Corsican Honor

by William Heffernan

  The initial part of the instruction centered on Czech plastique, the type favored by terrorists and Third World guerrillas, and various detonation devices, the emphasis heavily weighted on defusing discovered booby traps. Wisnewski also gave a half-hour lecture on the use of explosives in cover areas that might be used by an enemy under fire, such as ditches along a roadway.

  “The point of ambush is the target area,” he explained. “But laying down a killing field of fire is only half of what’s needed. Their people—those who survive the initial burst of fire—will move to the nearest cover. And you want them there. Providing your explosives are waiting for them.” He grinned. “It beats hell out of sending in people with grenades to dislodge them.”

  The final phase of the instruction involved the use of common household articles to create explosives. With deft hands Wisnewski blended various brand-name substances into a vile, greenish, glue-like liquid, and spread it on a sheet of linoleum flooring with a paint brush. Again he grinned. Stepping back, he stooped to pick up a rock and tossed it onto the linoleum. The greenish, now invisible paste burst into a roar of flame. Wisnewski’s grin widened. “Home-made napalm,” he said. “A fucking fly will set it off, and there’s no odor, no coloring to give an enemy any warning.

  “One more item,” Wisnewski said, “then I’ll want you to repeat what you’ve been taught a few hundred times.” There was no grin this time. The man was deadly serious.

  Wisnewski withdrew a small gelatin capsule from his fatigues and held it up between his thumb and index finger. “Women take these to strengthen their nails,” he said. “You can buy them in most grocery and drugstores.”

  He broke the capsule open and emptied it. “The capsule dissolves with heat over time,” he explained. “The body heat in the stomach is sufficient to do it.”

  He pointed to a bowl on a nearby table, then walked to it and began filling the capsule with a white powder. “The basic ingredient is sodium,” he explained, then rattled off the other ingredients, which, again, could be easily purchased in various commercial establishments.

  When the capsule was put together again, he walked Alex to a large gasoline can fitted by a long pipe to a small engine. He inserted the capsule into the gas can, then walked over and started the engine.

  Taking Alex’s arm, he marched him two hundred feet away and stood, waiting.

  “It’s a simulated automobile,” he said. “The gasoline will heat up as the engine runs. If it was a car, it would have traveled about four or five blocks before the gas was hot enough. Or idled about four or five minutes.”

  As he finished speaking the gas tank erupted in a ball of flame.

  “Beauty of it,” Wisnewski said, “is that it leaves no traces. No remnants of detonators or anything. Only drawback is you can’t determine where it will go off, so there’s always the risk of collateral damage.” He shrugged, as if the vision of innocent victims who had happened into the wrong place at the wrong time was simply a question of choice, not substance. And Alex knew in the real world of terrorism and counter-terrorism, it was just that.

  Alex was taken next to a basic obstacle course, and put through his paces by Gunderson. He was beat and battered, and he dragged himself through in record poor time, as Gunderson was quick to point out.

  Next came another obstacle course, this one a mock city block—a type of Hogan’s Alley course used by police—only set not only with jump-up targets, but with mock flash explosives simulating booby traps. Live rounds were used in the various weapons he was handed. And Alex “died” fourteen times before he finished the two-hour session.

  “You’re the easiest KIA I’ve ever seen,” Gunderson told him. “I hope whoever you’re going after is old and blind and feeble enough to need a fucking wheelchair.” He glared at him. “Otherwise you’re going to fucking well disgrace me.”

  They ended the day with their second four-mile run, a coup de grace that left Alex too weary to even contemplate dinner. But Gunderson marched him to the mess hall anyway, then seated him at a corner table away from the other men.

  “You haven’t earned the right to eat with troops yet,” he snapped. “It would be insulting to them.”

  Alex looked up at the sergeant, the words fuck you forming on his lips. Gunderson stood, waiting for them to be uttered, and when they were not, smiled, and reminded Alex to be “up and out” by 0500 the next morning. Then he turned on his heel and left.

  Alex struggled to put a forkful of white mush into his mouth.

  As the third week drew to a close, Alex knew he was fitter than he had been in years. His reflexes were honed and as sharp as his forty-three years would allow, and the inch of flab that had circled his waist for over a decade was gone, the years of booze and rich food purged from his system.

  Gunderson came to him the night before he was scheduled to leave. He was dressed in civvies, and, impossibly, looked even larger and more threatening than he did in battle dress.

  “Thought I’d take you out for a beer,” he said. “If you can stand to drink with somebody who’s broken your balls for three weeks.”

  “You are a ballbreaker,” Alex said. “One of the best I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet.” He grinned at the bigger man. “And I’d be damned pleased to have a beer with you,” he added.

  The bar was just outside of Fayetteville, a large, rough, shabby place filled with a mixture of GIs and local boys who could handle mingling with the occasional black face. Not that they had a choice, Alex knew. The military was far from perfect in race relations, but those who were part of it—especially those in elite units like Special Forces or Airborne—didn’t take kindly to one of their own being shat upon by anyone. And it didn’t matter how big the asshole was, or how many of his friends stood behind him. And Alex was certain it was a lesson that had been learned well and often in this establishment and a host of others that dotted the South.

  They stood at the end of the bar, large beers before them, the twang of a country singer blaring from a jukebox.

  “So when do you pull out?” Gunderson asked. “If you can say,” he added.

  “Have to make a brief stop in D.C.,” Alex said. “Then I’m leaving. Whether they want me to or not.”

  “Don’t sound like you care for those boys at the big L too much.”

  “I just don’t plan on getting tied into their endless bullshit,” Alex said. “I did that for too many years. And I also have some personal reasons.”

  “Yeah,” Gunderson said. “Colonel mentioned that.”

  “You headed out anywhere soon?” Alex asked, both out of interest and to change the subject.

  “Afraid I’m stuck playing nursemaid for a bit,” Gunderson said. “Then, who knows? Depends on who needs killing, I guess.”

  Nursemaid, Alex thought. Not exactly a fucking Mary Poppins. He smiled, wishing he had the nerve to speak the thought aloud.

  A large, hard body banged into Alex’s side, almost knocking the beer from his hand.

  “Shove down, old man,” a voice snapped.

  Alex turned and found himself staring at a red-faced, redheaded behemoth about three inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than he. The man was staring at the bartender, but there was a smirk on his face, just waiting to become a smile. After he had battered Alex into the floor.

  “Sure,” Alex said. He and Gunderson took two steps to their right.

  Alex lifted his beer again, but felt a jab in his shoulder before it reached his mouth. The finger felt like a steel rod.

  “Maybe I’d like it better if you found a table,” the behemoth said. “Maybe a table in another bar.”

  Alex’s jaw tightened, and his left eye narrowed almost imperceptively. “Sure. I’ll just finish this beer.”

  “Maybe you already finished it.”

  A flash of movement caught his eye even before the behemoth finished the sentence, and Alex took a quick step back and dropped one shoulder, allowing the beer mug the behemoth had swung at his he
ad to pass harmlessly by and smash into the bar in a shower of broken glass.

  His own beer mug, still in his hand, shot out and crashed into the behemoth’s face. His knee followed, finding the man’s groin, feeling the satisfying softness of the solid hit, seeing him sag, knees buckling, then grabbing his ears, and driving the knee up again, this time into the man’s blood-soaked face.

  Two massive arms encircled his own, and he felt himself being lifted off the ground.

  “Enough. Enough,” Gunderson said. His voice was soft and soothing, and Alex couldn’t understand what in hell he was doing. The behemoth was pulling himself up, and if Gunderson didn’t let him go, the man would drive one of those massive hams he called fists right through his head.

  “Let go, dammit,” he snapped, fighting to twist away from Gunderson’s grasp.

  “Easy, boy,” Gunderson cooed, apparently oblivious to the redheaded hulk who stood before Alex now, wiping blood from his eyes.

  “Let me introduce you to Sergeant Macrae,” Gunderson said. “He’s one of ours. But it seems this ol’ boy could use a refresher course himself.”

  Gunderson released Alex, letting him drop back to the floor.

  “Jesus Christ,” Macrae said. “You teachin’ these boys too good. Goddamned instructor could get himself killed around here.”

  Macrae shook his head, sending a few drops of blood flying off into space. Then he extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Moran,” he said. “Not bad for an out-of-shape, over-the-hill asshole. What was your next move gonna be? My nose into my brain?”

  “I was thinking about it,” Alex said. “Sorry.”

  “Ain’t nothin’,” Macrae said. “Couple of days in the sack, I’ll be fine.” He laughed through blood-coated teeth that Alex was pleased to see were still all where they should be.

  Alex turned to Gunderson and drew a long breath. “One final bit of ballbreaking?” he asked.

  Gunderson inclined his head to one side and grinned. “Hard to get out of the habit,” he said. “Besides, had to find out if you really learned all that shit we taught you.”

  Gunderson marched him smartly across the parade ground and into Colonel Hugh Donlon’s office, saying only he wished they had more time to “get him up,” but that “those fucking assholes at Langley said three weeks, no more, no less.”

  Donlon stood as they entered, returned Gunderson’s salute, and nodded to Alex, who was again dressed in civvies and not expected to offer or receive military courtesy.

  “Gunderson tells me you’re ready,” Donlon said. He reached down to his desk, picked up a “Green Beanie,” and tossed it to Alex. “He also tells me you earned this. I agree.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Alex said.

  Donlon grinned. “Hugh’s good enough,” he said.

  “Thank you again, Hugh,” Alex said.

  Donlon extended his hand, and they shook.

  “Go get that fucker,” Donlon said.

  Alex nodded, then turned to Gunderson. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said.

  Gunderson smiled. “Kill the fuck quick and come back for a beer,” he said.

  “I’ll do both with pleasure,” Alex said. “And I won’t disgrace you.”

  “I know that, sir,” Gunderson said. He snapped Alex a casual salute.

  Alex arrived at CIA headquarters at nine the following day, cleared security, and was ushered to Walter Hennesey’s fourth-floor office.

  He had not seen the man since he had accompanied Alex and his father home from Marseilles aboard a U.S. government jet after Alex had agreed to leave the Pisani stronghold in Cervione. He had hated and distrusted the man then, and his feelings had not mellowed in the intervening years.

  Hennesey sat behind his highly polished desk, partially hidden behind a blue cloud sent up from his pipe.

  “You look as fit as they tell me you are,” he said. “So I guess you’re ready and anxious to get on with it.”

  Alex nodded. “The only question is how you think we’ll play it,” he said.

  Hennesey picked up on the unspoken threat and chose to ignore it. He briefed Alex on the current situation in Marseilles. Two more Pisani men had been killed in a bomb blast.

  “I’ll want you to report to our station chief in Marseilles, Jim Wheelwright. He works out of the consulate there, and he has all our updated information on Ludwig.” Hennesey paused. “Everything but where he is. We’re told he moves back and forth to Colombia—I suppose to confer with his drug boss, Montoya—but he doesn’t seem to be out of France more than a week at a time.”

  “Is he there now?” Alex asked.

  “We think so. But if not, he’ll be back shortly. And, of course, he won’t know you’re there hunting him.”

  “Yes, he will,” Alex said. “I intend to make sure he knows. I want to see if he’ll come for me. Force him to, if I can.”

  “He’s not that stupid,” Hennesey said. “Why wouldn’t he just send someone else—one of his greaseball hitmen? Or all of them.”

  “His supply’s not unlimited,” Alex said.

  Hennesey stared at him. “You know the man,” he said at length. “Do whatever you think will work. Wheelwright’s there to help in any way he can. He can provide people too.”

  “I’ll use Pisani people,” Alex said. “I trust them, and they’re better.”

  Hennesey bristled at the slap, but again said nothing. “As you wish.” He drew heavily on his pipe, sending up another plume of blue smoke. “You’ll tell Wheelwright as little as possible, and report only to me,” he said. “You’ll be a bit out of the loop, but we need deniability here.”

  Alarm bells went off in Alex’s brain. Deniability meant only one thing. They could sell you out at their pleasure. “Fuck deniability,” he snapped. “You want that, I go without you and work directly with the Pisanis and no one else.”

  Hennesey leaned forward, his eyes hard. “You try that, we stop you,” he said. Alex had no doubt he was serious.

  “Good luck,” he snapped back.

  Hennesey sat back in his chair and stepped on a floor button beneath his desk. The door to Alex’s right, to an adjoining office, opened, and his father walked into the room.

  “We have a problem,” Hennesey said. “Alex doesn’t like the deniability aspect of the plan, and has suggested I contemplate having intercourse with myself.”

  Piers looked down at his son and smiled. “I’ve suggested the same thing to Walter on numerous occasions,” he said. “But this should not be one of them.”

  Piers took a chair next to his son, and reached out and squeezed his arm. “It’s good to see you, Alex,” he said. “You look appropriately fit.”

  “Cut the bullshit, Dad,” Alex said. “Let’s stick with deniability.”

  Piers pursed his lips in rebuke but said nothing. He had seen the slight narrowing of Alex’s left eye, and knew from years of experience it meant he was ready and willing to go to war. Men who had ignored that telltale sign—either out of ignorance or folly—had wished they had not.

  “This is the only way—and the best way—to get to Ludwig,” Piers said. “We want you to be able to hit anyone you need to hit. That means French nationals, in the case of any opposition from within the milieu, any French government officials—cops or whoever—who get in your way, and, of course, Ludwig and his people. You can use a CIA cover until the killing starts. Then you cannot. At that point you’re strictly free-lance—somebody we hired who has gone off on his own.” He stared hard at Alex. “There is no other way. You have to trust me on that. And, it’s best for you. I say that as your father.”

  Alex eased back in his chair, nodded to his father, then looked across at Hennesey. “I’ll do it your way,” he said. “But you fuck me this time, and you better have them kill me. Because Ludwig won’t be my last stop.”

  Hennesey glared at him, then looked away. He wasn’t the least bit concerned. He did not expect Alex to survive the mission, and he wondered if Piers had deluded himself
into thinking he would.

  “I understand you, Alex,” Hennesey said. “And I’m not concerned.”

  He stood and walked around his desk. “I want to walk you down to Supply,” he said. “We have some things for you that will be sent on ahead, but I want to make sure you’re familiar with them.”

  “What things?” Alex asked.

  “The main item is a KL-43 secure phone transmitter. It’s new since your time. And, as I said, I want you reporting directly to me. Without anyone listening in. You’ll like it. It’s an interesting toy.”

  “I shan’t go with you,” Piers said. “I’ve seen all Walter’s toys. But I’d like it very much if we could have dinner together. I’m staying at the Hay-Adams, as usual. Could you meet me around seven?”

  “I’ll be there,” Alex said.

  “Well then, come,” Hennesey said. “It’s not exactly a James Bond laboratory headed by some truculent man named Q, but I think you’ll find our toy department interesting.”

  CHAPTER

  35

  Medellin, Colombia

  Ernst Ludwig sat by the edge of the reflecting pool and studied his image in the water. It was like a mirror; not a hint of a breeze stirred its surface. It was three o’clock and the hot South American sun beat down on the back of his head, and he wished he was inside, sitting in the shade under a moving fan, a cool drink in hand.

  But Montoya liked to spend the middle and late afternoons in the garden at the rear of his house, sitting behind the great twelve-foot wall that surrounded the property, basking in the elaborate, carefully tended beds of plants and flowers, staring with personal satisfaction at the cheap imitations of ancient sculpture that rose from the flora like ridiculous specters. But they weren’t cheap, or rather, it was an imprecise description. They were expensive cheap imitations, Ludwig told himself.

  He stared across the reflecting pool to the place where Venus de Milo stood, staring across a flower bed at a massive marble David. One of Montoya’s men had once suggested that David should have an erection as he stared back at Venus’s tits, and Montoya had thrown a drink in his face and shouted that he was a crude peasant who didn’t understand great art. Later, the man had been found dead. Montoya had feared he had injured the man’s sense of machismo, and could therefore no longer trust him.