Peter let out a long breath. He had hoped Francesco’s American surrogates would be sensible. But he had also anticipated the betrayal and had prepared for it. Now there would be more killing, something he had hoped to avoid.
Earlier he had watched the snipers position themselves in a concealed arc, forming a well-defined killing ground with the hut at its center.
But there were only six snipers now. The seventh lay at his feet unconscious, hands and feet bound, clear plastic tape covering his mouth. The man had been closest to Peter’s position, and a quiet blow to the back of the neck had been an easy matter.
Standing now, Peter took the unconscious sniper by the shirt collar and dragged him to the well-concealed jeep, which sat fifty yards back in the bush just off the main road into the village.
Quickly, he removed a duffel bag from the rear seat, stripped the ARVN sniper, and redressed him in the uniform of a U.S. Army captain. Peter lifted the still-unconscious man into the driver’s seat, looked over the ill-fitting uniform, then placed a hat on his head, adjusting the peak so it concealed his features without obstructing his vision. He then tied the man’s wrists to the steering wheel, leaving just enough play to allow him to drive.
After clearing the concealing brush from the front of the jeep to expose easy access to the road, Peter slapped the sniper gently, reviving him.
At first the Vietnamese struggled against the ropes, as muffled grunts of fear came from behind the clear plastic tape that covered his mouth. Peter smiled down at him, noting his bulging eyes and sweat-filled brow. He spoke softly in Vietnamese.
“It’s all right, my friend. You’re just going to go for a little drive. Just straight ahead to the hut.” He smiled again, removing a silencer-equipped .22 caliber High Standard pistol from his belt, and placed it against the man’s temple. “If you don’t I’m going to blow your brains out.”
The man looked from Peter to the road, then back at Peter. A look of hope had come into his eyes.
“That’s right,” Peter said. “When you get out there you can stand up and let them see you’re not the American they’re waiting for. But I don’t think you’ll want to.”
As the Vietnamese watched in terror, Peter took a STABO combat vest from the duffel bag, slipped it on, then removed one of several hand grenades that hung from it. Using one hand, he pushed the Vietnamese forward and wedged the grenade between his left buttock and the seat. He pushed the Vietnamese back and smiled.
“As long as you sit tight, the pressure will keep the grenade spoon depressed.” Carefully, he reached down and pulled the pin and held it up. “But if you don’t he said, “you’ll have a terrible pain in the ass.”
Peter reached under the man’s trembling arms and started the engine, then ordered him to depress the clutch, as he put the jeep in first gear. He stepped back and smiled again. “Drive slowly,” he whispered.
The jeep rolled forward out into the road and headed toward the hut. Peter dropped back into the bush and moved on a parallel line. When the jeep reached the clearing approaching the hut, he dropped down behind a low-hanging nipa palm.
As the jeep reached the center of the clearing, Peter heard a silenced spit, and looking toward the jeep saw the feathered end of a tranquilizer dart protruding from the driver’s shoulder. Within seconds the driver’s body slumped to one side, and Peter dropped back behind the trunk of the palm, knowing the blast would come in three to four seconds.
He could hear the snipers jabbering excitedly just before the blast, and as the echo of the explosion was swallowed by the forest, the voices changed to shouted warnings and an uncontrolled rush back to cover.
Peter pulled back behind a row of palms, increased the distance for his circling move, then ran low in short spurts, stopping to make sure of his targets’ position, then continued the circle.
He took five minutes to place himself behind the first Ranger. The equipment pack the Vietnamese wore marked him as one of General Lat’s elite troops—the ARVN version of the U.S. SOG teams, the Studies and Observation Group of MACV that made regular sorties into North Viet Nam. ARVN had dubbed their teams Luc Long Dac Biet (LLDB), the South Vietnamese version of Special Forces. To the Americans, who were far from impressed with their fighting ability, they were known as “look long, duck back.”
Slowly, offering as little observable movement as possible, Peter took the silencer-equipped High Standard from his belt and steadied it with both hands. The magnum-load bullet hit the Ranger in the back of the head, dropping him like a stone. Peter crouched, waiting for incoming fire, then dropped back and continued his circle. Ten yards down, two more Rangers were lying face down in a small stand of elephant grass. Too close together for their own good, Peter thought. Typical of ARVN training
Slowly again, he took a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and lofted the grenade in a low arc, then turned and dropped back again, falling to the ground just as the grenade exploded. He glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see the bodies of two Rangers fall back to the ground. The grenade had landed between them, and exploded so quickly there had not been time even for a warning shout.
He crawled away quickly. Ahead, to his right, he saw one of the three remaining Rangers rise up and throw a grenade toward his position. Peter fired three rounds in rapid succession. The third Ranger flew back like a rag doll, the force of the bullets almost ripping his body in half.
Peter threw himself to his left and rolled. Too late. The grenade exploded, sending a shard of shrapnel into his right thigh. Almost at once, the ground around him erupted with geysers of dirt. The two remaining Rangers knew he was there now; they fired wildly, knowing the odds had suddenly decreased.
But only one of you is going to die, Peter told himself, as he crawled painfully forward, again circling their position. One of you is going to be taken alive, no matter what. And you’re going to carry a message back.
The two ARVN Rangers were panicked. Reacting to their own fear, they had bunched together, back to back, each facing a direction from which they thought he would come.
Assholes, Peter thought. He was ten yards from them. Neither faced him. He was close enough to hear their rapid, high-pitched jabbering. A slight smile formed on his lips as he slowly brought the High Standard up in front of him. It was something that had always amused him about the Vietnamese. The more frightened they became, the more unsure of themselves, the louder and faster they would talk. He would have been able to hear them and pinpoint their position at ten times the distance. The High Standard jerked lightly in his hands, the muffled spit coming almost simultaneously with the impact of the bullet just above the left ear of the fifth Ranger. The ARVN soldier sat motionless for two seconds, his mouth forming a soundless circle, before he fell off to one side.
The final Ranger felt him fall and spun around in panic. His head darted back and forth, eyes wide, his entire body shaking in fear. The M-16 fell from his hand and he scrambled to retrieve it. Peter rose to his knees.
“Touch it and you cross to Yellow Springs,” Peter said in Vietnamese.
The Ranger froze, his head twisting violently toward the sound of Peter’s voice. His mouth was contorted, his eyes bulging from his face; he mumbled incoherently. Peter stood and limped toward him, the High Standard out in front of him. He moved slowly, watching the Ranger’s eyes.
“Remain still and you live,” Peter said, his voice soft and gravelly.
When Peter reached him, the Ranger bolted up, more from fear than for any planned attack. Peter’s fist caught him solidly in the face, hurtling him back in an obscene cartwheel. Before he could move again. Peter was on him. The silenced barrel of the High Standard slammed against his mouth, smashing through his teeth, until it pressed against his tongue. He dropped one knee onto the Ranger’s chest, paused a second to allow the man’s head to clear, then clicked the pistol’s safety on and off for effect. The small man’s face filled with a mixture of pain and fear, the sound of the safety mechanism hi
tting his ears like cannonfire.
“Hands on head,” Peter growled, watching as the man obeyed.
He reached out and took him by the throat with his left hand, then eased himself back, dragging the Ranger to his feet. Slowly, Peter stripped the ARVN soldier of his weapons, then stepped back, withdrawing the barrel of the pistol from his broken mouth. He spun him roughly, pointing him toward the hut, and shoved him into motion.
When they reached the hut, Peter flattened his back against the door and ordered the ARVN Ranger to open it. The door swung away and Peter pushed the Ranger inside, into the path of any booby traps that might have been laid. The only sound that came back was a sudden gasp, followed by uncontrolled retching.
Peter turned into the doorway. The ARVN Ranger was on his knees, vomiting. Peter looked past him and felt his own bile rise in his throat. There, spread-eagled on the dirt between four stakes, was the body of Joe Morris, his face twisted into a grotesque mask of pain. Morris’ arms, legs and face were covered with hundreds of small knife wounds, indicating a long, slow period of torture. The final wound, which had ended his life, went from his sternum to his pubis, splaying him open like a chicken, and allowing a gray mass of intestines to spill out onto the floor beside him. Anyone who found him, Peter realized, would think he had been captured and tortured by the Viet Cong.
Peter grabbed the Ranger by the scruff of the neck and dragged him outside. The small man stood before him trembling. Peter drew a deep breath and spoke in a broken whisper.
“You go back now,” he said in Vietnamese. “And you tell those who sent you that I’ll be coming for them soon. And tell them that they will die as horribly as that man died.”
The Ranger remained rooted to the ground, unable to move. Peter grabbed his shirt front and pushed him away, watching as the Ranger stumbled and fell, then quickly regained his feet and began running wildly down the dirt road toward the forest.
Peter reached down and felt the wound in his leg. It was superficial, but he knew it would cause him problems. He had a long way to go, through difficult terrain, before he would reach the nearest Meo village. But he would get there, and then he would return. He looked back over his shoulder at Morris’ body, hidden now by the inner darkness of the hut. “Sorry, Joe,” he whispered, then turned and limped toward the dense forest that lay ahead.
“I have to admit, I admire the man’s balls, sending me a message like that.” Brody grinned across the table. They were seated in the small restaurant where he had agreed to meet Francesco to tell him about the hunt for Pierre Sartene. Francesco did not return the smile.
“And you think he will not try to make good his threat?” Francesco said.
“He was wounded, we know that, and if he gets out of that godforsaken place alive, it will be just short of miraculous. The idea of his getting back here and doing us all in is a bit farfetched. I’m more worried about the material. I’ve already had Mallory, Wainscott and Warren sent Stateside.”
“The Meo will be out looking for him, if they haven’t found him already. They have great loyalty to Buonaparte.”
“We’re monitoring the Meo, and we have our own people looking. If the Meo find him before We do, they’ll just save some work. But I honestly think if anyone finds anything, it’s going to be a corpse.”
“You also said he wouldn’t get out of the ambush alive.” Francesco sat back in his chair and rubbed his chin with one finger. “Now you expect the forest to do what seven of General Lat’s Rangers could not.”
“The forest, the North Vietnamese patrols, and our own people, who think they’re hunting down a traitor. He hasn’t got much going for himself against those odds, my friend.”
Francesco stared at Brody for several moments. “He has Buonaparte. And he has his Corsican blood,” he said at length.
Brody sat back and smiled. “Pardon my language, my friend. But you worry too much about that old greaseball. And as far as his Corsican blood goes, I’m more concerned about the training we gave him than I am about that.”
“If I were you, I’d start preparing for when he gets here. We will either kill him then, or he will kill us. But he will come.”
Brody laughed again. “Well, I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Francesco looked into Brady’s eyes. The man was a fool, he told himself. And there was no point wasting words on a fool.
Buonaparte Sartene sat behind his desk, his face drawn, his eyes puffed from lack of sleep. There was a growth of beard on his face several days old, and his back no longer seemed to have the rigid, almost military stiffness that had always given him an air of defiant strength.
When the door to the study opened, he looked up at Auguste without expectation. When the smile began to form on Auguste’s lips, Buonaparte’s back straightened almost as though a rod had been driven along his spine, and he pushed himself up from the chair with the agility of a much younger man.
“You’ve heard something?” he asked.
Auguste broke into a broad smile, and his eyes filled with tears. “He is alive. The Meo have him.”
Sartene fell back in his chair and exhaled deeply. “How badly is he hurt?”
“The bush took its toll, and he was wounded when they found him twenty kilometers east of Ban Phou Kheng. He came over a hundred kilometers, Buonaparte. With hardly any food or water. I can’t believe it.” He looked down at Sartene and saw that his eyes were also filled with tears. Auguste straightened himself. “Maybe you can shave now, and start looking human again,” he snapped.
“Shut up, you old fool,” Sartene said. He stood and walked around his desk and pulled Auguste to him. They embraced each other for nearly a minute, allowing the pent-up tensions to leave him. Sartene stepped back and took Auguste’s shoulders between his hands. His eyes were hard now. “We must send Luc to him by plane,” he said. “The Americans and Francesco’s people will be looking for him among the Meo, and also here. We will have Luc bring him to the airfield at Phou Khao Kquai, and from there by car to one of our houses in Vientiane.”
Sartene turned and walked to the long table that held his array of toy soldiers. He took one in his hand, then turned back abruptly to Auguste, using it to emphasize his words. His eyes were cold and black. “We will go to the house in Vientiane tonight, by boat. No one must know we have gone. Call Molly and tell her to meet us there. We must know everything that has happened in Saigon since your visit there. Tell her to take care. She is to use one of the planes from our airline. And have her alert Philippe that we will soon move against our enemies. Now all those bastards must pay. I told you we would strike quickly. And now, when Pierre is well, we shall.”
Chapter 41
Buonaparte had been struck by the depth of Molly’s concern for Pierre. It gave a new dimension to this woman, whom he had grown to respect in business. In some ways she now reminded him of his own wife. There was a deep strength, modified by tenderness that made the strength seem even greater. She had not seen Pierre since she had arrived at the small house in the old French quarter of Vientiane. She had reported to Buonaparte and Auguste about the developments in Saigon—things they had already learned from Pierre—the death of Morris, the involvement of Lat, Wallace and Brody in the plot to kill Pierre, and, most important, the depth of their continued support of Francesco Canterina, who was now hiding in the city. But once the business had been concluded she had prodded Sartene, almost demanding to be told the details of Pierre’s injuries, suggesting that she remain in Vientiane to care for him. Sartene had declined the offer, explaining that she was needed in Saigon, but inwardly he was pleased by her concern for his grandson.
Sitting in the small living room of the house now, they waited for Pierre to join them. He had slept for the past forty-eight hours, not even waking for nourishment. The Lao physician who had treated him had assured Sartene that what remained of his injuries would heal; that the treatments administered by the Meo had purged his system of infection, and that no aftereffects would
occur.
Buonaparte had visited with Pierre when he had awakened that morning, and they had discussed the events in Saigon, the death, the betrayal, the protection of Francesco. Pierre had only nodded, his eyes cold and distant, then he had kissed his grandfather, saying that he would join them downstairs shortly.
Waiting now, Molly glanced from Buonaparte to Auguste to Luc, as she nervously toyed with the cup of Chinese gunpowder tea that rested demurely on her knee. She was dressed in a pale-green ao dai that picked up the color of her eyes, electrifying the deep vivid emerald. She looked toward Buonaparte again, but he only smiled and nodded.
“Do you think I should go up and see if there is anything I can do to help him?” she asked.
“It’s interesting to see you in the role of the concerned nurse.”
Her head snapped to the doorway with the sound of his voice. Pierre’s lips curved up slightly as he looked down at her. For a moment Molly could not speak. Standing there he looked battered and beaten. He had a twelve-day growth of blond beard, but beneath it she could see the insect and scorpion bites, the scratches that were only beginning to scab over. He was wearing chino slacks and a denim shirt rolled up to the elbows, and his forearms also held a labyrinth of cuts and scratches, and he supported himself with a cane. But most striking to her was the weight he had lost. His cheeks were sunken and his body, though still appearing strong and athletic, seemed almost frail to her.
She stood quickly, almost dropping her cup and saucer, her vibrant green eyes alive with the pleasure she felt. Two steps from him she stopped herself and cocked her head to one side.
The Corsican Page 45
