“Probably have gone to Carbone and persuaded him to do it our way,” Bently said.
Jean nodded his head. “I like you, Matt. You’re an honest man.”
“An honest dope dealer.” He smiled at Sartene. “I like you too, Jean.”
Chapter 11
LAOS, 1952
The room was small and plainly furnished, located next to his father’s large, paneled study, but Jean found it a comfortable place to work. The confined space seemed to help him concentrate, keeping distractions to a minimum. The room had originally been intended to house his father’s collection of toy soldiers, but at Jean’s request, Buonaparte Sartene had moved the antique miniatures to his study, where, his son had teased, he could play with his toys with greater secrecy.
During the preceding six years, opium production in the north had increased to thirty tons a year, and the elder Sartene had relinquished more and more control to his son. With Auguste’s help, Jean had established a varied and complex transportation network, which included massive air shipments to Saigon with transshipment to Marseille by sea. Smaller quantities were moved by caravan to Bangkok for delivery in Paris by air, usually in diplomatic pouches. Opium kept exclusively for the Sartene milieu—some five tons a year—was shipped directly to business associates in Hong Kong, where the family firm, Southeast Asian Rubber, was a darling of British banking interests.
Jean had assumed the role of business executive with surprising ease and had grown in confidence with each year. He had learned to fly and regularly used his small single-engine war-surplus scout plane, obtained with the help of Matt Bently, to personally keep track of production and transportation problems, and to keep tight rein on the Meo.
There had been sporadic attempts by Faydang to reassert his influence, through the formation of the Meo Resistance League, which sought to recruit tribesmen by promising to abolish the opium taxes administered by Lyfoung. But each attempt had failed, and Faydang was forced to remain in Viet Nam, where he and his men sought refuge with the Viet Minh.
There had also been trouble with Carbone in 1948, but that too was quickly resolved when his personal automobile exploded in the driveway of his home. The car had not been occupied. It had been intended as a warning from Buonaparte Sartene, and within weeks Carbone had traveled to Vientiane to meet with Sartene and resolve their difficulties. The resolution, as dictated by Sartene, had been simple. The Sartene milieu would not involve itself in opium production in the Tonkin region of northern Viet Nam, and Carbone would do the same as far as Laos, Burma and Thailand were concerned. It had left Carbone with little more than a saving of face and the guarantee that he would live to a ripe old age.
The money Carbone could derive from opium production in northern Viet Nam was minimal, and offered no threat to Sartene dominance. Following the war the French had made White Tai chieftains their opium brokers in northern Viet Nam, and Carbone was forced to deal through them. The Tais regularly cheated the Meo opium growers of that region, vastly underpaying them and forcing them into a close bond with the Viet Minh. To increase his own part in the opium trade, Carbone would have to subvert the Tais and deal with the Viet Minh, and this was impossible from Saigon, where French surveillance was intense. It could be done from Laos, where government controls were minimal, but that option had been cleverly closed off by Sartene. Carbone, in effect, had been left the crumbs, while Buonaparte Sartene enjoyed the feast.
The six years had also been kind to Jean Sartene in other ways. He had grown closer to his son, who was now twelve. And his friendship with Matt Bently had also grown. Together they hunted in the jungle for wild boar and barking deer. In the delta plains, Bently introduced him to the American passion for wing shooting, and the kitchen of the Sartene household was always stocked with jungle peacock, pheasant, partridge and quail.
Jean’s relationship with his wife had also developed, and although she disliked his constant travel, she was pleased by the dwindling domination of the older Sartene. Jean had become his own man, and although Buonaparte was still the unquestioned leader of the milieu, Jean now consulted him more out of respect than need.
It was because of this that Madeleine felt secure in broaching the subject of their son’s education. Pierre had first been sent to a colonial school in Vientiane. His Corsican heritage had become the subject of cruel jokes by the French children there, and the family had decided to spare him that indignity and have him tutored at home. But the time was coming when private tutoring would not suffice. There were other reasons as well. The child had repeatedly asked to travel with his father, and his naive interest in the family business had greatly concerned Madeleine. Also, she wanted him away from the influence of his grandfather.
It was with this in mind that she entered her husband’s study one evening, in one of her rare interruptions of his work.
“I have been talking with Pierre’s teacher,” she said, taking an upholstered chair opposite his desk.
“Is he having problems?” Jean asked.
Jean was in his mid-thirties now and his hair had begun to gray at the temples, and together with his growing self-confidence, it had given his face a gentler, softer appearance.
She smiled, pleased with his concern. “No. But soon there will be. He’s already far advanced of other children his age, and his studies should be at the level of a good secondary school. A tutor can’t really do that, Jean, and I don’t want to subject him to the cruelty of the lycées in Vientiane or Saigon.”
Jean’s brow furrowed; he leaned forward. “What are you proposing, then? It certainly wouldn’t be any better in France.”
“I was thinking of England, or perhaps even the United States. I spoke to Monsieur Bently this afternoon. He went to university at a place called Stanford in California, and he said there are some very good boarding schools near there.” She had rushed on, seeing the pain in her husband’s face as her words assaulted him.
“Jesus, Madeleine. We’d never see the boy.” His mind flashed to his own youth, the absence of his father in years when he desperately needed him. He shook his head. “God has seen fit to give us only one child, and now you’re talking about sending him away.”
“I’m only thinking about what’s best for him.” She paused, deciding whether to be completely candid. “I want more for him than all this. I want him to grow up to be a doctor or a lawyer, anything but …” The look on his face stopped her.
“You mean you don’t want your son to grow up to be a Corsican gangster like his father and grandfather,” he said. His voice was rasping and cold, and his eyes seemed hooded and distant.
“Jean, you know I don’t judge you or your father. I understand that you were both limited in what you could do. But Pierre isn’t limited. Do you really want him living a life where a man like Carbone might decide to kill him someday? Or to deal every day of his life with men like Francesco?” She watched the anger drain from his face.
“I don’t want to lose my son, either. I don’t want him to grow up without a father. A boy needs that. He needs a mother too.” He added the latter almost as an afterthought.
“We could all go,” she said.
“Leave here? My God, Madeleine. How could we do that? We couldn’t just abandon my father after all he’s done for us.”
“Jean, he could come with us. We’ve more than enough money. There’s no need to stay. Auguste could handle matters, or even Francesco.” She saw the reaction to Francesco’s name and immediately regretted including it in her argument. “Certainly Auguste would be the one your father would want,” she added quickly.
“He would never leave.” Jean’s voice was abrupt, almost curt. “He didn’t create this thing we have so he could retire like some padrone. He’s said so many times. A man builds for his family, and he doesn’t abandon what he’s built.” He leaned forward again, his voice becoming softer. “Besides, there are still problems. And I couldn’t just leave him while they still exist. Let me think about it, Madeleine.
I know much of what you’re saying is right, but it’s all too sudden.” He smiled at her. “Give me a little time.”
“Of course, my darling,” she said.
In bed that night, he held her close to him, her head resting against his chest. She was breathing softly, but he could tell she was still awake.
“There’s going to be a meeting here in a few days,” he whispered. “Lyfoung and some others will be here for dinner, and afterward we will discuss the business problems I mentioned to you. If we can find a way to resolve them permanently, then maybe we can talk to Papa about this thing with Pierre.”
He was avoiding the term “leaving,” unable even to say the word. She recognized it and understood the pain it gave him. But he was thinking about it, and that was a beginning, she felt.
“We have time,” she said, reassuring him. “Pierre is only twelve. It would be another year before he would have to enter a secondary school, especially in the United States. Perhaps in that time Papa will see the need for it. He loves Pierre as much as we do. I don’t think he wants this life for him.” She stroked his arm with her hand, deciding to say no more.
But she did fear what Buonaparte wanted for her son. His regular studies with his tutor had been augmented with military histories, Corsican history, all of which had been directed by Buonaparte. They spent hours in his study, using his antique soldiers to recreate battle strategies, as though they were part of some mystical religion. She feared he was training the child, preparing him for the future. And it was not the future she wanted for her only son. She had not wanted it for her husband, but she had not been able to exert her influence then. Perhaps it was too late even with her son. But she knew she had to try.
Chapter 12
He was tall and lanky, and often seemed awkward when he walked, but the burgeoning muscle tone that already showed along his body at twelve promised a lean and powerful young man would one day emerge. His blond hair was long for a boy his age, especially one living in a hot, humid climate, but it was a European tradition much admired by his mother, and one he preferred as well. He had learned years before that orientals held those with blond hair in awe, believing it was an indication of superiority, so he had decided it was an advantage he could use. He had found other similar advantages in dealing with orientals. The year of his birth, 1940, had been the Year of the Dragon, a sign—to them—of great power, and one, as his grandfather had explained, that was once an essential criterion for all emperors of China.
The orientals were crazy, he told himself, as he moved about the small roped-off circle he used each day for his karate lesson. Across from him Luc Vien, Lam’s twelve-year-old son, feigned repeated attacks with his head, then moved out of reach. Luc was crazy too, he told himself. He had heard his Uncle Francesco complain repeatedly about the “crazy orientals,” and it was something he repeated to himself whenever he was frustrated by them. And Luc frustrated him now.
Luc was smaller than he, smaller in every way. But he moved like a land crab and was almost impossible to hit squarely. They had grown up together, the last six years at least, and they were almost like brothers. He had always been better at everything than Luc. Better at swimming, better at running. Everything. And then his grandfather started the karate lessons and it all changed. It made him wonder sometimes if his blond hair had stopped working for him.
The noise came from his right, and he turned his eyes to it. Max was jumping excitedly at the edge of the circle. He felt the blow to his chest and his body spun sideways as he fell, face first in the dirt.
“That’s not fair,” he shouted, pulling himself to his knees. “I wasn’t looking and you knew it.”
He struggled to his feet and saw his grandfather standing on the veranda watching him. Their eyes met, then his grandfather turned and walked back into the house.
“Damn,” he whispered.
“You must pay attention.” The voice was sharp and military.
He turned to face his instructor, Lu Han. The short, squat man marched toward him, hands on his hips, his body swaying from side to side. Lu Han had been an instructor with the Kuomintang army before the communists had sent them running to Taiwan. Now he was here, brought by Pierre’s grandfather, and every day, for two hours, he seemed to do nothing but yell at Pierre.
Lu Han growled at him in English, the only language he knew other than Cantonese. “If this were true karate, you be dead now. Why you look at dog when you not fighting dog?”
Pierre knew better than to answer Lu Han back and just hung his head and waited for the tirade to end. It had happened before with the dog. The dog was supposed to be locked in the house during his lesson, and he wondered if his grandfather had let the dog out to see if it would distract him. Damn, he told himself.
Lu Han stepped back and brought his palms together, signaling that the two boys should begin again. They circled each other. Pierre’s eyes remained fixed on Luc’s. He knew if he watched the eyes he would not fall victim to any feint, would know when a real blow was coming. He wanted to get Luc now, so that later he could tell it to his grandfather. He couldn’t lie to him about it. Somehow his grandfather always knew.
Luc moved quickly to his right, feinted to his left, then struck out with his right foot. Pierre moved back to his own right and caught a glancing blow along his left knee, hard enough to send a sharp pain shooting up into his hip. Instinctively he struck out with the heel of his left hand, catching Luc on the forehead. The blow was not a strong one, but Luc was still off balance from the kick, and he fell back on the seat of his pants. Pierre recovered and went to him, but Luc spun up and moved to his right and was gone.
Lu Han clapped his hands once and they stopped. “Enough for today,” he snapped.
The boys turned and bowed. Lu Han bowed in return.
Pierre let out a long breath. Lu Han turned and started up to the house. He would report to his grandfather now, Pierre knew. He looked angrily at Luc. “I’ll get you for that,” he whispered.
“For what?” Luc’s flat, moonlike face remained passive, his eyes blinking, confused.
“You know for what.”
Luc broke into a grin. “You shouldn’t look at your dog,” he teased.
“Damn you.” He lunged at the smaller boy, but missed again.
Luc giggled, spun around and ran toward the river. Pierre raced after him with Max at his side. They practiced in cloths that were wrapped tightly around their loins like bathing suits, and when Luc reached the dock he dove into the water and swam out to the center of the river. Pierre dove in behind him, followed, after a moment of indecision, by the Weimaraner.
“You wait till I get you,” Pierre shouted as he broke water.
Luc turned, treading water, then giggled again before diving. He was immediately invisible in the brown, murky water, and Pierre remained in place, waiting for him to surface. He heard Luc giggle behind him and turned. Luc had gone under him and had surfaced ten yards back toward the shore. Pierre started after him, but Luc reached the dock first, pulled himself up, and stood there kicking at Pierre’s hands as he tried to get a hold. The dog swam next to Pierre in the water, barking.
“Oh, shut up, Max. You’ve caused enough trouble today,” he shouted at the dog.
Luc laughed again, then leaned down and held out his hand. He pulled Pierre onto the dock, then fell down beside him. Each remained quiet, breathing deeply. After a few moments Pierre turned and punched Luc on the arm.
“Ahh. What you do that for?” Luc groaned.
“You know why.” He turned his back on him. “You made me look stupid in front of my grandfather.”
“I didn’t know your grandfather was there,” Luc said.
“You did too.”
“No, I didn’t. I was watching you …” He paused before adding: “Like I was supposed to.”
Pierre turned and balled his fist again.
“Hey, stop it,” Luc said, flinching away. Over the past six years of playing together Luc’s
French and English had become as good as Pierre’s Lao. But mostly they spoke English; the tribesmen who worked for Pierre’s grandfather understood only Lao and some French, and speaking English allowed the boys to have secrets that would not be reported back to the adults.
The dog ran up on the dock and began shaking itself, spraying both boys with water.
“Stop it,” Pierre shouted.
“It was all his fault anyway,” Luc said. “I thought you said you were going to keep him in the house when you practiced.”
“Somebody let him out,” Pierre said, thinking again how it was probably his grandfather, intentionally or not. “I don’t know why everybody makes such a big thing about it anyway. It’s just a sport.”
“Not according to Lu Han,” Luc said.
“What does he know? If he and his men were so good, why did they get thrown out of your country?” Pierre said.
“You got thrown out of your country,” Luc said.
“I did not. We left because my grandfather wanted to. We could have stayed. Besides, my mother’s French, so that makes me half French.”
“You’d better not let Benito hear you say that,” Luc said.
“I can say anything I want,” Pierre insisted.
“I bet you won’t say it to him,” Luc said.
“If I want to I will,” Pierre said, knowing he never would.
Pierre struggled to his feet. He didn’t want to talk about it any longer. He knew being Corsican was important. It was important to all of them, especially his grandfather. “You want to swim some more?” he asked.
Luc shook his head. “Let’s go get dressed and see if we can catch something.”
Pierre grinned. “We could catch a snake and put it in my Uncle Auguste’s room,” he said. Auguste was terrified of snakes, never taking the time to see if they were poisonous or not. A month earlier the two boys had captured a baby python, no more than three feet long. When Auguste had found it in his room, he had panicked and taken a pistol to it, blowing a hole the size of a piaster in the floor.
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