Corsican Honor

by William Heffernan

  “And then?” Piers asked.

  “Then, with Company help, we hit Pisani, either set him up for the cops or kill him. Whichever works. And we strike a deal with another faction in the milieu for a piece of the action. With Pisani and Francisci both gone, the others will all be looking for their shot at the top spot. It’ll be 1945 all over again.”

  “Could work,” Batchler said.

  The others nodded. Piers twisted nervously in his chair.

  “And what about Alex?” he asked.

  “If you can call him off, fine. If not”—he gave Piers as sympathetic a look as he could manage—“well, then I’m truly sorry, Piers.”

  “He’ll have to be sanctioned,” Baldwin said. “You know it, Piers, and so do we all.”

  Hennesey leaned forward, his pipe held out before him. “Look at it this way, Piers. This should have happened ten years ago. If it wasn’t for you, he’d be long dead. My God, man, you bought him all that time.”

  Piers stared at the floor, realizing there was no choice, no card he could play. He felt suddenly nauseated at what he was being asked to condone.

  “But we shall try to reach out to him,” he said.

  “Of course,” Hennesey said. “But we cannot tip our hand about the move against Meme Pisani.”

  Piers thought about his old friends, Meme and Antoine. He regretted what would happen, what had already happened. But it was like being told an old friend had cancer. One could sympathize, even agonize, but there was really nothing one could do. He only hoped the same was not true of Alex. He looked at Hennesey.

  “That’s understood,” he said.

  Marseilles

  “Montoya went to Aix,” Meme said. “He’s rented a house there, or rather someone has rented it for him.”

  “Was Ludwig there?” Alex asked.

  “There was no way to tell. Not without making our own presence known. But we will find out,” Meme said.

  They were in the small office at the rear of Club Paradise—Alex, Meme, and Michelle—and when Alex had arrived, he had noticed the entire Opera district was on a war footing. Pisani men were everywhere. The old battlements had been raised, he told himself.

  “And what’s your plan?” Alex asked.

  “I want to hit them within days,” Meme said. “All of them, Francisci included. We will find out where they will be at a given hour, and we will hit them all at the same moment.” His eyes, coal black now, stared at a blank wall. “There will be no one left to respond.”

  “Will the CIA be involved?” Alex asked.

  “Fuck the CIA,” Meme snapped. He realized what he had said, and in front of whom, and offered Michelle a pained look. Then he turned to Alex and explained the directive that had come from Hennesey.

  “He told you to back off.” Alex was incredulous. “The bastards are selling us out.”

  “If they try, it will cost them everything they have,” Meme said. “I will see to it.”

  “When it is over they won’t be able to do anything, will they?” Michelle asked. She was suddenly shocked by her own acceptance of the mass murder they were discussing. It has come this far, she told herself.

  “No,” Meme said. “They are very good at accepting the fait accompli. It is their nature to do so.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Alex said. “It will depend on what deals they have made.”

  “We will face that when it happens,” Meme said. “Killing these pigs is the only concern we have now.”

  “I don’t want Michelle there,” Alex said. “We don’t need her to do this.”

  “I am going!” Michelle snapped back. “You cannot stop me. It would not be just.”

  “No!” Alex said.

  Meme grabbed him by the shirt front. It was the first time his uncle had laid a hand on him in anger.

  “She is Corsican,” he said. “Her need for their blood is as strong as ours. You will not interfere.” His eyes and voice softened. “I love you, Alex. You are truly my nephew, just as you were Antoine’s. But this is not for you to decide.”

  The telephone call came an hour later, as they were still going over plans for the needed surveillance in Aix. Meme handled the call tersely with a cold dispassion, then turned to Alex when he had finished.

  “It was Wheelwright, the CIA station chief here,” he said. “He wants you to know that a man named Baldwin, who he says heads something called the French desk, will be here tomorrow and wants to meet with you at the consulate.”

  “The hell with him,” Alex said.

  “I think you should meet him,” Meme said. “It is good to know what is on the minds of people you no longer trust.”

  Alex nodded. “If you want. But not at the consulate. I’ll meet him in a place I choose. And I’ll want him alone.”

  “I will have men there,” Meme said. “They can assure your meeting will be a private one.”

  “Good,” Alex said. His face broke into a slow smile. “Then I hope he brings someone. Your men will set a nice tone for him.”

  Alex chose an apartment in a building Meme owned in the city’s old quarter, and insisted Baldwin walk there so he could be certain he was not being followed. Pisani men picked off Baldwin’s three bodyguards two blocks from the building, and prodded Baldwin on, alone, at the point of pistols. The building was on a narrow street called the Street of Refuge, and the apartment was on the third floor, reached only by a narrow, winding staircase. Alex did not know Baldwin at all, did not know he was overweight and long out of shape, and like most men of that ilk hated exercise. Had he known, he would have chosen an apartment on a higher floor.

  Baldwin was red-faced and breathing heavily when Alex opened the door.

  “Think I was a fucking mountain goat?” Baldwin snapped as he pushed past and entered the shabbily furnished apartment. He stared at a battered, overstuffed chair, as if weighing what it would do to his suit, then finally sat, too weary to resist.

  “You know who I am?” Baldwin asked. His voice was decidedly unfriendly, arrogant even, for a man sitting in a building he would leave only at someone else’s pleasure. He was a fool, Alex decided.

  “Wheelwright said you were head of the Company’s French desk,” Alex said.

  “That’s right. Walter Hennesey asked me to stop and see you on my way to Paris.” His eyes narrowed. “He’s not at all pleased with you. Says you’ve broken contact.” He paused. “Shit. Says you never made contact with him, despite your orders.”

  “Things have been a bit hectic,” Alex said. He kept his voice even, playing Baldwin out.

  “Well, he wants you back at Langley. Says you’ve got to see him, straighten this thing out.”

  “Tell him I’ll ring him up on the KL-43.”

  Alex could see Baldwin’s mind working. Figuring how they might grab him at the consulate, then wondering if they’d be able to get him out of the building, out of Marseilles.

  “That’s not good enough,” he said. “He needs a personal briefing.”

  “I’ll give it to you. You can give it to him,” Alex said.

  “You think I’m your messenger boy, Moran? You’ll do as you’re told. Just like we all do.”

  Alex pulled up a wooden chair, placed it before Baldwin, and sat. “I think you’re a fat little shit. And I think you run a terrible con.” He paused to smile at Baldwin’s reddening face. “And I think I’m going to slap that sneer off your face if your tone of voice doesn’t change quickly.”

  His voice had been soft and even, guessing that Baldwin was the type who liked to shout and snarl at those over whom he held power. Men like that, he knew, were unnerved by those who had no need of such tactics.

  “Are you threatening me?” It was a moderate shout, a last gasp for control.

  “Yes,” Alex said.

  Baldwin twisted in his chair, as if suddenly understanding his position. Then he caught himself, recognizing he must not let that weakness show.

  “I don’t believe this,” he said. “You
work for us, and you’re threatening me.”

  “No, I don’t work for you,” Alex said.

  “Since when?”

  “Since Hennesey, my father, whoever’s involved in this, decided to sell the operation out.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Baldwin snapped. “Nobody’s selling anything out. You’re screwing it up.”

  His voice had risen again, sharp, snappy. Alex’s foot shot out, catching Baldwin just below the knee. His eyes widened with the sudden pain, and he let out a small, girlish cry.

  “You kicked me,” he said, incredulous.

  “Very observant. Next time I’ll stand up. And you won’t. Not for a long time.” Alex’s voice was still soft, almost a purr.

  “I’m getting out of here,” Baldwin said, starting to push himself up.

  “Not walking,” Alex said. “Not until I say so.”

  Baldwin fell back into the chair. His eyes were fearful now.

  “I want to know the deal. I want to know why,” Alex said. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t make policy.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “They want you out. That’s all I know.”

  Alex shook his head, almost sadly. “Maybe you’d rather talk to my uncle,” he said. “Maybe you’ve heard about the last person who sold him out. Maybe they’ll find you in Aix tonight—with your dick in your mouth.”

  It was all said softly, almost gently, and the juxtaposition of the words and the reality made Baldwin’s eyes widen.

  “We’re on the same side,” Baldwin said, incredulous again.

  “Uh-uh. Never have been. I’m here to kill Ludwig. You guys? Who the hell knows why you’re in this.” He inclined his head to one side. “But I’ll find out.”

  Baldwin looked like a cornered animal—an overfed rat, Alex decided.

  “Look, they made a deal. That’s all I know. The government’s interests change. You were in the business long enough to know that.”

  “The government’s, or Hennesey’s?”

  “Hey, you’re talking over my head now. I’m just carrying a message.”

  Alex knew he could force the information out of the man. But it would only send them after him faster, harder. If it was a private deal, they’d have to find an excuse to send men after him. They’d have to cover their asses. A battered Baldwin would be enough of an excuse. Otherwise, it would take time to manufacture one. And he needed that time.

  “Go home, Baldwin. Tell them I’m going to finish what they sent me here to finish.”

  “You’re crazy,” Baldwin said. “Your father knows about this. He agrees. He wants you out. Call him if you don’t believe me. He’ll tell you. Christ, you’re choosing sides against your own government. What do you think that’s going to do for you?”

  Alex smiled at him. “It will make me feel safer. I’ll know where the knives are coming from.” He took time to let the words sink in. “And tell my father I’m disappointed. Next time he should do his own dirty work.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Baldwin said. “You’re kissing your ass good-bye.”

  “Be careful going down the stairs, and out in the street,” Alex said. “It’s a rough neighborhood.”

  CHAPTER

  43

  Aix-en-Provence, 8:00 A.M.

  It was a small, charming city, with ancient chestnut trees lining the main street, set in the Rhône delta, with the steep hills Cézanne had loved to paint rising from its eastern suburbs. The twelfth-century capital of the counts of Provence, Aix had become the home of one of France’s finer universities, and its quiet, narrow, womb-like streets were dotted with book shops and quaint cafes dominated by students.

  It was also the base of operation of Marcel Francisci, a darker side of the city that the milieu leader seldom allowed to show. As one of France’s favorite tourist attractions, he understood, wisely, it was best not to tarnish her image.

  James Wheelwright met Montoya and Ludwig in a small chalet—a CIA safe house—in what the locals called the Cézanne hills on the outskirts of the city.

  Montoya had been brought out from the massive country home he had rented by a CIA team that had entered by way of a thick wood. They had evacuated Montoya by the same route, and when he reached the chalet, the white linen suit he was wearing was tattered and dirt-stained, and he was not a happy man.

  Ludwig had come on his own, from a still unknown location, after a telephone call was made from Montoya’s house. He had been told to send as many of his men as he could to Marseilles, to hole up there with others in rented apartments scattered throughout the city.

  Wheelwright was accompanied by Raphael Rivera, who had flown in from Langley the previous day. Hennesey’s preceding KL-43 message had been clear. Montoya and his men were assets, and the Pisani faction was on a rampage over their injection into France. He was to assist Rivera in guaranteeing their safety until the matter could be dealt with. Alex Moran was also out of the game, the message had said. CIA protection for him had been canceled. The whole thing smelled, and Wheelwright thought he understood the odor. And he was sure the message was only a prelude to a sanction against Moran. As the agent in place, he had seen no reason for that to happen.

  Rivera had met with Montoya and Ludwig alone, another strong indication that the game was not official, at least not yet. When they emerged from the room they had used, Ludwig was clearly not pleased, and Montoya had the look of a man who did not want to be where he was.

  “Señor Montoya will remain here,” Rivera said. “He’ll be guarded until the storm’s over in this locale, then he’ll be taken to an airport for a flight out of the country.”

  “What about our other friend?” Wheelwright asked. He indicated Ludwig with a curt nod. Ludwig had not been identified by his correct name. But Wheelwright knew who he was. The description he had been given earlier of the man fit too well.

  “He’s to be taken into Marseilles. Covertly, of course. You’ll drop him off wherever he wants, and he’ll go the rest of the way on his own. He’ll be picking up his operation again once we have the Pisani faction under control.”

  Wheelwright bristled at the orders. Ludwig was being hidden away, even from CIA, Marseilles. Just in case we decide to question the orders, or ignore them, he told himself. The stink was getting stronger.

  “You don’t want us to provide the gentleman with cover in Marseilles?” he asked.

  Rivera gave him a cold look. Wheelwright knew who Rivera was, just as he knew who all the station chiefs were. The man was out of Bogotá, and his presence in France made no sense even if he’d been running Montoya in Colombia.

  “I think the orders are clear,” Rivera said. “If you have any questions, Hennesey will confirm.”

  Wheelwright bit down on it. He wouldn’t question anything. Not yet. He’d wait and watch, give them the benefit of the doubt. It was possible Montoya had been an asset in Colombia, had overextended himself, and that the Company had agreed to go along with him. And pigs could fly, Wheelwright told himself. If a sanction came down on Moran, he’d know the operation was bogus. Until then he’d cover his ass, as he’d learned to over the years.

  9:30

  Ludwig sat in the rear of a closed van on a bench seat across from Wheelwright. Two other men sat beside each of them, both armed with automatic weapons, as were the two men in the front seat. He was running again, for only the second time in his life. And again Alex Moran was the cause of it.

  Rivera had promised Moran would be taken out. But Ludwig didn’t want that. He wanted the man himself. He wanted the personal pleasure of seeing him die at his own hand. And he wanted the woman who was now with him, whoever she was.

  It was the only thing that would satisfy the humiliation of it. Erase the failure he felt in his gut.

  He could not understand where it had gone wrong. He had been certain the Pisani faction would crumble with the assault on Antoine, that others within the milieu would swoop down on what remained like the vultures
they were. Francisci had promised as much. But it had not happened. Valeria’s body had been virtually dropped on their doorstep, and now they were running for cover, all of them. Meme Pisani had proved as tough an old bastard as his brother had been. And Francisci had underestimated him. Both of them.

  He thought about Antoine, the way the old bastard had come after him. It still chilled him, it had been that close. The old man had been hit enough times to stop an elephant, and still he hadn’t been ready to lie down and die. He had grabbed him and had almost squeezed the life from him, had left him shaking like a coward. Like a fucking child. No one had frightened him like that since his father. No one had left him shaking that way, feeling so stripped of strength and power.

  “You don’t seem happy.”

  The voice snapped him back, and Ludwig stared across the van at the speaker, the one they called Wheelwright. The man’s eyes were filled with contempt, hatred. The man knew who he was, who he was being forced to protect. But of course he would, no matter how cleverly his masters had tried to keep it from him. And they hadn’t been very clever, had they? They had been their usual inept selves, scrambling to recover from one disaster while they tried to prevent yet another. Just as he had seen them do time and again in the past. He forced a smile at Wheelwright, hoping to cut him with it.

  “I am quite content,” he said. “I have you to protect me.”

  Wheelwright’s eyes glittered, and his jaw tightened. He is thinking of all the fools you have killed, Ludwig told himself. All those he counted among his own.

  “Think how the others feel,” Wheelwright said. “The ones who have to wait for old Meme to hit them. And Moran too.” He shook his head. “It’s personal for them. And with Moran, it’s been brewing a long time.” He leaned back against the side of the truck, looking self-satisfied, Ludwig thought. “People like that, they don’t worry about covering their own asses. They just come at you,” he added.

  “And then they die,” Ludwig said. He was sneering. But it was forced, and he could feel it in his gut.

  “Yeah,” Wheelwright said, nodding. “Sometimes that happens.”