The Corsican

by William Heffernan

  “That’s very good, Peter,” she said. “It’s nice to meet an American who doesn’t miss the subtleties of things. Unusual, as well.”

  Peter leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers before his face. “That’s the second time you’ve done that. Offer surprise when you find an American who can observe the obvious.”

  “Perhaps that’s because it does surprise me.” She stood and walked to the window, slid back a panel of glass and stepped outside onto the narrow balcony.

  Peter rose and followed her.

  She was dressed in a dark-green dress, forsaking her favored ao dai, and the color seemed to match her eyes perfectly, making them seem like the deepest of jade. He stood next to her, looking down at the finely etched profile. “Have you met so few Americans who are capable of appreciating subtlety?’ he asked.

  The wind rose slightly, blowing her long black hair back, and she lifted her chin slightly to capture more of it against her face. “There have been a few,” she said. “But most others have been young boys, or old bores. And subtlety is always wasted on either.”

  She turned to him, keeping her eyes on the garden, then allowing them to rise slowly until they met his. “You, for example, have been subtle enough not to ask about my rather unusual name. With most others that question would arise within the first few minutes.”

  “But I have been tempted,” Peter said.

  She turned back to the garden below. “Yes, but that is the ultimate in subtlety. Understanding when not to speak about something.”

  “In that case, I shall ask you to tell me about it immediately,” he said.

  She laughed. It was a beautiful laugh, he decided. Not the normal giggle orientals seemed to misuse as laughter. “Very well. Since you’re determined to prove me wrong, I will tell you.” She turned and walked the length of the narrow terrace, then turned back to face him.

  He was able to see all of her now, and thought that was what she preferred for the moment, allowing the full effect of her beauty to dominate his thoughts.

  “My name, Molly Bloom, is something people often find strange, since I am a Eurasian woman who spent most of her youth in Korea. The few well-read people I meet—a number that seems to grow smaller with each passing year—assume my father was a great admirer of James Joyce. Actually I doubt he ever thought much about Joyce, and I’m reasonably certain he never read him. My father was an Englishman of mixed ancestry. His father was Jewish, his mother an Irish Catholic, and both of those paternal grandparents were long dead when I was born. My mother was Korean, and she too died at the instant of my birth. It seems death has always played a very large part in my life. Perhaps that’s why I’ve always been fascinated by it.

  “My name, in fact, came from this combination of deaths. My father was badly stricken by the death of my mother, and decided he could not bear a Korean name in the house because it would remind him of her. I was, therefore, given the name Molly after my paternal grandmother, who, of course, was also dead. Actually, I always thought the name was appropriate for an Irish Catholic Korean Jew, whose father was a British citizen.” She stopped and laughed softly, as if enjoying the ridiculous complexity of her own heritage.

  “I’ve always thought my ancestry was confsing,” Peter said. “Yours makes it seem mundane. But it must have been difficult for you. Orientals aren’t known for their tolerance of religious or racial mix.”

  “Religion presented something of a problem, at least for my maternal grandparents. My mother had been raised as a Buddhist, and combined with the Jewish and the Catholic, that gave me ancestral roots in three of the world’s five major religions. Since that was the case, my father decided I should be raised in none of them, but rather be allowed to choose my own when I matured. Being thus spared religious training as a child, along with all the attendant fears, taboos, prejudice and intimidation, I found, upon becoming an adult, that I needed no religion at all. That was greatly frowned upon by all concerned, and to a large extent still is. But I’ve been frowned upon for one thing or another for most of my twenty-five years. This one additional frown has had little effect on me.”

  Peter moved closer, closing the distance between them. “How did an Irish Catholic Korean Jew happen to spend most of her youth in Korea? I would think life would have been much easier for you elsewhere.”

  “It’s quite simple, really. My father was in the British foreign service. He met my mother in England, where I was born. Then, after the end of World War II, he was assigned to Korea, where—as he often said—he helped maintain British influence among the world’s lesser beings.”

  “A fairly common British attitude,” Peter said.

  “I don’t think he really meant it. Just felt he had to say it. He was a nice man who drank too much, and on the day before my sixteenth birthday he died from a touch of liver, as his British physician put it. Actually he committed suicide. He just chose to do it slowly with Scotch, rather than in one of the more traditional and less dignified ways.” Molly looked back into the garden. “I didn’t mind really. I knew he was much happier dead, even if there was nothing beyond the grave. Life had been an endless torment for him, a series of failures, disappointments, losses, all of which he was much better off without.” She turned back and smiled coyly. “It did present a problem for me, however, since it placed me in the hands of my Korean grandparents, who were forced to deal with a maturing young woman who had been raised without any concept of custom or tradition, be it British or Korean.” She laughed, as if remembering her grandparents’ despair.

  “They struggled with that problem for two years without any success whatsoever, then settled it rather abruptly by packing me off to university in your country.” The coy smile returned; the voice took on a note of solemnity. “And there I fell into a life of sin and became the woman you see before you now.” She tossed her hair and laughed, then looked back, her deep-green eyes flashing with her own enjoyment.

  “And, of course, you won’t tell me how you happened to buy the Room of a Thousand Mirrors,” Peter said.

  “Why, I happened to buy it with money, Peter.” She laughed again. “Another story for another time. Perhaps when I know you better. Perhaps not.”

  He closed the distance between them, allowing his size to dwarf her. Her eyes showed no intimidation. “There are some who say you work for the Korean CIA, did you know that?” His voice was soft, amused.

  “The KCIA, how intriguing,” she said, smiling up at him.

  “Others insist it’s the VC.”

  “Oh, the Viet Cong, even better.”

  “Then, of course, there are those who insist you simply have your own little criminal enterprise.”

  “And which do you think, Peter? All of the above, none of the above, or am I simply a poor orphan child struggling to make her way in a cruel and devious world?”

  “The last one sounds very good, but the least likely,” he said.

  She lowered her eyes and shook her head. “The military has destroyed your sense of romance, Peter. I rather like the last explanation. It casts me in the role of the beautiful but wayward waif, who can now be redeemed by the good and true American officer.” She laughed again. “Tell me, Peter. Are there any secrets in your life, anything you’re hiding away from the world? If I searched would I find out what it was?”

  He ran a hand along her delicately formed cheek. “It’s much too well hidden,” he said. “Even someone with all your resources wouldn’t be able to find it.”

  “Ah, a challenge.” She moved away from him. “Then I’ll have to use feminine wiles. Reduce you to your baser instincts and discover all your secrets.”

  He stepped forward and leaned down to kiss her, but again she moved away.

  “Men are always weaker in bed. They tell themselves it’s where they are strongest, but it’s not. The bed is woman’s domain.” She looked at him pleasantly. “But now you’ve disappointed me. You told me you understood oriental subtlety, and now you show me that
you don’t.”

  Chapter 26

  He was still fascinated by Molly Bloom’s ability to outmaneuver him the previous evening. They had played a delicately balanced game, each seeking information about the other, each receiving no more than the other was willing to give. In the end she had offered him a sexual challenge he had foolishly accepted. And again, she had walked away the winner in their little war of wits. He was forced to laugh at his own foolishness.

  Peter was still thinking of that difficult woman when he was called into Colonel Wallace’s office at 0900. Colonel Duc was there when he entered, sitting primly on a small sofa, as if struggling to avoid any wrinkle in his uniform.

  Duc and Bently greeted each other formally, then Peter was offered a straight-backed chair opposite Wallace’s desk. There was an air of unpleasantness in the room, and Peter had the feeling that the two had been arguing.

  “Something new’s developed, Bently,” Wallace began. “And our friends at ARVN have need of some help.” He looked across the office at Duc. “Perhaps it would be better if you explained,” he said to the Vietnamese.

  Duc looked Peter up and down. “I understand you speak Lao as well as the language of my country. How fluently do you speak it? I know your Vietnamese is good.”

  “I speak them equally, dai ta.”

  Duc nodded. “Then you may prove of value to us.” He paused to check the crease in his trousers, then continued without looking up. “A high-ranking official in our government has received reports of Viet Cong command activity in the area around Vientiane. This, of course, is something we cannot tolerate. The people involved are said to be establishing new routes of supply, which is even less tolerable. If they are allowed to escape punishment, it might produce additional support in Laos, and, of course, this affects our efforts against the communists.”

  Duc stood, straightened his uniform, then slowly began to pace the office. “It is felt that a Vietnamese agent would have difficulty getting close to this operation, that the communists would recognize such a person for what he was and quickly eliminate him, or simply disappear. An occidental, however, would not be suspected, and since few speak any of the local tongues with anything more than barroom proficiency, conversations among sympathizers would not be feared in his presence.” Duc stopped and looked down at Peter, his face giving off a hint of displeasure.

  “What we would like is for you to make occasional trips to Vientiane to see if you can determine the location of this new command activity. If you can, you are to bring the information to us, along with any prisoner you might capture. If not, you are to eliminate them there, disrupt their activity and bring back a photograph of their remains.” He stopped again, this time smiling at Peter.

  “Beheading would be a nice touch,” he said. “It has a very strong effect among my people, especially the Buddhists. They believe the spirit will be forced to wander endlessly if one dies in that manner.”

  Wallace picked up a manila folder from his desk and tossed it across to Peter. “In there you’ve got information on NVA cadre suspected of operating in Laos. We’re not supposed to be in Laos, so you take as much care as you feel you need to protect your own ass.”

  “But not too much care,” Duc interjected. His look was contemptuous. “We do not want those communists to escape because of excess caution, do we, captain? Do you object to eliminating these people?”

  Peter offered Duc a thin smile. “Not at all, dai ta.” He turned back to Wallace. “When do I leave, sir?”

  “Tomorrow. Take two days this first trip. No longer unless you came across something exceptional. After that your trips will be determined by reports of observations that come back into ARVN.”

  Peter nodded again.

  “Use civilian aircraft and wear civilian clothes. Officially our military personnel do not go into Laos. But you’ll have the full cooperation of friendly people in their government there, if you need it. Those names are in the folder too. And no one but us is to know about this. Understood?”

  “One more thing,” Duc interjected. “To ensure against any future disclosure about this operation, by someone who might wish to raise questions about its legality, I think a code name would be helpful. All reports would then be signed just with that designation.”

  “Yeah, I like that,” Wallace said. “Wouldn’t want these fucking newshounds to get wind of any operation going on in Laos. If they ever did come across any documents, we could say it came from friendly forces inside that country.”

  Duc gave Peter another contemptuous smile. “Do you have any preference for a code name, captain?” he asked.

  “No, dai ta,” Peter said. “I will be happy to leave that to you.”

  Duc looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then back at Peter. “What year were you born, captain?”

  “In 1940, dai ta”

  “Ah, the same year as my son, the Year of the Dragon. A very favorable sign.” He glanced down at Wallace. “Shall we make it Dragon, then?”

  “Fine with me,” Wallace said. “You got any problem with that, Bently?”

  “No, sir. Dragon will do just fine.”

  Duc laughed softly to himself. “Very well, Dragon. I hope your hunt goes well.”

  He stood in JFK Square, watching her leave the front of the cathedral. She was dressed in a pale-blue ao dai, and as she had at her father-in-law’s house, she seemed to glide rather than walk.

  He moved quickly across the square to intercept her. “What a pleasant surprise, Ba Lin,” he said in Vietnamese.

  She bowed her head slightly, then smiled at him. “And what good fortune for me. I was wondering who I could find to help me carry flowers to my home.”

  “Look no more,” Peter said. “Not to do so would certainly violate the treaties between our two countries. And we must never allow that.”

  They moved away from the cathedral, then stopped at the next corner to wait for a white-uniformed Saigon police officer to halt the rush of midday traffic. Peter watched the small man standing in the midst of the vehicular madness, and he recalled how Americans referred to Saigon police as white mice, because they always seemed to scurry off and hide whenever trouble developed.

  He glanced at Lin, wondering if she had ever heard the term. As they started across the street, he looked back over his shoulder. Two men he had noticed earlier in front of the cathedral had stopped ten feet behind them. Now, as Lin and he crossed the street, they too had begun walking again.

  He inclined his head toward Lin and spoke softly. “There are two men behind us, and they seem to be following you.”

  “Yes, I know. They are my bodyguards. I’m afraid Saigon is not safe for Vietnamese either.”

  Peter’s face clouded with concern. “I hope our meeting will not cause difficulty for you with your father-in-law,” he said.

  “Because of my bodyguards? No, not at all. They have been with me for many years, and were selected by me. Their loyalty is to me, not to the colonel.”

  They continued along the sidewalk, keeping a respectful distance between them. Several blocks down, as they turned into Nguyen Hue Street, the crowds along the sidewalk intensified, pushing them closer together, forcing their bodies to touch as they stopped before a flower stall.

  “You told me you were very fond of flowers,” Lin said. “Was that true, or simply an excuse?”

  “Very true,” Peter said. He reached out and picked up a lotus blossom from a water-filled tank. It was ten inches in diameter, and its yellow petals, tinged with red, seemed to capture the afternoon light.

  “Do you know the Vietnamese name for the flower?” Lin asked.

  He nodded. “Sen.” He pointed to the pale, bell-like blossom in the next container. “This I do not know.”

  “It is from the portia tree, and next to it, the mahoe.” She reached out and touched the small, delicate flowers, some red, others a solid yellow.

  “That one I know,” Peter said. “A member of the hibiscus family, and as deli
cate as a beautiful woman.”

  “We are not so delicate, captain. This country forbids anyone to be delicate. Especially now.” She turned and began walking among the stalls, with Peter following close behind. He stopped beside her at another stall, and she looked up at him and smiled. “Are you learning to enjoy Saigon?” she asked.

  “I hope to begin very soon,” he said. She turned her head away, but he could tell she was still smiling. “I took an unofficial residence off base today, so life should soon be more pleasant,” he added.

  “And where did you find quarters?”

  “The Continental Palace Hotel.”

  She inclined her head. “That should prove very convenient. But then, I imagine anything would be a great improvement over a military base.”

  “I’m hoping it will be,” Peter said. “It’s a suite of rooms, with a small kitchen, which, I hope, will allow me to entertain some friends.”

  She looked up at him, and he saw the trace of a smile on her lips.

  “I would be pleased if you would be my first guest,” he said.

  “Perhaps when you return.”

  The look of surprise on his face made her laugh, and she covered her mouth with her hand.

  “My father-in-law mentioned at breakfast that you would be performing a service for him. He did not say what, or where. Just that you would be leaving Saigon.”

  “Only for two days,” he said. “It’s more of an errand than a service.”

  “I’m sure you’re too modest,” Lin said. “If it was only an errand, my father-in-law would not have been so displeased.”

  “Was he displeased?”

  “He’s always displeased when he is forced to ask the Americans for help. It injures his sense of national pride.”

  Peter stopped himself from smiling, from revealing his own pleasure at anything that would offend Duc’s immense sense of pride. He caught her watching him, observing his reaction.