolve. Based on past experience with the OSS, they could not conceive it was the result of efficiency. Piers had kept his men apart from the Pisanis, preferring to deal with them only himself. It was a management technique that Meme—who instinctively understood these things—recognized for what it was, a desire to keep instructions simple and clear—at both ends—and to avoid any misdirection or misunderstanding.
At first Antoine had been offended, believing that Piers felt his men too good to deal directly with Corsican inferiors. But Meme had explained, and Antoine—far quicker to grasp things than his bulk and manner led many to believe—recognized the wisdom of the decision. And he stored it away, to use later himself.
They were gathered in the office at the rear of Club Paradise in the old Opera district, and one of the poules, who had been given the day off at the whorehouse where she worked, brought them coffee and croissants and a plate of butter and jams from the black market stores in the basement.
Meme noticed that Piers’s eyes lingered on the woman, who was no more than nineteen, and whose name was Colette Minot. She was a beautiful young woman, among the most enticing who worked for the Pisanis, and Antoine and Meme had both enjoyed her skills, which were proficient to a rare degree. And, most important, she was not Corsican, as far too many in other stables were. The Pisanis’ respect for Corsican womanhood was too deeply ingrained to permit that to happen. Meme would have liked to keep the woman with them, and take advantage of Piers’s obvious attraction for her. But Colette was from Lyons, a good enough place but one not imbued with an understanding of Corsican silence, and so she could not be trusted to hear the conversations of men.
Piers bit into a croissant and immediately dusted his thin lips with a napkin. He had pale blue eyes that were striking and attractive to women, but which betrayed the falseness of his exterior patrician warmth. He was coldly pragmatic, something the Pisanis found unusual in so young an American, but it was also something they could trust and admire. It would not be hard to take orders from this man, they had quickly decided. As long as the money continued as promised, and as long as Piers could accept their own, more subtle direction.
“So the communists among the city council appear to be a major problem,” Piers said, dusting another crumb from his mouth. “How would you deal with them if they were causing you business difficulties?”
Meme tapped his nose with one finger. “I would ignore them, ride out their efforts. Politicians quickly lose interest in things that do not directly affect the maintenance of their power. The tram fares will not do this. Whether they remain in effect or not, the mere fact they have opposed them will serve their purpose.”
“And if it were something that would not go away, that would cause you permanent harm?”
“It would depend on what it was,” Meme answered honestly. “If it meant a loss of too much blé, or if it threatened to cripple our faction, we would kill one and hope the others took the lesson to heart.”
“Short of killing someone,” Piers urged.
“A good beating is sometimes enough,” Antoine said. “But it must be understood that more will follow. Some will accept the price of one beating. But few who know they don’t have the power to stop it from happening again and again will fail to do what is needed to end it.”
“What if a beating were to take place in the council chambers itself? What if all the communist councilors were beaten at once?”
“The people would be angry,” Meme said. “They would react.”
“At first, yes,” Piers said. “But would it show them their protectors could not even protect themselves? And when they themselves were hurt later, would it not say to them”—he gestured with one hand—“why continue this strike, there is no one who can help us?”
The brothers were silent for several moments, then Meme’s face broke into an uncharacteristic smile. “Yes,” he said. “I think that would happen. There would be a reaction at first, and I think it would be angry and would come quickly. But it would be small in numbers, and if met with violence I think it would have the effect you seek.”
Piers nodded. “I believe the council is meeting this afternoon. And I think it may be a good time to test our theory,” he said.
When the Pisanis and their men had left, Piers lingered behind. Meme had suggested it would be better if he was not seen near the council chambers, and had offered Colette as a means of relaxation and diversion.
Moran was not accustomed to prostitutes. He had been with one once, while a student at Yale, but he had been drunk and in a group of his peers, and it had been a loud, rakish, stupid event filled with absurd taunting. He found Colette in the small kitchen that served the nightclub, washing up the cups and dishes they had used, and he leaned against the counter, trying to seem casual and at ease.
Colette understood. Neither Meme nor Antoine had given her any specific instructions, but she had been in this position before and knew what would be expected of her. At least this one was young and handsome, and he seemed polite, and possibly gentle, although she could not be sure. Even the most innocuous of men, she had found, could turn brutal when they knew she was available for money. It had something to do with power, she thought. And a woman who sold her body had no power over it.
But she would have to be careful with this one. He seemed important to the brothers, more important than most. She would not steal from him. The Pisanis forbade stealing from customers; they said it was bad for business. But when the opportunity presented itself, she stole anyway. It was a way of getting back at them, she told herself. And she also liked the money.
“Tell me about Lyon,” Piers said. “I’ve never been there.” Colette’s back was to him, and he was studying the view of her bottom. It was full and wonderfully shaped—not large, perfect really. He recalled a line from Hemingway about a woman similarly endowed. He had said it was one that “definitely would not require a pillow.” The author was speaking about the ability to achieve the deepest of penetrations with such a woman, and undoubtedly trying to imply that his character was so sizably proportioned it was a serious consideration. Piers had no such concerns. He was a normal man. But he liked the thought of it.
Colette turned, but only partway, knowing it would give this man a view of her tight blouse and the shape of what lay beneath. She was a beautiful woman; she understood that. She also believed it was the
only thing of value she possessed, the only means she had to the life she wanted.
“It is a city like any other,” she said. She offered a small shrug, a small smile. “If you grow up among the filou it is wonderful. If you are poor, it is merde.”
She spoke English mixed with her own idiom, and it surprised Piers that she knew the language. But then, the occupation forces had been there for several years, and he supposed a clever whore would have to. Competition on the streets had been severe. The poverty and the hunger had seen to it.
“You speak my language well,” he said, switching back himself.
“I like to practice,” Colette said. “I want to go there someday.”
“Why? France is so beautiful.”
The small shrug returned. “It is where the money is,” she said.
Piers laughed, pleased by her blatant honesty. “There are those who believe the money will be here. Much of Europe will have to be rebuilt. That will mean money.”
Another shrug. “Then maybe I will stay. For the money. But later I will go there.”
“Why, then?”
“Because I want to live someplace where people will not know I worked as a poule.” She offered him a broad, self-mocking smile and shook her long dark hair. “I want to be respectable,” she said.
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