The Corsican

by William Heffernan

  “I don’t know. I just don’t. I want to, but I’m not sure I can.” He smiled weakly. “If I do, I’d like you to help me find a good school for the boy.”

  “Of course I will. You know that,” Bently said. “I’m just glad it’s not my decision. It’s hard to leave what you were born to. Maybe that’s why I’m going back now.”

  The food was served at three in the afternoon, after the sun had eased. The cool of the late afternoon in Laos, Bently mused. It was like high noon in Arizona. Even at midnight here you could stand still and sweat.

  Throughout the meal, Touby Lyfoung jabbered like a schoolboy. He was ecstatic with the response of his men. Bently remembered the preponderance of flat, bored eyes while Jean talked, and he wondered what Touby was talking about. There had been some who had been interested, but only a few. But then, according to Buonaparte, only a few were needed.

  They had finished eating by the time Francesco returned. He came from the wrong direction, from the airstrip and the plain above. He was alone.

  “Where have you been?” Jean asked.

  “I doubled back through the jungle, just to be sure no one was at the airstrip, waiting to pay us back for the day’s work.” He smiled, almost as though his actions were a rebuke, that he had thought of something that Jean should have considered.

  Jean stared at him for a moment. New games, he thought. There were always two men, Touby’s men, left to guard the plane, but sometimes they just sat inside and played with the controls like children. Perhaps Francesco was just being cautious. “Do you want to eat?” Jean asked.

  “Just something quick,” he said. “I have an appointment in Vientiane tonight.”

  “An appointment,” Jean snorted. “Which of the French officials has left his wife unattended?”

  “One never knows whose wife will be unattended,” Francesco said. There was a leering smile on his face, almost a taunt.

  Jean ignored it. “Where are the men who went with you?” he asked.

  “I left some at the villages we visited, just to be sure our messages were received. And I left others at the airstrip, so we could get back to the plane more quickly, and not have to keep pace with a group of guards in a buffalo cart.”

  “You are in a hurry,” Jean said. “I hope she’s worth it, whoever she is.”

  “You’re lucky I went there,” Francesco said. “One of Touby’s men was in the cockpit, turning dials and playing with things. I chased him out, and told them all to sit back near the jungle and protect the plane from there.” He laughed. “Someday they’re going to fix your plane so it kills us all,” he said.

  “I always check everything first,” Jean said. “How did things go in the villages?”

  Francesco shrugged. “Five villages, seven examples. Some others ran away—that’s why I left men behind. But I don’t think they’ll be back. The heads were hung from trees as a reminder. Touby’s men will make sure they stay there. By morning there’ll be nothing left but the skulls. The birds and the insects will see to that.”

  Francesco stuffed bits of pork into his mouth as he spoke, making Bently wonder if the man ever lost his appetite, or any sleep over the things he did.

  Francesco sucked the grease from each finger in turn. Bently stood and stretched. His shirt was soaked and clung to his back, and he felt as though he had lost five pounds just sitting there.

  “We might as well start back,” Jean said. He clasped Touby’s arm. “I’ll talk to you by radio in a few days, and we can decide when I should come back. We should make the selection of the men an important occasion.”

  Touby, grinning at the idea of a future ceremony, gestured to the warrior who had been trained to drive his car. Within seconds the engine of the Japanese staff car gurgled to life, sputtering and coughing until the buffalo began to strain at their tethers. They climbed into the battered vehicle, and the car struggled up the final hill that led to the plain, sending out a mixture of dust and thick exhaust fumes in a billowing rooster tail. The sound of the dying engine, the dirt and the fumes announced Touby’s movements better than a brass band, Bently mused. Someday he would get his ass shot off because of it. But he knew Touby would rather lose one of his medals than surrender the vehicle.

  The car ground to a halt thirty yards from the aircraft. In the distance, on the other side of the runway, Bently could see three of the Ly warriors leaning against a cluster of thien tue palms, the heavy, low-hanging fronds partially obscuring them from view. They seemed to be asleep with their weapons across their laps, but he knew they could never have slept through the noise the car made on arrival. They were just lethargic, like most of the Meo. Or perhaps angry they had been chased away from the plane. He squinted, trying to see them more clearly.

  Francesco stepped from the car, stumbled and let out a cry of pain, distracting Bently.

  “What’s the matter?” Bently said, coming out behind him and grabbing his arm.

  “My ankle, dammit. I twisted it.”

  “You want me to help you to the plane?” Bently asked. Francesco shook his head, grimacing in pain. “I’ll just lean against the fender for a minute. I’ll be all right. You go ahead.”

  “No, I’ll wait with you,” Bently said.

  “You sure it’s not broken?” Jean asked. He seemed amused by Francesco’s pain.

  “No. I’m sure,” Francesco said. “I’ll be all right in a minute. By the time the plane is warmed up, I’ll be ready.”

  “I hope so,” Jean said. “Otherwise there’ll be a very disappointed lady in town tonight.”

  “Never,” Francesco said. “I’ve been waiting for this one for years.” There was a look in his eyes of something unspoken, then it seemed to submerge again. He bent over and rubbed his ankle.

  Jean laughed quietly, patted Touby on the back and whispered something to him, then started toward the plane.

  Bently allowed his eyes to wander back to the Ly warriors. Still they hadn’t moved. He was about to ask Touby about them when Francesco groaned again and grabbed his arm. “Getting worse?” Bently asked.

  “I just tried to put pressure on it. Maybe you will have to help me. Just let me rest a little longer.”

  Jean opened the door that led to the pilot’s seat and climbed in, quickly scanning the controls to see what had been tampered with by Touby’s men. Everything appeared unchanged. Unusual, he thought. Maybe they were learning to return things to the proper settings. Automatically he looked at the checklist taped to the center of the instrument panel.

  Behind him, along the bulkhead above the rear passenger door, the Asiatic cobra slowly twisted its body, struggling to free itself. The lower third of the snake had been tied to the handhold above the rear door, and its body was drawn into a tight bundle of expanding and contracting muscle, making the oblong patterns of white along its gray-brown back appear to move with a slow rippling rhythm. The head of the snake snapped back, the hood expanding along the upper sides of its body, as the whine of the aircraft’s engine roared into a steady throbbing beat.

  The first strike caught Jean on the back of the neck, hitting with the force of a mildly heavy punch, the pain immediate, spreading quickly up the back of his head and down into his shoulder. He cried out instinctively and reached back, covering the wound with his hand. The second strike hit the back of his hand, and he screamed again. He turned his head toward the attack and the snake struck again, sinking its fangs into his cheek. Jean grabbed the body of the snake and pulled it away from his face, the force ripping one fang from its mouth, leaving it dangling from the gaping, blood-streaked puncture. He threw the writhing body across the cabin, slamming it against the far bulkhead. Already he felt the numbness surging through his body, the deadly toxic venom attacking the nervous system. His eyes clouded and he crashed his shoulder against the door, forcing it open, feeling none of the impact as his body fell to the ground.

  He scrambled on his elbows and knees, fighting to gain purchase with his hands, then falling for
ward, his face sliding on the dusty ground. Again he struggled to right himself. He opened his mouth to call out, but only a rasping groan came from his throat. His bladder and bowels voided as the poison surged into his brain.

  Bently looked toward the plane and saw him. Jean was crawling and falling, then struggling up again, his arms moving in uncontrolled spasms. Blood was streaming down his cheek. “Jean!” Bently screamed, alerting the others, and raced forward. He had covered two thirds of the distance when the bullet hit the upper right portion of his back, lifting him and throwing him forward.

  The Ly warrior and Touby, each a few steps behind Bently, spun with the sound of the weapon. Francesco squeezed off two rounds in succession, watching as they exploded in the chest of Touby’s driver, cartwheeling him back. He swung the weapon. His legs were spread in a classic shooting stance, the weight evenly distributed, the false pain gone from his face, replaced now by a slight smile.

  Touby turned and ran to his left, throwing himself under the aircraft, then rolling out the other side. Three bullets kicked up dirt near his head. Then he was up and running, shielded by the fuselage of the plane, his voice screaming out to the men seated under the trees ahead of him. They didn’t answer. Their dead eyes only stared blindly from heads tied to the trunks of the trees.

  “Merde,” Francesco muttered to himself, as he watched Touby’s legs, the only part of him now visible, move toward the jungle. He was amazed the fat little man had been able to move so quickly.

  Bently lay in the dirt, struggling for breath. A few feet away, Jean’s face was lifted toward him, the eyes fluttering, the jaw trembling out of control, struggling to speak. Behind him, Bently could see the cobra. It had crawled to the edge of the cockpit. It hung half in the air for a moment, then fell to the ground and began to move away.

  Francesco. The name assaulted him, as he lay there fighting to breathe. Checking out the plane. Making sure it was safe. Men left behind to guard it. Sleeping men. Dead men. Each thought hit his mind like a blow. Before him Jean shuddered, his body shaken by endless spasms. His cheeks began to quiver and vomit erupted from his mouth. His eyes fluttered again, and his tongue moved in and out of his mouth. Then his head fell forward into his own filth and he was still.

  Bently twisted his body, ignoring the pain, pulling the .45 automatic from his shoulder holster. Twenty yards away Francesco was walking around the front of the car, moving to the driver’s side. Bently extended his right arm, grasping his wrist with his left hand to steady his aim. Francesco turned and started down the side of the car. Only seconds left now. He squeezed the trigger, feeling the heavy weapon leap in his hand. Francesco staggered, one side of his body buckling, one hand grabbing the side of the car to keep himself upright. Too low. Too damn low. Bently leveled the pistol again. The ground erupted twice in front of him, throwing dirt into his face. A wave of dizziness came. It was like water washing over him. His face fell forward into the dirt.

  The bullet had ripped through the back of Francesco’s thigh, exiting through the front, and within the leg Francesco could feel the shattered bone as he forced himself behind the wheel of the car. He pulled the belt from his trousers and tightened it around his leg above the wound. It was ten miles to where Faydang’s men would be waiting, then farther still to the radio he would use to contact Carbone.

  Francesco felt dizzy from the pain. He had to move. Move away quickly. He was a target now that could not move well. A target even Lyfoung could hit. He threw the car into gear. The three bodies weren’t moving. Run over them, he told himself. No. They’re dead, get away. Get away.

  They stood in the shade, watching the plane taxi slowly toward them. The sun was behind them, hidden by the old colonial-style terminal of Wattay Airport. The sun sank slowly toward the western jungle, yet it left behind its smoldering presence. Sartene took a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his lightweight suitcoat and mopped his brow and face. Auguste watched him, ignoring the rivulets that streamed down his own face. He was concerned about his friend. All day Sartene had been sullen and distant. It was as though he was seething with some personal anger, some pain he could not speak about. Auguste had asked what was troubling him, but had received only a gruff reply about terrible dreams the night before. Sartene would say no more about it.

  The twin-engine Beechcraft, bearing the name Air Laos Commerciale, ground to a halt only yards from where they were standing. Even before the engines had come to a stop, the door to the aircraft swung away and Benito Pavlovi’s bulky frame moved lightly down the few steps to the ground.

  It had always amazed Auguste how lightly and quickly Benito could move. It was not just that his brother moved well for a big man. He moved better than most small men, better even than Auguste himself.

  As always, Benito was grinning. For any other man it would have been a sign that his journey had been a great success. With Benito one could never tell. He had been sent to Bangkok to handle two unrelated matters. The first involved complaints from Thai police officials, who felt the level of their bribes was not commensurate with the service they provided. The second concerned Sartene’s interest in taking over the small airline on which Benito had returned.

  The three men greeted each other warmly, grasping each other by the arms and kissing each other’s cheeks. As they turned back into the dankness of the Wattay Airport terminal, Sartene slipped his arm into Benito’s, drawing him close.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” Sartene said, his voice its usual near whisper. “I had terrible dreams last night and I was worried for you.”

  Benito laughed softly. “Things could not have been easier,” he said. “The Thais agreed to our counteroffer without a murmur. But I think they’ll ask for more again soon.”

  Sartene shrugged. “Everybody in this business is greedy, these days,” he said. “You have to expect it. What about this airline?”

  “That will be harder,” Benito said. “The man Endobal, who owns it, says he doesn’t want to sell. All his life in the French air force he wanted to have his own airline, he says. Now with his four little planes, he has it, and he wants to keep it that way.”

  “You offered him the fair price we talked about?”

  Benito nodded. “I’m afraid this man isn’t interested in what’s fair. I even told him we would want him to keep running the business for us. Nothing would change his mind.” Benito inclined his head to one side in a gesture of resignation. “I’m afraid we’ll have to do it the other way.”

  Sartene shook his head. “Life would be so much easier for everyone if men were sensible,” he said. “You found out what we have to know to accomplish this?”

  “Yes,” Benito said. “Every month they do what every small business tries to do. They smuggle one or two kilos into Viet Nam. It’s just enough to keep the airline going, and they get very bad prices, because they have to deal with the Black Tais there. They use a small landing strip in the Central Highlands where they wait for a day or two to make contact. If we have the French arrest them, the Thai police will seize their other aircraft back in Thailand. Then, I think, Endobal will let us buy him out of trouble. He’ll lose the planes anyway, and this way he’ll avoid five years in a stinking Thai prison.”

  “What the hell is this?” Auguste said. He was watching the Mua move toward them. They were halfway through the terminal, and the Mua was weaving through the small clusters of people. He seemed excited.

  “That’s one of Francesco’s men,” Auguste said. “I don’t like this. They know better than to come in here.”

  “Maybe something’s happened in the north,” Sartene said. He was searching for some sign on the Mua’s face. He heard the approaching figure call to him.

  “Buonaparte!”

  Benito’s shout brought Sartene back. Instinctively he ducked his body, moving slightly to the left.

  The two men had been seated in the lounge area to their right. At the sound of Sartene’s name, they had dropped the newspapers they were holding an
d had begun to rise. The movement caught Benito’s eyes immediately, and he knew, even before he looked and saw the guns rising up, why these men were here.

  Benito felt Sartene’s movement, and he reached out, grabbing his arm, pulling him back, moving his own heavy body in front of his as he did. Benito reached for the pistol under his left arm, and the first shot shattered his wrist, forcing him to bend at the waist in pain. The second shot struck the buckle of his belt, smashing the bullet, and sending small shards of lead into his lower abdomen. He forced himself to remain upright, stretching his arms back to keep Sartene behind him, not allowing him to move from the protection of his own body.

  Before the second shot had come from the lounge area, Auguste had fired his own pistol. The shot caught the small, skinny man in the throat, and he stood there, his face filled with horror, both hands covering the gaping wound in his neck, the blood spilling between his fingers and down the front of his white shirt. He seemed to sway for a moment, then his body became disjointed, and he fell forward like a limp piece of rope. The second shot from Auguste’s automatic hit the large man squarely in the chest, but he just stood there, the barrel of the gun dropping down, but still in his hand.

  “Bastard,” Auguste shouted, firing two more shots into his chest, then watching as the body flew back, crashing over the chair the gunman had been sitting in moments before.

  Benito slumped to the floor, and was sitting there now, held in Sartene’s arms. Auguste spun toward the Mua, who had stopped a few feet away, and swung the gun toward his chest.

  “No,” Sartene snapped. “I want to question him.” He spoke in Corsican so the Mua would not understand him. “I want to know who.” He barked an order in Lao at the Mua, telling him to help with Benito, then leaned over his fallen friend. Benito’s face was a pale gray, but there seemed to be little blood. “Benito,” he said. “How bad is it?”

  “Very little pain,” Benito gasped, fighting for the breath knocked from him by the impact of the bullet. “But I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel anything at all.”