Corsican Honor

by William Heffernan

  “Montoya’s house was found empty as well,” Meme said. “The men who went there just called in by radio.”

  “They’re running,” Alex snapped, fearful he would once again lose Ludwig.

  “No,” Meme said. “They’re being hidden. Kept safe until we can be stopped.”

  Alex knew who Meme was speaking about, and he wondered if he included his father among those who had betrayed him.

  “He’ll be in Marseilles, then,” Alex said. “And Wheelwright will know where.” He turned and headed for one of the cars.

  “I’m going with you,” Michelle said.

  “It will not be safe to stay in the apartment you were using,” Meme called after them.

  “I’ll let you know where we are,” Alex said. “Watch out for old friends,” he called back. He thought Meme would know exactly who he meant.

  Jean Paul Benot, the police inspector with whom Francisci had spoken, heard the radio report about the slaughter of the Francisci faction as he drove his wife and daughter to a Sunday picnic. The report disturbed him, not as a police officer but as a businessman. Francisci’s death would mean a sharp reduction in his income. But it would only be temporary, he told himself. Someone else would take Francisci’s place, and he too would be willing to pay for services rendered.

  And it also meant he would not have to see a judge about a search warrant the following morning. There was no longer any profit in arresting Meme Pisani. After all, he might very well be the next man to pay him.

  “This is an outrage,” Benot’s fat wife said as she too listened to the report. “These Corsicans, they are nothing but animals. They should go back to their ridiculous island and kill each other there.”

  Benot grunted agreement. But not too many of them, he thought. Or else his wife would not enjoy the comforts she considered her right. And then she would be even more unpleasant to live with. He glanced at the woman, noting the sour look on her once pretty face, and he wondered if that were possible.

  The black Citrën forced Alex’s car to the edge of the road five miles outside of Aix, and before he could bring a weapon to bear and open fire, he saw Sergei Bugayev’s smiling face emerge from the rear seat. Bugayev was unarmed.

  “You will never know what pleasure it gives me to attack you for a change,” Bugayev said as he reached the open driver’s window.

  “You came very close to having your head blown off, Sergei.” Alex’s hand still held the pistol, still uncertain what was happening.

  “We Russians are the only ones expected to have a sense of humor in these matters, eh, my friend?” Bugayev said. “But this is serious. You and the lovely lady must come in my car, and I will explain. One of my men will follow with yours.”

  In the rear of the Citroën, Alex introduced Michelle, who permitted Bugayev to kiss her hand. The gesture surprised Alex. It was a side of the fat little Russian he had not seen. It seemed he fancied himself a bit of a lady’s man.

  “Your friend Wheelwright came to me,” Bugayev said, turning serious. “It seems his people monitored our previous meeting, and he thought I might know how to reach you. I was noncommittal, of course.” He inclined his head to one side. “Anyway, he wants you to know an order of sanction has come down against you. The cable arrived early this morning.”

  Alex was surprised, both by the speed of the sanction and by Bugayev’s ability to find him so quickly.

  “Wheelwright told you this? And somehow you knew where I could be found?”

  “Wheelwright told me, yes,” Bugayev said. “And, yes, I knew where to find you. Let us say I have been monitoring certain activities that you were a part of.”

  “I’d like to know the why of both,” Alex said, still suspicious. “Tell me about the sanction first.”

  Bugayev drew a long breath. “It is an involved story. In fact, it goes back to the 1950s. But the short of it is that certain individuals in the CIA—including your father and Walter Hennesey—have been sharing in the Pisani brothers’ rather lucrative drug operations for many years.” He made a circular gesture with his hand. “They provided protection and certain technical advantages, and the Pisanis provided money.” He watched for Alex’s reaction—saw none—and continued. “Now this Montoya moves in, wanting to push the Pisanis out—to expand his own activities—and your father and his partners learn that he is being backed by a similar but less influential CIA group in Bogotá, who want to see their own little bit of profiteering expand into Europe.” Bugayev shrugged. “As you can imagine, this will provide them several advantages, not the least of which would be to add to their own strength in the agency by having one of their major assets become a power in Europe as well. And then, of course, there is the money.

  “Then they learn Montoya and his CIA friends are using Ernst Ludwig to lead their assault in Europe, and they see a way of stopping Montoya officially without having it appear they are simply fighting to save the Pisani drug empire. And they have the perfect tool to do that.”

  “Me,” Alex said. His left eye had narrowed. “Yes, I can see that.”

  “But suddenly something unexpected happens. Ludwig makes a mistake. He is supposed to eliminate both Pisani brothers, but he gets only one—Antoine. Now there will be open warfare that cannot be controlled by Montoya’s friends in the milieu. So the Bogotá group offers a deal—a sharing of the new profits, so to speak. But it will require calling you off, because without Ludwig, Montoya’s chances of success drop significantly. But you won’t give up your chance at Ludwig. So …”

  “I can buy most of it,” Alex said. “But not my father’s involvement.”

  “Regretfully, it is true,” Bugayev said. “I know it from personal experience.”

  He went on to explain how he and his superior had been offered a share in the profits ten years before as the price of freeing Alex from the earlier Soviet sanction.

  “And we have kept track of the situation since,” he said. “My superior, being the good communist that he is, had the profits monitored quite closely.” He smiled. “To be sure we were not being cheated. For years now, your father has been laundering those funds through your brother’s bank in Florida. I can assure you, it can be proven. And I believe your uncle will confirm what I have told you.” Bugayev smiled again, a bit sadly this time. “It is also the reason we have been monitoring yours and Meme’s activities. We were not certain how this new arrangement might affect our own little deal.”

  “And the reason they’re giving for the sanction—my father and his friends?”

  Alex’s voice had become chillingly cold, and Bugayev decided he would not wish to be Piers Moran at the moment he had to face his son again.

  “You’ve gone rogue again,” he said. “Joined up with criminal elements in order to secure some drug profits for yourself. You know the CIA has never acknowledged the Pisani involvement with narcotics. Now they’re doing so. But they are claiming it is something new for them—and quite unacceptable to the agency, of course.”

  “So they’ll be going after Meme as well,” Alex said.

  “No, they want Ludwig to do that bit of dirty work for them. Or the police. They don’t want to find themselves facing the entire milieu if things go wrong. They might not be able to reestablish themselves with a new faction if they do that. And if Montoya loses as well, they could end up with nothing. Personally or professionally.”

  Alex turned and stared out the window. He felt Michelle’s hand on his, wanting to offer comfort but not knowing how.

  “So I’m the linchpin,” Alex said, still looking away. “And Wheelwright has guessed at least part of what’s going on and wants to stop it.”

  “So it would seem,” Bugayev said.

  Alex turned hard eyes on Bugayev. “And what’s in it for you, Sergei? Saving your own profits?”

  “Alex!” Michelle said. “He is trying to help us.”

  Bugayev waved a dismissing hand. “I am afraid those will be lost in any event, Alex. If the Pisani faction
wins this little fight, they will not forget this betrayal. Your father’s group will be out. And us with it, of course. And if Montoya wins”—he shrugged—“well, we will be out anyway.”

  “No, Alex. For me this is personal. I owe you a debt from ten years ago. For something I did not do then. Let us just say I am trying to repay it.”

  He shook his head. “I also took their dirty money years ago, and was happy to have it.” He laughed. “After all, I was only being a good communist, helping the West corrupt itself. It was a very convenient rationalization at the time. And it gave us a rather nice bit of leverage against our enemies.” He offered another rueful smile. “Of course, we could never use it—then or now—without exposing our own venality to some rather dour old men in the Politburo.”

  “Why would they turn against the Pisani faction after all these years?” It was Michelle. She seemed overwhelmed by the information, by the convoluted nature of the betrayal.

  “Money,” Bugayev said. “But also, they didn’t believe Meme would survive. Not after Antoine was killed. And even if he did manage to beat back Montoya, he would be so weakened, another leader would soon take his place. Meme suddenly became quite expendable. And he didn’t appear to have much to offer for the future.” He paused. “He still doesn’t, I’m afraid. Not even with what he has done this day.” He smiled again. “But it will scare the hell out of them, and I would not be surprised if our friends in Washington sent an emissary to see him.”

  “There is only one man he would see,” Alex said. He was staring out the window again, and Michelle and Bugayev could see the muscle dancing along his jaw.

  “Yes, I think you are right.”

  “Meme might very well kill him,” Michelle said, suddenly frightened by what it would all mean if he did.

  “No,” Alex said. “He’ll let him play out his game. And then he’ll cut his balls off. Later. Then, when he’s done that,” he nodded to himself, “then he might kill him.”

  “Don’t underestimate your father, Alex,” Bugayev warned. “He can be a very persuasive man.”

  “Yes, he can,” Alex said. “But this time Meme will know what to expect. I’ll see to it he does.”

  “And what of Ludwig?” Bugayev asked.

  Alex turned to him and smiled. It was not the most pleasant sight Bugayev had ever seen.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Alex said. He glanced at Michelle and corrected himself. “We’re going to kill him. And then I’m going to pay back a few other debts.”

  CHAPTER

  44

  “Why aren’t your father and the others afraid Meme will expose them—tell what they’ve been doing all these years.”

  Michelle was staring at Alex, still trying to understand the plot in which she found herself embroiled.

  They were in a Russian safe house on the outskirts of Marseilles, one Bugayev had guaranteed his American friends had not yet discovered.

  “For the same reason they knew Bugayev would never blow the whistle,” Alex said. “Meme would have to acknowledge his own involvement. And besides, it’s not the way he does business. He repays his debts in his own way.”

  “Are you afraid for your father?” she asked. She hoped he would say that he was.

  “He’s a big boy, and he’s on his own.” He looked away, then back at her. “He’s sold me out one too many times. He started ten years ago, when he chose not to back me up.” He stared at her, his eyes hard. “And he had the power to do it then. It would seem he controlled the purse strings of a very lucrative deal that involved people he could have forced to back me up. But he took the easy way out. He paid off the Russians and maintained the status quo. You see, my father likes the status quo. It makes him feel comfortable. And sending his son into exile, and just a touch of personal torment for all those years, was worth the price to have it.”

  “But he wanted to save your life,” Michelle argued, not sure why she was defending the man.

  “Bless his heart for that,” Alex said. “But I didn’t ask to be saved. I asked for his help. The only help I got was from Meme and Antoine. And they risked their very lucrative deal to do it.

  “No, my father just wanted the easy way out. He was perfectly willing to send me into a dangerous situation now, ten years later. And he was willing to do it because it suited his needs. And only because it did.”

  He shook his head and walked to a window that looked out across a street at a row of quiet, unassuming houses. Surprisingly, he found he didn’t hate his father. He simply found him despicable. And he wondered if that meant he had surrendered his need of the man. No, he told himself. You can’t lose what you never had.

  “You spoke to Meme earlier,” Michelle said. “Did you tell him?”

  Alex had called Meme from a telephone booth, to avoid any possible trace. He had told his uncle he would leave a message with one of his men whom he would find at random and would give him the address of the safe house, plus “some other information” Meme would need. He turned back to face Michelle.

  “Yes, I told him,” he said. “It’s not revenge, Michelle. I owed my uncle that. I’m not going to allow my father to set him up as well out of some misplaced sense of loyalty.”

  Michelle stared at him, realizing how truly alone the man was, wondering how she would feel if she discovered her own family had betrayed her. The thought was inconceivable to her. She walked to him and slipped her arms around him.

  “I love you, Alex,” she said. “And I want to be with you in this.”

  “I know you do,” he said. “But we’ll be hunted now, and I can’t be sure how long we can count on Bugayev. If his Russian masters get wind of what he’s doing, his help could stop rather abruptly.”

  “I like the idea of being hunted with you,” she said. “I like the sense of romance it gives us.”

  He pulled away from her and held her at arm’s length. There was a touch of incredulity in his eyes.

  “I assure you, it won’t be romantic,” he said.

  She pulled him back to her again. “I assure you it will,” she said.

  They made love slowly, gently, taking time to explore each other’s bodies as though it were their first time together.

  Alex ran his mouth along the length of her body, treating each part as though it were something new and wondrous and just discovered. He felt her body arch and heard her moan softly as the caresses became more erotic, the stimulation more intense.

  She took his hair in her fingers and pulled him gently to her, and he kissed and ran his tongue along her thighs, and gently brushed her vagina with his lips, filling himself with the smell and taste of her.

  As Michelle’s hips rose from the bed, her head arched back, and a high, breathless cry called out her pleasure. Her body began to shudder in uncontrollable waves, until she fell limp and panting, wanting him inside her, quickly, so she could feel even more of him.

  She pulled him up to her, her eyes telling him what she wanted, all the need and love she felt for him, and he felt it himself and entered her quickly, eagerly, only aware of her internal muscles seizing him, drawing him more deeply inside her. They writhed and thrust against each other, each movement finding another avenue of pleasure, unable to control themselves now, not wanting to, content and eager in the giving and taking of new sensations, finding new heights with every movement.

  And then they fell against each other, exhausted, fully spent, and clung to each other as though making sure neither would pull away, attempt to leave what had been so satisfying, and thereby diminish it.

  “Oh, God, Alex. You’ve made me feel so whole again,” Michelle whispered, pressing her head into his shoulder. “I wish we could just have this, just each other, and not the rest of it.”

  He knew what she was talking about. About chasing Ludwig down or waiting for him to come for them. About the killing that still lay ahead.

  “You could go back to Corsica and wait for me,” he offered. “I’d come to you when it was over.”r />
  “If I could, I would do that,” she said. “But I cannot walk away from it. From you. From the need I feel. And still I know I wish it wasn’t there. It’s like a madness inside me.”

  “But there’s a cure for the madness,” he said.

  “If it ends with it.”

  “It will,” he said. “For you it will end as soon as he’s dead.”

  “And for you?”

  “Soon after that.”

  She understood what he meant, but didn’t want any elaboration, could not deal with it if it were given.

  “What will we do next?” she asked.

  “We’ll go to Wheelwright without letting him know we’re coming. And we’ll put him in a position that he has to tell us what he knows about Ludwig. Then we’ll go after him, or find a way to make the bastard come to us. On our terms.”

  Michelle could feel his body tense as he spoke; she could almost feel the anger and the hatred roll from his skin. Juxtaposed with their so recent lovemaking it seemed harsh and unreal, and she wished it was not there. But it would be there, she knew, until they had done what they had to do. She prayed then it would disappear. But she also knew that might never be possible.

  James Wheelwright walked from his office and headed for an American-style bar in a nearby hotel. It was 9:00 P.M., and he hadn’t had a drink since lunch, and was badly in need of one. He entered the bar and took a table in the far corner, as was his custom. With the end to East-West tensions, the only danger that remained for a CIA station chief was the threat of Arab terrorism, and that threat seemed pretty much scotched for the moment. At least in Marseilles.