Corsican Honor

by William Heffernan

  Kolshak grunted. “They’re even better at what Ludwig does,” he said.

  Alex watched Kolshak’s hulking back retreat from his office, taking comfort that work he should be doing himself was at least in competent hands. He stared at the telephone. He had tried to reach Stephanie at the consulate when he had returned to his office, but had been told she was out. He had not left a message and wanted to try again now, but knew he could not. It would eat at him if she still wasn’t there, allow his mind to play out endless scenarios, all of which would end up in a room somewhere, as Stephanie’s all too familiar ways of making love were showered on someone else.

  “The area is beginning to look like a convention for the DIA and their Corsican goons,” Bugayev said. “It is a time for the rabbit to stay in its hole.”

  Ludwig’s eyes snapped up at the Russian. “Is that how you see me, comrade? As a rabbit in a hole?”

  Bugayev’s jaw tightened, but he hid it with a quick smile that failed to carry to his eyes. He was tired of playing to this man’s excessive sensibilities, of watching his words to avoid offending him. “Just a figure of speech, my friend. You know how we Russians like our sayings and parables.” Bugayev stared down at the younger man, spread out comfortably on an aging sofa. Suddenly he sprang up and stood directly in front of the KGB rezident.

  “I know how you Russians look down on everyone who is not Russian.” Ludwig’s eyes were intense, almost feral, and Bugayev wondered if that was how he looked when he killed. No, he thought. Then the man smiles.

  “I thought all Russians suffered from inferiority complexes,” Bugayev said, his tone light, almost humorous. “It’s what the western analysts claim.”

  Ludwig’s features changed to a sneer, then a slow, gradual smile. “Russians suffer from an excess of caution,” he said, turning and walking to a window that overlooked a small side street a block off La Canebière. “The city is overrun with tourists. The only suspicious man will be the one who stays hidden in his room.”

  Bugayev’s back stiffened and he fought an impulse to snarl. He was not a diplomat despite his official ranking as a consular trade officer, and men he was responsible for treated his directives like prelates following canon law—if for no other reason than fear of the consequences.

  “I cannot protect you on the streets,” he emphasized. “Even if you are not readily recognizable, the faces of my men are. If I send them out with you, I might as well drop bread crumbs leading to your door.”

  Ludwig turned back and offered a mocking half smile. “Now we resort to children’s fairy tales,” he said. “Oh, Bugayev. What am I to do with you?”

  “Obedience would be a novel concept,” the Russian snapped.

  “Subservience, you mean,” Ludwig countered. “I am sorry, comrade. The revolution has arrived.” He touched his chest with the fingers of both hands. “And the masses are no longer submissive to the ruling class.” He watched the red come and deepen in Bugayev’s face, then tilted his head back and laughed. His eyes suddenly hardened again. It was like watching a rapid change in personalities, Bugayev thought—a madman snapping from one to another.

  “You said the Corsicans were asking questions about some foolish woman who managed to get herself killed. That has nothing to do with me.”

  “The Americans seem to think otherwise.”

  “Then the Americans are playing their usual role of court jester.” Ludwig walked to a nearby table, picked up a small, .32-caliber Beretta automatic, and slid it into his belt at the small of his back, then slipped on a lightweight windbreaker. “Keep your minders at home, Bugayev. I don’t need to be walked on a leash. Just make sure they get me aboard the ship when it arrives.”

  The KGB rezident watched in silence as Ludwig walked to the door, turned to offer one final, mocking smile, then left. Get yourself killed, he thought. Do all of us the favor. He bit off the words as soon as he had thought them. And get me sent to some posting in the Urals for failing to save you from yourself. He shook his head. Cretin, the thought. Whoreson of a fucking cretin.

  * Service de Documentation Extérieure et du Contre-Espionage, the French intellingence service.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Fingers gently trace her body, lingering only momentarily at her breasts, then moving again, lightly brushing the skin, continuing to stomach, to hip, then pausing just above the pubic mound, hesitating, drawing out the moment, a faint toying with the triangle of blond hair, exploring its shape, following the contours of her body to the baby soft flesh of the inner thigh. Her back arches; legs part anticipating pleasure, and her breathing changes to a soft, steady, drum-like beat.

  Alex’s hand tightened around the glass holding the fresh drink, causing a small amount of liquid to splash onto the back of his wrist. He glanced at his watch—eight-thirty—two hours past her normal time. The image of her making love, the ways she accepted pleasure and gave it, fought its way back to his mind, was pushed away again with another gulp of liquor. He stood and circled the living room. The number of times he had done it escaped him now. Only a month ago they had seemed happy. The short vacation they had taken to Sardinia, the quaint fishing village that offered little more than long walks amid the craggy cliffs and cove beaches. They had made love on one of those beaches, the sun beating down on them, lost in mutual abandon. And now, only a few short weeks later. Had the man been part of her life even then, or had it been only since they returned? How long? A week? A month? Three? Jesus Christ.

  None of it made any difference. It existed now. That was all that mattered. But perhaps it did make a difference. What did it say about them—about her—if they could make love that way with the memory of another hanging like a specter amid every touch, every gasp of pleasure?

  He drained the glass, went to the liquor cabinet, and poured another. He looked at his watch again. Five of nine. He wouldn’t ask her where she had been. No, he had to. Had to know. Had to refuse the role of complacent cuckold. His “uncle” was right about that. Almost anything could be replaced. Anything except … He shook his head. Wisdom and morality from a man who sells heroin. No, not that. From a man you’ve known since childhood. A man you and your government use freely, no matter who he is or what he does.

  The sound of the key in the door; the hand tightened on the glass again. Another gulp of liquor, flooding the brain with resolve.

  He turned to face her. She was looking down at first, then her back straightened slightly as she saw him. She walked into the room, the failed trace of a smile quickly fleeing her face.

  “Hi. Sorry, I got tied up.” She eyed his drink. “I could use one of those.” When he didn’t move, she walked to the drinks table and began mixing one. Her back was to him. She was dressed so flawlessly again, her pale silk suit not even creased, not a solitary wrinkle.

  She wants to keep it civilized, Alex thought. Maintain the charade. “Were you with him?” His voice was cold and flat, unemotional. He could see her back stiffen slightly again.

  “I thought he should know.” Stephanie sipped her drink, her back still to him.

  “Know what?” An edge had crept into his voice, and it annoyed him that it had.

  She turned slowly, eyes down. “Know that you knew.” The words sounded like a schoolgirl’s in her own ears. She raised her eyes. “It seemed best to me.”

  “You never heard of telephones?”

  She looked away, her lips tightening. “I thought it was something that should be done face to face.”

  “Felt you owed him that much.” His words were cold and cutting. He wanted to scream at her, ask her what she thought she owed him. Ask her if she’d fucked him one last time. Just for old time’s sake. Ask her all kinds of things, except it would let her know how much she’d hurt him. And he couldn’t do that. Wouldn’t.

  “I just wanted to do it that way.” Her voice was soft, not challenging.

  “Are you going to marry him?”

  The question seemed to surprise her.
“He’s already married. And I have no interest in marrying him.” She looked at him. Soft eyes. Chin trembling slightly. “I’m married to you.”

  “Will you see him again?”

  She turned away and sipped her drink. “I don’t intend to,” she said. “But won’t promise that. I seem to have broken enough promises already.” She turned back to face him. “I want it to work between us,” she said softly.

  “Will there be others, Steph? Is that how it’s going to work between us?”

  She turned away, refusing to respond. “That’s cruel, Alex.”

  “Yes, it is. But cruel seems to be the way things are between us right now.” He put his drink down hard on the table, and the sound of it made her turn back to face him.

  “What will you do?”

  “I don’t know. I just know I’m leaving here.”

  “Now?”

  There was a wistful look in her eyes, as though something she had planned had been thwarted. He knew what that was and he wanted no part of it. “Yes, now,” he said.

  She looked down at her drink and let out a long breath. “Perhaps that’s best. Maybe we can work things out more easily away from each other.” She raised her eyes to him. “I hope so, Alex. I love you.”

  Alex didn’t respond, he simply walked toward the bedroom to pack some clothing.

  Antoine replaced the telephone receiver and looked across the room at his bother. “That was Alex,” he said. “He seems to have found his balls again.”

  “He’s left that cheating cow?” Meme asked.

  Antoine nodded. “He asked to use one of our apartments until he can find a suitable place.”

  Meme nodded. “Good,” he said. “But I think your first idea was right.”

  Antoine raised his eyebrows, questioning the statement.

  Meme shrugged. “He should have cut out her heart.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Jim Blount sat in the second row of tables in the crowded sidewalk cafe, pretending to nurse an aperitif and read an evening newspaper. Actually his attention was fixed on the blond man seated with a young woman at the cafe next door. He had spotted the man an hour earlier and had heard him speaking French with the faintest of German accents. It had been there, no doubt about it. If there was one thing he knew, it was European languages and the nuances of how they were spoken by various nationals. He had majored in languages at Princeton, had excelled wildly in them, and the refinements he had gained by a year’s study abroad and, later, in the specialized course at “The Farm”—the DIA’s training center in Virginia—had intensified that expertise. The only doubt he had now was the man’s total lack of furtiveness. He acted as though he hadn’t a care or concern—exactly the way an illegal operating in a foreign country was supposed to act. But he had watched dozens of illegals on training exercises in Washington and New York, and had never seen anyone this good. And this man—this target—was being hunted, and knew—had to know—just how intense that hunt was. If this was Ludwig, he told himself, he was better than good. He was damned near perfect.

  Blount sipped his drink—actually just raised it to his lips and stuck his tongue in it, feigning a sip. So it probably wasn’t Ludwig, but he couldn’t afford to take that chance. It was ten o’clock. Kolshak had broken off their search two hours before and told him to go home and get some sleep. But he had gone back out on his own, something that would send Kolshak up the wall if he knew—and probably Alex Moran as well. But what could they really say? He was on his own time, just out enjoying himself. He certainly couldn’t be dressed down for spotting Ludwig while doing so. A slow smile formed on his lips. And what a coup it would be if this was Ludwig. They had been treating him like a rank amateur, using Kolshak to babysit him, keep him out of harm’s way. It reminded him of that television show he had watched as a kid. The one about the sheriff in a small southern town, burdened with an incompetent deputy, who was allowed to have only one bullet for his gun, and who had to keep that bullet in his shirt pocket. Well, he was no Barney Fife and this wasn’t Mayberry. He was well trained and he could do the job. And fuck them all if they couldn’t understand that.

  The target was laughing now. Wide, even teeth, just like the M.E.’s report had said. Blount could feel his pulse quicken, and he ran one hand through his severely cut blond hair. Too damned short, he told himself. You could pass for a goddamned GI on leave. Got to remember to let it grow.

  Blount feigned another sip of his aperitif. As he returned the still undiminished glass to the table, he caught the eye of a young Frenchwoman seated several tables away. She maintained eye contact for a few seconds, then looked away, her manner appearing uninterested, almost haughty. It was as near an invitation as one would receive in France. Blount’s open midwestern face became even more open with the pleasure he took from it. The woman was dressed almost entirely in black—the favored color of feminine France—save a garish flowered scarf about her neck, and her short black hair and high cheekbones accented a wide mouth that was as sensual as Blount had ever seen.

  “Damn,” he muttered, momentarily wondering if the woman wouldn’t make a wonderful cover for his surveillance. He grinned stupidly at the foolishness of the idea, then glanced back toward her table, hoping to at least once again catch her eye. But it was not to be.

  God, how he loved France, and especially Marseilles. It was such an overpowering place, this, the most polyglot of French cities. All about one, en the streets, in the cafes, came the sounds of myriad languages—Arabic, Turkish, Italian, Vietnamese, Corsican, Farsi, almost any tongue of Europe, Southeast Asia, the Middle East, or north Africa. And with it the faces of the flotsam of those countries, struggling for something that could never be found at home. It virtually teemed with life and struggle and villainy, a place where the criminal element—in its quarters of the city—ruled without challenge and where life could prove as cheap as a few francs.

  His first week in the city had been spent in a small old hotel on the Vieux Port, in a room with a balcony overlooking the ragtag fishing fleet that struggled in shortly before dawn each morning, the captains unloading their catches to waiting wives and children, who manned makeshift stalls from which the fish would be sold, while the men retired to the cafes along the quay to exchange the gossip of fishing and other matters of interest.

  It was a place that literally burst with activity throughout the night, never finding the few quiet hours that even cities like New York and Paris and Amsterdam offered to those who lived there. Marseilles, he thought, was like life itself, a dirty, brawling, unruly creature with a heart that never stopped beating.

  Blount started, nearly jumping in his chair, then caught himself. The target was up and moving, the woman he was with laughing at his side. Blount fumbled with his drink. Forgetting himself, he raised it to his lips and gulped it half down.

  Damn. Stay calm … quiet … natural. Treat it like a training exercise. He rose slowly, tucked his newspaper under his arm, and wandered out onto the sidewalk, where a steady flow of people still offered the comfort of concealment. He began to relax as the training took over, the nervousness fading back below the surface. Ludwig was about thirty yards ahead, walking casually, seeming to concentrate on the woman who clung to his arm. But Blount knew he would soon stop, at a shop window, or corner, or any object that seemed natural, to pause and admire. Then he would look back and lightly scan the faces behind him, searching for any eye contact, taking in the color of clothing that he might see again and again on future checks. Blount readied himself, dropping farther back, doubling the distance between them. He knew it was impossible for one man to run a close tail, had been taught it took a minimum of three, even four to do it properly—each man dropping out at regular intervals, at least one following the target from the front—rotating regularly, never presenting the same face, the same clothing that always marked a tail. Better to stay back and risk losing the target. Always better to lose him than be spotted. Always.

  The
target walked on, seemingly casual and unconcerned, with Blount following—sixty to seventy yards behind—barely keeping him in sight, his mind repeatedly replaying the lectures on street craft that had been drummed into him at The Farm. But most important, he knew that when the target stopped to scan the street behind him, he had to force himself to continue walking, not stop, or turn away, or step into a doorway to avoid being seen—the natural reactions of someone wanting to avoid detection and the very things that would draw an experienced eye.

  Alex placed the last of his shirts in the dresser and slowly slid the drawer shut, then turned, gathered his suitcase from the bed, and stowed it in the bedroom closet.

  He glanced around the sizable bedroom, surprised, at how little it took to make a person self-sufficient. No more, really, than what would be needed for an extended trip. The rest, he told himself, were creature comforts that could come—or not—in time. He caught his reflection in the dresser mirror. Perhaps. And perhaps not. Old Antoine had told him everything could be replaced except his honor, his self-respect. All the creature comforts, the money, the possessions. Yes, even the people. He offered his reflection a grim smile. The reflection offered it back. If that was all true, then why did he feel so miserable? Time, he told himself. Time solves that part.

  Promise?

  Yeah, I promise.

  Alex walked into the oversized living room, stopping before the large picture window that looked out across the Vieux Port to the old city, where so much of Marseilles’s history, and its poor, resided. He turned back, allowing his eyes to roam the well-appointed room. He knew what the apartment was—one of several the Pisanis kept to accommodate visiting gang lords of the drug trade—a place for those who had come to Marseilles surreptitiously, and who wished to avoid the public exposure of a hotel. He snorted at the idea that his marital problems might inconvenience some visiting American mafioso. He dropped into an overstuffed chair near the window. But it won’t be for long, he told himself. Just until you can find something suitable for yourself. Or, until … He pushed the thought away.