Corsican Honor

by William Heffernan

  Ludwig was alone now. Cut off and on his own. Montoya’s men would scatter with their boss blown to bits. There was nothing left for them, no profit to be had. The CIA might hang in with Ludwig until Montoya was replaced. But that would take time, and time was one thing Ludwig didn’t have. And he would know it, and he would strike back to protect himself. He would know Meme would seal off the city—the whole of France, if necessary—to stop his escape. It was ten years ago all over again, and Ludwig would know he had no other choice but attack. Because this time Alex would pursue him. And there would be no place to hide where Alex could not follow. No protection against it. And that was just the way Alex wanted it.

  CHAPTER

  46

  Piers Moran was ushered into the rear office of Club Paradise, and was immediately struck by the fact that it had changed so little in the years since he had been there last. But there was one significant difference. Meme was seated behind the desk, as he always had been. But Antoine no longer occupied the heavy, old, overstuffed chair that sat beside it. Piers sincerely regretted his absence. But that had been a matter of business, and business, he understood, often involved a certain amount of unpleasantness.

  “My old friend,” Piers said, extending a hand to Meme. It was something he truly felt, and it hurt him when Meme simply pointed to a chair opposite and did not take his hand. But it did not surprise him.

  “First,” Piers said as he lowered himself into the chair. He paused, drawing a breath. “First, I want you to know I had nothing to do with the absurd decision to remove CIA support over the past few weeks.” He shook his head. “I was kept completely out of the picture, was never even consulted. I suppose it was because they knew I’d raise holy hell, if for no other reason than it also placed Alex at jeopardy.”

  Meme nodded but said nothing, waiting for Piers to continue.

  Piers shifted in his chair. There was no way for Meme to know the truth, no way for him to know he had played any role in the decision to back Antoine’s killers. If he had, you’d be dead already, he told himself. Or dying in some way only Meme could devise.

  He had learned of Montoya’s assassination before he had left Washington. And he had known immediately who had done it. It clearly bore the mark of the training Alex had undergone.

  Hennesey had brought the news to the airport himself. And he had known as well. But Alex was only part of the problem they faced. They had to smooth things over with Pisani, find their way back into his good graces. And even failing that, they had to make sure Alex was brought back under control. Or stopped permanently if he had learned about the long-standing drug deal with the brothers. It was purely a question of survival. Piers had fought that part of the plan, but was reluctantly forced to accept it. But he had forced one concession. If Alex didn’t know, they’d allow him to take care of Ludwig, even help him, and put an end to the whole mess that damned Bogotá group had initiated. And then send that bastard Rivera back to his hellhole with his tail between his legs.

  “Meme, I assure you, I have gotten things back on track. If I’d been part of it, if I’d had any voice in the decision, I assure you this never would have happened.”

  Meme sat forward, his forearms on the desk. He looked old and frail to Piers, and very, very tired.

  “Why should I believe you, Piers?” he asked. Even his voice sounded tired, Piers thought. Or perhaps it was just sad.

  “Because we are old friends,” Piers said. “And we have been through much together.”

  Meme squeezed his eyes with his thumb and index finger, then looked up at the man he had first met in 1947. They had been very different then, yet alike in many ways. It had not changed over the years.

  “Yes, it has been a long time,” he said. He sat back in his chair. “Tell me, Piers.” He stopped a moment. Not really gathering his thoughts. More trying to control them. And his words, Piers thought.

  “These associates of yours. Who we’ve dealt with for so many years. Did you not wonder what their plans were when Antoine was killed? Did you not question what action they would take to help us avenge him?”

  Piers began to speak, but Meme’s eyes stopped him. He understood he could not make believable the lie that he had simply assumed the right thing would be done.

  “And when they decided to issue a sanction order against your son. Did these men, who you know so much about, did they not fear what you might do if they ordered him killed?” Meme shook his head. “A man in such a position might do anything, eh? He might even forsake whatever price he himself might have to pay out of the need to avenge his son’s death.”

  Piers shifted his weight in the chair. “You don’t understand how these things are done,” he said.

  “I don’t understand?” Meme’s eyes rose in mock surprise. He looked away for a moment, then back. “I understand that you made these men very wealthy. I understand that you have the power”—he held his thumb and index finger an inch apart—“and all the little bits of information, gathered over the years, to take that wealth away. And to destroy them.” Meme nodded, more to himself than to Piers. He wanted him to understand that he too had such information. “I would think these men would be very careful about offending you.”

  Piers rubbed his palms together. They were sweating, and he worried that he would be unable to keep the tension he felt from his voice.

  “They knew I would never use that information,” he said. “That I could not.”

  Meme smiled for the first time. “Ah, truth. At last.” He leaned forward again. “You see, I do understand, Piers. Because I am the man who made you wealthy.” He waved his hand as though dismissing an unspoken objection. “Oh, I know you brought Luciano to me. But I took the deal because I knew you would live up to your word, and provide the protection we needed to make it work. And I knew you would, because I knew you were greedy for money. And that your greed would not go away over time.” He stared at Piers for a moment, still smiling.

  “I don’t say that as an insult,” he said. “I believe in greed. It is one of the factors in life that drive men to do great things.” He waved a hand. “Build railroads. Transform whole continents. Conquer nations.” He let out a laugh that held no warmth, no pleasure. “You see I am not the ignorant Corsican you thought you had met in 1947.” His fists tightened on the desk. “And I was not ignorant then. I saw you and I understood you. I saw a man who was pleased that his somewhat foolish wife had a considerable amount of money. And I also saw a man who regretted that money was not his own.” He unclenched his fists and let them lie, palms down, on the desk.

  “And I understood that this man, if he got the chance to have money for himself, would take it and would do whatever was necessary to keep it.” Meme’s eyes darkened, and he glared across the desk at Piers. “But I didn’t think he would go so far as to betray his true friends—and his own son.” He sat back; his face had gone suddenly slack. “So I failed you there, Piers. I failed us all. Because I never understood how truly great your greed was.”

  Piers felt defeated, more so than ever before in his life. It was as if all the juice and air had been sucked from his body. He knew he could not lie to the man, and it left him feeling robbed of his only weapon. And it made him angry. “I find it amusing to be lectured by you about greed,” he said.

  Meme laughed, and the laughter was directed at Piers. “Yes, I have known greed all my life. I had greed for money and for power ever since I was a small boy. And once I had those things, I had the greed to keep them.” His eyes hardened. “But never at the cost of my friends and my family. It is the difference between us.” He held up his thumb and index finger, again showing that small inch of space between them. “I had that small amount of honor. And that is something you have never known.”

  Piers sneered at him, unable to control his anger at being preached at. “Your belief in honor among thieves, eh?”

  “No. Never among thieves. Among friends, and among family.”

  “So what will you
do now? Use the information you have to destroy us?” He leaned forward and stared at his old friend. “Don’t forget it will destroy you as well,” he snapped.

  Meme shook his head. “I will not have to destroy you.”

  “What, then? Kill us? Kill all of us?” There was a sneer in his voice. He was suddenly not afraid of the man any longer.

  Meme smiled. It was cold and hard and certain. “I think I will let Alex do that,” he said.

  This time it was Piers’s eyes that shot up in mock surprise. “Alex would never kill his own father,” he said. He seemed amused by the suggestion.

  “Oh, yes, Piers. He will kill you. But perhaps he will do it in a way you will never understand.”

  “So he knows. You’ve told him everything.”

  “I’ve told him nothing. I simply confirmed what he already knew. And now he knows all there is to know about his father.”

  “And you think that will make him kill me?” Piers’s voice was laden with contempt. “You don’t know my son,” he said.

  Meme sat back in his chair. The faint trace of a smile was still on his lips.

  “No, Piers. It is you who have never known your son. Never.”

  Wheelwright was reluctant to provide Piers with any information. But Piers had the power of the Company behind him, and he was able to force the information from the man, and from his records.

  He had already known where to find Ludwig. Rivera had provided that. And as he had made his way up the battered old staircase that led to Ludwig’s seedy hole, Piers felt a great weight at what he was doing. But he was able to push it aside.

  Ludwig threw back his head and laughed. They were seated in the small front room of the decrepit apartment in the city’s old quarter, and Piers had remained perched on the edge of his chair. But not out of nervousness. Rather out of concern that the grime that seemed to be everywhere would get on his clothing.

  “So you come to tell me I must kill your son,” Ludwig said. He leaned forward, his face mocking his visitor. “But you see, I already know that.”

  “I’m here to tell you how you can do it. And how you can do it quickly,” Piers snapped.

  He felt nothing but contempt for the man. For what he was, for what he had been all his life. It made him feel dirty to be dealing with him. As dirty as the apartment in which they sat. Piers also despised what he himself was doing. But he understood he had no choice.

  “I am always willing to accept advice from a man of such experience,” Ludwig said. He was laughing again, but only with his eyes. “So tell me. Where is your son?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  Ludwig laughed out loud this time.

  “Bugayev is hiding him,” Piers continued, ignoring the contemptuous laughter. “And Alex is with a woman named Michelle Cabarini.”

  Ludwig thought he recognized the name, but could not place it. “How do you know these things?” he asked.

  “Through the agency,” Piers said. “You can find him through those people.”

  “Bugayev.” Ludwig spoke the name with open contempt. “I should have known that Russian bastard would get his filthy hands in this.” He smiled. “It will give me pleasure to cut his throat.”

  “After you find Alex,” Piers said. “Then you can kill whomever you wish.”

  “Ah, fatherhood,” Ludwig said. “It is such a wonderful thing. In the whole animal kingdom it is always the father of whom the children must be wary. They are the ones who eat their young.” He smiled at Piers. “You would have liked my father. You had much in common. Except your politics,” he added.

  “Don’t be smart with me, young man,” Piers snapped. “Just do your job. Do what you’re being paid to do.”

  Ludwig smiled at the contempt in the old man’s voice. Such a moralist, he thought. He wanted value for value received. He was so typical.

  “Don’t worry, old man,” he said. “I will kill your son for you. I must admit, I am curious about why you want him dead. But not that curious.” He sat forward in his chair and smiled. “Would you like to know how I shall do it? Do you have any interest in the pain your little Alex will have?”

  He watched Piers’s face pale, his jaw tighten. And he laughed again.

  “I see.” He stood and walked across the room. For dramatic effect, Piers thought. Then he turned. He was smiling again.

  “Be assured it won’t be quick. I don’t really enjoy it when it is. I always found all those bombs I planted so depressing.”

  “You are perhaps the lowest form of life I have ever met,” Piers said.

  Ludwig threw back his head, and his laughter filled the room. Piers got up and walked quickly to the door. Ludwig’s words chased him into the foul-smelling hall.

  “Look in the mirror, old man. Look very closely in the mirror.”

  CHAPTER

  47

  Wheelwright found Alex through Bugayev. But he was not taken to the Russian safe house. Instead he was picked up by two of Meme Pisani’s men and brought to a small park in the northern end of the city. There he found Alex, Michelle, Bugayev, and Pisani. The park was ringed with enough armed men to repel a small invasion.

  “Very impressive,” he said as he joined them at a large picnic table. “It would seem the lines of battle are pretty clearly drawn.” He glanced at each one in turn—the communist, the gangster, the defrocked spy, and the widow. “Strange bedfellows, as they say. But then, the other side is rather interesting too.”

  “Spare us the philosophy, Wheelwright,” Alex said. “You had something for me. What is it?”

  “Don’t even like your friends in the agency anymore, eh, Moran?” He nodded. “But that’s okay. I don’t much like mine either. Just so you know who your friends are.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with an old Zippo lighter. “Your father’s in town,” he said through a stream of smoke.

  “I know,” Alex said. “He’s been to see my uncle.”

  “He’s been to see me too,” Wheelwright said. “Asking a lot of questions about you. Questions that if I were you would make me very nervous about what his intentions were.”

  “I know what his intentions are,” Alex said. His voice was cold and flat. It was as though he were speaking about someone long dead.

  Wheelwright raised his eyebrows, asking what those intentions were.

  “He wants me dead,” Alex said. “No.” He shook his head. “He needs me dead. There’s a difference.”

  “What did you tell him?” It was Michelle, her voice charged with emotion, accusation.

  “Just about everything he wanted to know,” Wheelwright said. “It was all in reports anyway. And I couldn’t keep them from him. I was ordered to show him anything he wanted to see.” He smiled. “But they forgot to order me not to tell you.”

  “So he knows merde,” Meme said. “Because that is all you know.”

  Wheelwright winced and glanced across the table at Bugayev.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Bugayev said. “He has already given me his opinion about my beloved KGB. Unfortunately, his views were quite accurate.”

  “Where do you think he went with that information?” Alex asked.

  “Ludwig would be my guess.” Wheelwright offered Alex a look of regret. It was not a pleasant thing to hear about your own father. “He’s the only shooter he’s got left right now. He knows he can’t count on my people. And Pat Cisco’s got them tied in knots where any official sanction is concerned.” He watched Alex stare off into space. “If you want to pay him a visit, I know where he’s staying,” Wheelwright added. He looked at Meme. “Or if you do.”

  “Not yet,” Alex said. He turned back to face the CIA station chief. “Exactly what does he know?” he asked.

  “He knows the young lady is with you. He knows our KGB friend is hiding you out. And he knows you offed Montoya, and that Ludwig’s next on your list.”

  “And he knows that Alex has learned about his involvement in narcotics,” Meme said. “It is why Alex must be
killed.”

  “You told him that?” Wheelwright asked.

  Meme said nothing.

  “You kind of put our boy here on the hot seat by doing that,” Wheelwright said.

  Again Meme did not respond.

  “What he did sent my father to Ludwig. That’s what it was supposed to do,” Alex said.

  Wheelwright smiled and nodded. “So your uncle fed him what you wanted him to know. And he fed it to Ludwig.” He thought about that a moment. “So now Ludwig knows where to look if he wants to find you. And he’ll come to you.”

  “It’s easier than finding him,” Alex said.

  “Why didn’t you just have the old boy followed? Get to Ludwig that way?”

  “He would have spotted the tail,” Alex said. “He’s been a pro for a long time. He might have decided to just step back and let Ludwig work it out himself. It wasn’t worth the risk.”

  “There’s another way to stop him,” Wheelwright said. “And to get to Ludwig. With our help this time.”

  Alex just stared at him, sensing what the offer would involve. Wheelwright took in the look, but pushed on anyway.

  “Tell me everything you know about the narcotics deal this group of his has been working. And give me some evidence to prove it, or at least a starting point of where to look.” He tossed his cigarette out onto the grass. “I’ll take the evidence over their heads, and I’ll bring enough heat down to stop them. And, I promise you, I’ll get you enough help to nail Ludwig. No matter where he runs.”

  Alex continued to stare at him, as though thinking the offer over. “Not yet,” he said at length.

  The CIA man began drumming his fingers on the table-top. “Yeah, somehow I didn’t think you’d buy that.” He looked at his hands, kept staring at them as he asked his final question.

  “What are you going to do about him? Your father? When all this is over?”

  This time Alex remained silent.

  Alex and Michelle returned to the Russian safe house, driven by two of Meme’s men, who had been ordered to remain with them. Alex had rejected both Bugayev’s and Meme’s offer of additional bodyguards. He didn’t fully trust the KGB officer, and he believed any more of Meme’s hard-looking Corsicans would only attract undue attention.