The Corsican

by William Heffernan

  They met in a small French restaurant in San Francisco, Peter having driven there at Auguste’s request. He had told him that he found American cars too large, and difficult to drive. Actually, it had been a precaution insisted upon by Buonaparte. There was still concern that Pierre might be tied to the Sartene family before he gained all he could from his life in the United States. And there was also the lingering problem of Francesco Canterina.

  Leaning across the table, Auguste placed his hand on top of Pierre’s. The hand was huge, like Jean’s, he recalled. “So, this year you graduate from university,” Auguste said.

  “Yes, sir,” Peter said. “It’s been a battle, but they’re finally going to let me out.”

  Auguste snorted. “You’re too modest, Pierre. I’ve seen the copies of your grades you sent to your grandfather. You’ve done this thing very well, and Buonaparte is very proud of you.”

  Peter only nodded. “How is he? His health, I mean.”

  Auguste moved his head from side to side. “He is good. He’s not as young as he used to be, but his health is good. He’s still a pain in the ass, but he takes good care of himself. There’s no need to worry.”

  “And you?”

  Auguste sat straight in his chair. “Look for yourself. I’m wonderful.” He wagged a finger at Peter. “And still strong enough to teach you a thing or two.”

  “I’m sure,” Peter said. He smiled at the slender little man, who suddenly seemed so strange to him, so much more foreign than he had ever noticed before. The smile faded. “I want to talk to you about Uncle Benito.”

  Auguste’s face seemed to soften, and he began to stroke his chin, remembering his brother. “Benito was a good man, a good Corsican. He never said much, but he understood many things. In some ways he was very much like your father, God have mercy on them. Both of them were strong as bulls, but gentle also. Strong men, as you will be one day.”

  “Uncle Benito was very good to me. He taught me a great deal.”

  There was a coolness in Pierre’s voice, Auguste thought. “He loved you, Pierre, just as we all do. We are family, and as long as we remain together, we are strong. But I don’t have to tell you this.” Auguste slapped his palms on the table. “So tell me, what will you do when you graduate?”

  “I’ve been thinking about doing a year of graduate work at Columbia, in New York. I’ve applied and they’ve accepted me. Then the army. Uncle Benito explained the necessity of it.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it.” Auguste watched Pierre’s eyes. They seemed more distant than they had when he last saw him.

  Peter looked at him coolly. “If anything, I’m more enthusiastic than ever, Uncle. You see, Uncle Benito told me why I would need the training when I returned.”

  Auguste stared across the table, his face a mask. “What did Benito tell you?”

  “That when I returned I would learn about the man who killed my father. And when I learned about him, I would either have to kill him or he would kill me.”

  Auguste became rigid in his chair. His nephew’s words had come like a wave of cold air, and the chill had also carried to his eyes. “What else did my brother tell you?”

  “Nothing. Not even the man’s name. He said he had promised Grandpère; that he was only partially violating that promise because he knew he wouldn’t be there to help me prepare for that day.” Peter looked down at the table, then back at Auguste. “I asked Matt, and he also would not tell me. His advice was that I not go back. Later, I thought of writing Grandpère, but I realized it wasn’t something he’d want on paper.” Peter folded his hands on the table. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Auguste leaned back in his chair and studied his nephew. The cold look in his eyes—he had not recognized it before. It was Buonaparte’s look. Whatever wrong Benito had done, at least he had not failed with the boy.

  Auguste leaned forward, his voice soft, almost soothing. “What my brother told you he had no right to speak of. I am not saying what he told you was not true. I am saying only Buonaparte has the right to tell you the whole story.”

  “Which means that you will not.”

  The coolness in his nephew’s voice brought a small smile to Auguste’s lips. “Do not be angry with me, Pierre, for standing by my word.” He allowed the smile to fade. “I will tell you this. The man who killed your father was a trusted member of our group. He did what he did because he wanted to seize the business your father and grandfather controlled.”

  “A legal business?” Peter interrupted.

  Auguste smiled. “I see your mind has been busy this last year and a half.”

  “It has,” Peter said. “You haven’t answered me.”

  Auguste shrugged. “What is legal in some countries is illegal in others. In Laos, what we did was legal.” Peter began to speak, but Auguste raised his hand stopping him. “I’ll tell you no more, Pierre. If you return to Laos, your grandfather will tell you everything you must know. If you do not return, then there will be no need for you to know any more than you do now.”

  Peter’s jaw tightened. He looked down at the table, then back at his uncle. His face softened. “I do have a need to know, Uncle. For the past year and a half I’ve been struggling with the fact that a great deal of my life has been a charade, without me ever knowing why. I think it’s time I found out who I am, and what that requires of me.”

  Auguste reached across the table and placed his hand atop Peter’s.

  “You know who you are, Pierre. You’re a Corsican, a Sartene.”

  Peter leaned forward, his eyes intense again. “That’s what I am, Uncle. What I’ve been raised to be. Now I want to know who.”

  Auguste nodded. “For that, Pierre, you must return. But not until you are ready.”

  Buonaparte Sartene stared down at the table of toy soldiers, set out to depict the 1815 Battle of Quatre-Bras. He picked up one of the soldiers in Ney’s army, then replaced it in the position of a fallen warrior, before turning back to Auguste.

  “We cannot blame Benito,” he said. “He was a man on his deathbed, and he thought he was doing what was right for Pierre.”

  Auguste watched in silence as Sartene crossed the room and sat heavily behind his desk. The past ten years had been difficult for him. Not only the absence of Pierre, but also his inability to seek vengeance against Francesco.

  “It was a cruel way for him to learn about his father,” Auguste said.

  Sartene nodded. “Sometimes it’s the cruelties of life that make a man strong. But in Pierre’s case I’m afraid this particular blow has made him feel deceived.”

  “You must tell him the reasons for it,” Auguste said.

  Sartene stared at the desk top for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “If I tell him now, then he will know that Francesco will remain safe until he returns. And what would Pierre do if he knew we were forced to let the murderer of his father live in order to keep him safe? Such knowledge might force Pierre to come before he is ready, and that would only mean his death.” Sartene looked across at Auguste, inclining his head to one side to acknowledge the futility of his position. “I must gamble on his love, my friend. I will write him and ask for his trust. I will ask him to believe that what was done, even though it hurt him, was necessary for his protection.”

  Auguste fumbled with his hands. “I wonder if he will accept it. He will have years yet—maybe too many years—to brood about it.”

  Sartene’s eyes became distant. “It is a problem, isn’t it, my friend? I must gamble on his trust, or on his life.”

  “But when he returns his life will still be in danger.”

  Sartene nodded his head slowly. “Yes,” he said, drawing out the word. “But then he will no longer be a boy. He will be a man who has learned how to kill.” He looked up at Auguste with a bitter smile. “A nice inheritance, is it not, that I give my grandson?”

  Chapter 18

  SAIGON, OCTOBER 1966

  The Continental Stretch 707 was stil
l twenty miles off the coast of Viet Nam when the war first made itself felt. The pilot’s voice drawled through the intercom, announcing the approach of two F-105 fighters, which would soon be visible to passengers, one off each wing tip.

  They were U.S. military escorts, he explained, and would accompany the commercial airliner through its final approach to Tan Son Nhut International Airport. That approach, he added, would also not be normal. It would be abrupt, a rapid, spiral descent, to thwart any sniper fire from the jungle surrounding the city. The announcement produced a ripple of nervous laughter in the cabin.

  Peter Bently leaned forward and looked out the cabin window, hoping to catch sight of the sleek F-105s. The light reflected off the plastic, revealing his own blurred image, and he realized he too was smiling. It was the captain’s voice, the bored reassuring drawl; it had reminded him of a waitress the evening before he left, stoically announcing that all the roast beef was well done. Ask me if I give a damn, her tone implied, just as the captain’s did now.

  Below, the deep blue of the South China Sea could be seen through breaks in the cloud cover. He twisted his head, again trying to see the fighters, which he knew would be above or below the wing tip. His neck cramped and he sat back, his broad shoulder overlapping into the empty seat next to him. They had been in the air seventeen hours, and had made two one-hour ground stops in Anchorage and Tachikawa, Japan, and the travel time was beginning to wear. He ran a hand through his closely cropped blond hair. Fatigue showed on his face, a face that had grown harder after three years of intensive training. Now the sharp features, handsome by American standards, seemed to sag, the normally square jaw appeared a bit pulpy. Only his eyes seemed unaffected. Fatigue had failed to dim the piercing blue.

  Peter stretched his shoulders and grunted softly. He could feel the nervous excitement building in his belly. It had begun at Travis Air Force Base when he had boarded the aircraft, then had dissipated over the long hours of the flight. Now it was back, a tight, tingling sensation, an anticipation of finally returning to a part of the world which he had always considered his home. For weeks now, since learning his request for duty in an intelligence unit in Viet Nam had finally been approved, he had wondered if his boyhood memories would be reaffirmed. It was Viet Nam, not Laos. He smiled, and recalled the contempt Laotians had for the Vietnamese.

  But he would go to Laos soon. And he would see his grandfather again, and learn about himself, and about a man who wanted him dead. He leaned his head against the seat and smiled slightly. The idea did not frighten him. According to those who had spent the last three years teaching him how to stay alive, there were also a few thousand others here with the same intention.

  But still this would be different. This would have nothing to do with war. This was simply a legacy of the past, a past he was yet to fully understand. Ever since he had learned that the man was once a member of their business group, he had struggled to recall those faces from the past. It had been useless, but it had passed the time. Now he would soon have the answer, and he would do what had to be done. And he would use the army’s intelligence apparatus to do it. He smiled to himself, wondering what the military hierarchy would think if they knew they were being used, not served. It was the only reason he still wore the uniform. That and the anonymity it gave him, returning under the cover of a war.

  At least his grandfather would appreciate that he had learned one lesson well: Use them, but never serve them. Buonaparte had explained that lesson many times. Now he would have to explain other things, a lifetime of things. His grandfather had asked for his trust, and he had given it blindly. Now he had a right to the truth.

  He closed his eyes, recalling his grandfather’s face, the soft, rasping sound of his voice. The image was as clear as the day he left like an icon burned into his mind. The images of the others he had not seen had faded slightly, had become vague memories, like old sepia portraits that were no longer real. But not his grandfather.

  Feeling the aircraft drop into a sharp descent, he looked out the window again. The South China Sea was still below. Closer to shore now, it was a white-capped pale green, dotted with the tiny dark forms of fishing boats, and beyond, the darker gray-green mass of dense tropical forest hazed over by the heat, so at a distance it almost seemed to pulsate. He reached for the small leather bag under the forward seat and removed the playing-sized deck of survival cards the army had issued him. On the face of the laminated cards were color photographs of reptiles and plants of the region. On the reverse were instructions about their dangers or suitability as food. They were intended for those lost in the bush, but for Peter they provided a small opening to his past, a return of boyhood memories.

  The screech of the wheels touching down brought him back. Outside, the flat expanse of the airport sped by as the plane moved down the runway, and in the distance he could see clusters of military aircraft and vehicles. Near one C-141 transport a mass of silver reflected the sunlight, and he twisted his body to try to make it out. Military coffins in double rows of fifteen to twenty, stacked at least ten high. But no way to tell if they were incoming or awaiting an unhappy journey home. Either way, he thought, not a good first impression. And knowing the military, they’d expect to use every one of them. Air KIA. He leaned his head back and concentrated on the seat in front of him, allowing his mind to recall some of the slang used by men who had returned from their one-year tour in Viet Nam. Those who hadn’t made it back, those who had been killed in action, were said to have bought the farm and booked a flight on Air KIA. This same plane, on its return flight, would be known to the men as the Freedom Bird, and those lucky enough to be boarding would be “going back to the world.” He drew a deep breath, and thought about his past three years of training. All the brutality he’d learned to inflict. All of it giving him a better chance of survival than so many others who were being sent. But even without that training he knew he would have had a better chance than most. Since childhood he had been taught to view the world as a dangerous place, one in which only those with an inner hardness survive. That knowledge was now a part of his being, and always would be.

  The brakes of the Continental 707 groaned as the aircraft eased itself off the runway, and in the distance he could see the old colonial terminal, a dull gray-white mass, blurred by the heat, that seemed besieged by shimmering bodies moving in and out. The plane turned, cutting off the view, and across the airstrip now he could see the dense forest that lay beyond, the place where snipers were known to sit in trees and fire rounds at incoming and outgoing aircraft, even though they knew they would never bring one down. A simple act of terror. Or perhaps just a message of welcome or farewell, telling those arriving or leaving that they were still there.

  He had asked a sergeant once why he thought the military had shortened the radio code name for the Viet Cong—VC, Victor Charlie—to just Charlie, but the sergeant had shrugged his shoulders and insisted that they had to call the little bastards something short. The answer had seemed typical of the derogatory attitude toward that invisible peasant army, and it had always made him think of Luc and the other Mua warriors he had known as a boy. Luc, who had been like a brother to him, with whom he had taken karate lessons, and who had always been faster and better at it than he. He doubted the Viet Cong were any different, and if history meant anything they had proved that sense of tenacity with the French, and the Chinese before them.

  The plane lumbered slowly toward its place at the terminal, and he could make out the insignia on the various aircraft, the diverse species of Freedom Birds clustered together in their own nesting areas—TWA, Braniff, Pan Am, Delta, each gathering guarded by U.S. Air Force Security Police. Away from the commercial aircraft, the military contingent seemed overpowering, a sprawling expanse of war technology—fighters, sleek and needlelike; massive cargo planes; bombers; gunships and spotter planes; and around and above each, helicopters flitting like insects from place to place—bearing the insignias of the U.S., Korea, Viet Nam and others
he could not recognize.

  The 707 finally came to a halt, and the aisle immediately filled. Most standing now were young. Eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds. When the line had dispersed, Peter made his way to the front of the cabin, then stepped out on the deplaning ramp. The heat struck him like the first step into a sauna, and he instinctively glanced at his Rolex. It was nine in the morning, yet even now in late summer it seemed hotter than anything he remembered as a child. More intense even than the Everglades, where he had trained, and certainly worse than the dry, dusty heat of the Dakotas.

  He knew it had always been hot, and recalled the need to take to the shade on the veranda of his grandfather’s house. But this heat was worse. When Peter reached the bottom of the ramp he could already feel the perspiration running beneath his khaki blouse, and each breath felt as though it were being filtered through a hot, damp cloth. Perhaps it was a combination of the air conditioning on the plane and the nineteen hours of travel, he told himself. He started toward the terminal feeling the heat rising from the hot tarmac. No. It was just hot.

  Suddenly he felt weak and tired. All around him the noise of aircraft engines mingled with the jabbering of incoming military and civilians, each punctuated by the sound of loudspeakers offering instruction in English and Vietnamese. Ahead, two Vietnamese women, one older and one in her early twenties, hurried past a sauntering, sweating line of GIs. The women were wearing brightly colored ao dais, their beautiful national dress which formed a sheath from neck to ankle, slit up to the knee to allow black-trousered legs to move without restriction. Peter watched the younger woman, her head erect, eyes fixed on the approaching entrance to the terminal, ignoring the suggestive remarks of a group of young enlisted men.

  “Hey, baby. You in the blue pajamas,” one called after her.