“Most of it,” Pierre said.
She looked at him, her eyes narrow. “Why not all of it?”
He paused, stroking his beard absentmindedly. “Dealing with Francesco is something that goes deeper than the others,” he said at length. “With the others it was pure vengeance. A vengeance for Morris and myself. With Francesco there’s a more personal element involved. When I learned about my grandfather, about my father’s death, and about Francesco, I knew what was expected of me, and I prepared for it. I’m a Corsican, Molly. It’s something I was raised to be. I can’t change that fact. And I must Finish what I’ve been raised to do.”
“And afterward?”
“First there are a pair of generals and a colonel, who are now in the United States. At the very least their past activities should be repaid. I think I owe that to Joe Morris. Then I’ll go about finding my own place in the world.”
“What about your grandfather? You don’t plan to stay with him, to work with him within the milieu?”
Pierre shook his head, his eyes firm, yet sad.
“When we were in Vientiane I felt there was something you hadn’t said to him, something you were holding back. Is this it?”
Pierre nodded. It was as if the gesture was easier than speaking the words aloud.
“It will hurt him deeply,” Molly said.
Pierre stood and walked to the long windows and looked down into the garden. “I love him very much, Molly. I always will. I also respect him, and I understand the way he lives his life, the way he follows his own perception of morality. But I don’t want my life to be a simple continuation of his. My father did that. He followed Grandpère when he was right, and he followed him when he was wrong. And in the end that decision played as great a part in his death as Francesco’s greed.”
Molly began to object, but Pierre raised his hand, stopping her. “I don’t blame my grandfather for my father’s death, Molly. For a time, Buonaparte Sartene simply chose the wrong path. It’s something he told me about, something he understands and acknowledges. It was a tragic flaw in his life. It cost him his son, and it forced him to send his grandson away.”
“And now his grandson will go away again.” Molly’s voice was only a whisper.
“Yes. But he’ll understand. He’s the one who taught me to be strong enough to make that choice.” Pierre closed the distance between them. “When this is over, the life.I choose may not be much different from his. But I won’t make his life my own. I’ll find my own path.” He smiled down at her. “And when I do, I’d like you to be with me.”
She looked down at her lap and noticed her hands were trembling. “I have great loyalty to him, Pierre, and I owe him a great deal.”
“So do I, Molly,” Pierre said.
She looked across at him, her vibrant green eyes-soft and a little frightened. “You said you wanted me with you. As your lover or your bodyguard?” she said defensively.
“A little of each, I think. Also as my wife, if you’re willing.”
Molly ran her finger along the arm of her chair.
“I’m more than willing, Pierre,” she said.
He reached out for her, noticing that her eyes had filled with tears.
In her bedroom he gently unfastened her dress and helped it fall away from her cream-colored shoulders. She wore nothing beneath the dress, which both pleased and surprised him. They kissed, softly, with more gentleness than passion, then she turned and walked slowly toward the bed, the surprising ampleness of her small-framed figure maintaining his attention.
He removed his clothing slowly, keeping his eyes on her, enjoying her posture as she lay on the bed, her green eyes taking in his body with a simple open pleasure.
When he came to her, they kissed and touched gently, softly exploring each other’s bodies, enjoying the pleasure of the newness of it all. He kissed her neck, then ran his tongue along her shoulder and down her arm, over to her soft, flat stomach, and down along her hips to her thighs.
As he kissed her, she stroked his hair, his cheek, his ear, allowing him to enjoy her body, yet delicately guiding him by allowing him to sense the pleasure he evoked.
Her first orgasm—slow and mild—came as he kissed her body; the second—more intense—as he turned his attention to her breasts and vagina. When the time for intercourse finally arrived they joined together with abandon, losing themselves in the giving of long-awaited pleasure, their bodies thrusting against each other with the rhythm of a finely executed dance, their mouths exploring each other’s face, their lungs gasping for air; denying it to themselves, until a final shuddering of breath came, and left them clinging to each other in the wetness of their own effort and pleasure.
They remained together for many minutes, idly touching each other with arms and legs. Slowly, Molly raised herself. Her hair, now in disarray, was spread across her face, and she smiled at him as if hiding behind it.
“Do you feel sufficiently weakened to repeat your marriage offer in front of witnesses?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’m afraid my military training was too good?”
“That’s a pity,” Molly said. “I shall just have to try harder.”
Softly, she ran her lips along his chest, exploring his body as he had hers before. He ran his hand along her neck, then allowed his eyes to wander about the room as his body concentrated on the pleasure she was giving. So many different hues of green. Her favorite color, he thought. Accentuating her eyes, emphasizing that most erotic of her features. He felt his muscles tighten, then loosen again, as pleasure seized control. She had once told him the bedroom was woman’s domain. This bed, he decided, was truly her domain, and he knew he wanted to share that domain with her.
Two days passed before Francesco decided to move against Pierre. Buonaparte’s grandson had not left the house, and from his knowledge of Carbone—who had once lived there— Francesco knew there were no hidden exits he could have used to escape.
He was sitting and waiting, while his grandfather’s people scoured the city—waiting for them to find him and deliver him—and Francesco knew if he delayed longer, he might indeed be found. If he fled, Pierre would send people after him. He was not bound by his grandfather’s agreement.
The possibility of a trap entered his head, and he weighed its potential. First he would have to determine if, and how, the house was protected from the outside. There had been no evidence of it that he had seen, but he knew he would have to look again. In any event, the risk of an attack when Pierre left the house would be too dangerous. The interior posed a more difficult question. The Lao and Korean were there with Pierre and the woman. At least one would remain on guard throughout the night. The ideal would be to buy the loyalty of one or both. The risks, he decided, outweighed the possibility of success. The same was true of luring Pierre to him. Buonaparte simply had too many people in the city.
Finally, Francesco decided he must send out the story that he had fled to the north, then move quickly with four of his own people. A silent assault in the night, which would catch them off guard while they waited to verify the report.
The plan displeased him. It forced him into a confrontation not entirely of his own choosing. That view changed the day before the planned attack. Shortly after seven in the evening, Auguste arrived at the house, remained inside for one hour, then left with the Lao at his side. By two in the morning the Lao had not returned.
The four Vietnamese entered the house through a rear window at three in the morning, while Francesco waited in the garden, hidden back among the shrubbery, his dark clothing making him one shadow among many. He waited without movement, controlling even his breath to avoid detection. There was a silencer-equipped Browning automatic in his hand. Each of the Vietnamese carried Sten guns, also equipped with silencers, and each had been well trained in the north.
Five minutes passed before one of the Vietnamese—the man with the scar—returned to the garden. He moved quietly to Francesco’s side and knelt. Frances
co reached out and touched the barrel of his Sten gun. It was hot.
“We found the Korean downstairs and eliminated him,” the Vietnamese said.
“And the others? Sartene and the woman?”
“They must be upstairs. There are no lights, no sounds. I believe they are asleep. We did not go up.”
Francesco hesitated, debating whether to send the Vietnamese to do the task alone. He decided against it. He had to be sure there were no mistakes. He also wanted the pleasure of killing Buonaparte’s grandson himself.
He motioned the Vietnamese ahead of him and moved toward the rear garden door through which his man had exited. The house was dark and silent, and as he reached the doorway he could see that the furniture inside had been covered with sheets. It gave the interior an eerie, almost ghostly quality.
Quietly, Francesco prepared to step inside the opened rear door. Ahead he could see the room was empty. His eyes darted back and forth, searching out any sign of movement. The movement came from behind, more like a gentle gust of wind, soundless, felt rather than heard.
The barrel of the pistol pressed against the back of his head as the hand came around, taking him by the throat.
“If you move, you die, my friend.” Luc’s voice, like his movements, came like the air itself.
Francesco’s eyes moved to the Vietnamese ahead of him. The man turned and took the Browning from Francesco’s hand.
“Do not try to reach your knife,” Luc said. “Just move ahead slowly.”
Francesco felt himself propelled forward, the hand on his throat pulling him as the barrel of the weapon pressed from behind. His heart was beating in this throat, and he fought to control his fear as his mind searched for any chance at escape.
They crossed the room, passed through a second doorway, and stopped. The room suddenly flooded with light, and Francesco found himself in the large foyer of the house. The woman stood at the foot of the stairs. Next to her was the Korean, one of the Sten guns in his hands. The four Vietnamese stood ahead of him now, slight smiles on their faces. Francesco’s eyes filled with hatred.
“Don’t be too upset with your men,” Molly said. “The orders from Faydang were very clear and very difficult to refuse.”
Francesco felt a sharp blow to his back that propelled him into the center of the foyer. He turned and found the Lao, who had left the house earlier with Auguste, smiling at him.
“My compliments,” Francesco said. “You move very quietly.”
Luc shrugged. “I was never far from you. The only reason you’re alive now is that Pierre wished it to be so.”
Francesco turned back to Molly. “And where is my young Corsican friend?”
“He’s waiting for you upstairs. The center door along the hallway. You’ll find all the other doors are locked, as that one will be once you enter.”
Francesco felt his stomach knot; he laughed to conceal it. “So, it will be a slow, unpleasant death,” he said.
Molly stared at him, her face flat and expressionless. “You may take your knife with you. It is far more than you would have allowed him.” She stepped back and pointed up the staircase.
Francesco moved slowly, knees weak, his stomach churning with fear. His lips began to tremble, and he tightened them, unwilling to show the fear he felt. He climbed the stairs slowly, Po ahead, his body turned, the Sten gun pointed at Francesco’s chest. He glanced behind. Luc followed, pistol in hand.
At the top of the stairs he looked down the hallway, counting the doors, then counting back, finding the one in the center of the hall. His mind flew back to Carbone years before. It was that insane room of his that he had heard about, the one with the mirrored labyrinth. He paused at the door and looked back. The others stood watching him. He turned his head to the side and spit, then he opened the door and walked inside.
The room was bathed in the soft pink light that came from the overhead fixtures. He was standing in a small sitting room. A loveseat and two chairs, a small table holding a porcelain figure of a woman, ahead the maze of mirrors, empty of any reflection but his own fractured, fragmented image. Francesco’s breath became rapidly; he felt his body tense.
To the right of his own fragmented image, a face and shoulder appeared, then disappeared. Francesco spun to his right, then his left. No one.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” The voice spoke in the Corsican dialect of his birth, seeming to come from everywhere.
Francesco spun in a circle, sure from the sound that Pierre was behind him. Again nothing.
“Where are you, Pierre?” Francesco’s voice almost cracked with the strain.
“Within the labyrinth, waiting for you.” Pierre’s voice was almost a whisper, and it seemed to swirl about the small sitting room. It was everywhere and nowhere.
Francesco forced himself to laugh. “And you expect me to come and find you?”
“It’s the only way out, Francesco. On the other side there is an unlocked door.”
“I don’t believe you.” The strain was clear now, the voice cracking with the pressure he felt. “Why don’t you come to me? I only have the knife.” He withdrew the stiletto from his pocket and opened the double-edged blade.
“But I have no weapon, Francesco. Only the labyrinth, and the knowledge of how to pass through it.” A portion of Pierre’s face appeared in the mirror and disappeared again. He laughed softly. “Of course I am very capable of killing you with my hands. That is the way I prefer to kill you, Francesco. You could not face my father when you killed him, nor my stepfather when you attempted the same. And you certainly have struggled to avoid facing my grandfather. But now you must face me, if you hope to live. You see, I want to smell your fear when you die. I want to see it in your eyes. I could have had your men bring you to me days ago. But I was afraid you might resist and force them to kill you. It would have denied me that pleasure.”
Pierre’s image appeared almost whole in the mirrors, then broke apart and faded into fragments before disappearing again. Francesco jumped back instinctively, the knife tight in his hand. Pierre’s laughter swirled around him. Francesco’s breath came in rapid gasps; the sweat dripped from his face, and he felt bile rising in his throat. He struggled to control it.
“No. You come to me, little Pierre.” Francesco heard his voice break as he shouted the words.
“I’m afraid this game is mine, Francesco.” Pierre’s voice was soft, swirling about the room in a gentle whisper. “Do you remember the story of the men who murdered my grandfather’s sister? Do you remember how he killed the last one? I’m sure you do. It was a well-known story, one the Guerinis like to tell. Almost a legend among Corsicans, I’m told.”
“I’ve heard it,” Francesco rasped.
“Well, I’m afraid that’s the death that awaits you if you choose not to cross the labyrinth. You see, I very much want our little meeting to take place. I want you very close to me when you die, very close.”
Francesco’s back was pressed against the door. He felt his legs trembling as he stepped forward, his breath short, his body now drenched in his own sweat. He waved the knife before him as he moved, body in a slight crouch, eyes waiting for any sign of movement. He paused before the entrance of the labyrinth. Inside, the floor and ceiling were mirrored as well. He reached out and rested his fingers on the first wall. Everywhere portions of his image reflected back. The walls were set at angles, each reflecting parts of his image, throwing them back upon each other until they seemed to fade into infinity. With each step, each movement, the images changed, becoming kaleidoscopic, the fragments breaking away from each other, then coming back together.
“No more conversation now, Francesco.”
Pierre’s voice seemed to come from behind him. He spun, his back smashing into the mirrored wall. He turned again, then spun back. Already the entrance to the labyrinth had disappeared.
He reached out, allowing his fingers to play on the wall to his right. To his left, part of Pierre’s face and body flashed into view.
Francesco slashed out with the knife, the blade striking the mirrored wall and falling from his sweating hand. He dropped down. The knife was reflected by the walls and the floor, but each time he reached for it there was nothing. A cry rose in his throat and died there. Frantically his hands raced along the mirrored floor. Then he had the knife again. He waved it in front of his body, turning slowly, the mirrors picking up on the flash of the blade, sending out streams of light that played back against each other. He stood, pressing his back against one wall. “Come, you bastard,” he growled, his voice like the frightened howl of a cornered animal.
No sound came back. Slowly, he began to inch his way along the wall again, the movement stopped by another wall that sent him off again at an oblique angle. He reached out feeling with his fingers, letting them crawl ahead of him like a spider exploring uncertain ground. The fingers felt a corner where the mirrored wall cut back again. He could not see it; the repeated reflections made it invisible. Back against the wall, he felt around the corner with his hand, reaching into the unseen opening. A hand grasped his wrist, then released it. Francesco pulled back his hand and cried out. He spun away, slammed into another wall, and spun again, wildly slashing with the knife. He crashed to a halt, his back in a mirrored corner. Pierre’s face came partially into view to his left; he slashed out again, this time striking something soft, something human. A gasp of pain followed the blow, and the now fragmented image of Pierre sagged slightly on his right, only inches away. Francesco brought his elbow up, again striking soft flesh. He threw his body forward, hitting another wall and spinning away, slipping, falling, then rising again and lurching ahead. Again he stumbled and fell, rolled forward and came to his knees.
His eyes widened. He was in another antechamber, different from the first. The furniture was different, the porcelain figure on the table replaced now with a slender vase. He pushed himself up and ran to the door, grabbing the doorknob, twisting it and pulling with all his weight. It would not move. It was locked. He spun around back against the door. Pierre stepped from the labyrinth, blood streaming down his arm from a slash in his shoulder.
The Corsican Page 48
