Corsican Honor

by William Heffernan

  Odd, though, he told himself. In any other branch of government service, accepting favors from known gangsters would be cause for scandal. In intelligence, not only would no one look askance, but in reality, no one, not anyone who truly mattered—anyone who could offer any type of threat—would ever even know. He was simply borrowing an apartment from people with whom he normally did business—people he had known since childhood, and considered a part of his extended family, because his father had also been part of the intelligence community. Alex smiled for the first time that day. It was absurd. So delightfully absurd.

  He stared out the window at nothing in particular. But none of it—none of the madness, none of the absurdity, none of anything—changes the reality of your life, does it? And right now you don’t know what that reality is. Is it Stephanie or no Stephanie? You don’t even know that. Oh yeah, you left. You did that. But whether that invisible rope that ties you to her will draw you back or not, now that’s the real question. And do you want to go back, or is it just ego? Just not wanting to have something taken from you? Stephanie. The only real family you have. The one you made for yourself. Alex shook his head. Something you never had in the first place. Shit.

  There was a telephone on the table next to Alex’s chair, and he stared at it at length before finally picking it up. His office answered on the second ring, and he quickly identified himself and gave his new telephone number. There were no questions. Not of the boss. But there would be buzzing about the office tomorrow. Fuck ’em. Let them talk.

  Alex rose from the chair, walked to a built-in bar, and mixed himself a drink. He’d throw himself into his work and keep Stephanie out of mind as much as possible, he told himself. He raised the glass to his lips and found himself wondering what she was doing at that very moment. Was she alone, or had she called someone as soon as he had left? He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, took a long sip of his drink, and walked to the window. Below, a line of cars, their headlights a blur of speed, raced along the Quai de Rive. It was past midnight, and Marseilles looked as though it were just awakening for the day.

  Blount stood deep in the shadow of the alley, staring up at the lighted third-floor window across the street. The target and the woman had entered the building slightly more than two hours ago—the target standing back while the woman opened the downstairs door. It was her apartment, and Blount had waited, knowing he had to follow the target back to his hole before calling in any help. That was the coup, finding the man and his hole, where he could be grabbed without any witnesses, without anyone left behind yelling about American agents kidnapping people on foreign soil.

  Blount glanced at his watch, the radium dial glowing in the dark of the alley. Two A.M. Christ, he hoped he wasn’t sleeping over. Shit, just hope the guy isn’t the woman’s husband, or boyfriend, and you’re not left standing in a Marseilles alley with your dick in your hand.

  Blount stiffened. He wanted to move farther back in the alley—it was instinctive—but he resisted it. The street door of the building had opened and the target had stepped out onto the sidewalk. He was lighting a cigarette. Calm and cool and unconcerned. Probably just had his oil changed and all’s right with the world, Blount told himself.

  He remained quiet, watching the target, his breathing shallow when he breathed at all. He could feel his own heart. He couldn’t hear it, but he could feel it. Damn, this was the real thing. This was no fucking exercise. This bastard, if it was him—oh, yeah, it’s him, dammit, it’s him—he’ll blow you away as soon as sneeze. He pressed his arm against the Walther hanging in a shoulder holster under his left arm, then tried to remember if he had jacked a round into the chamber or left it empty as an added safety. It’s empty, dammit. You left it empty.

  The thought of doing it now flashed through his mind, but he dismissed it. The sound of the slide moving back, then forward again—even if he did it slowly, quietly—would be heard in the dead quiet of the street. He would wait until the target stopped again. Went inside again.

  The man began to move, back the same way he had come with the woman. Blount inched up the alley, peered around the corner, then waited. He’d let the man get to the corner, wait for him to check behind him, then he’d move. Move quickly, catch him in the busier main street, then work the same distant tail again. Damn, don’t lose him now. Not now.

  Back on La Canebière, Blount cut the distance between them to fifty yards, this time running the tail from the opposite side of the wide avenue. It was a risk if the target turned into a side street and his hole was in a building close to the corner. He might be inside and gone before he could be picked up again. But at least he’d know the street and the general location of the hole. It was better than nothing, and he could pick it up tomorrow and still have his coup. Or he could call it in with what he had. No, he’d wait if that happened. He wanted this coup, every bit of it. He’d worked too hard to get it.

  Up ahead, the target stopped in front of a cafe located at the intersection of a narrow side street, and gave a quick scan of the street behind. Blount kept walking, his eyes averted. The target moved inside the outdoor area of the cafe and took a table two rows in. Blount continued down the street, crossed the intersection, and settled himself in another cafe diagonally across from the target. He allowed his eyes to move quickly past the target. He was speaking to a waiter. Damn, his luck was holding. Just keep it coming. Keep it coming just the way it is.

  Blount waited for what seemed like an hour but was only half, and the target was up again and turning into the side street. Blount didn’t move. He watched in near disbelief as the target turned into the narrow side street, moved along it, then entered a building three doors down. That was it, had to be. Christ, he thought. All he had to do was wait now and make sure he didn’t leave again. And he didn’t even have to move.

  Stephanie awoke, slipped on a freshly pressed silk robe, and walked out into the living room. It was the third time she had awakened, and it seemed useless to fight it any longer. She drew a breath and hugged herself, standing in the center of the room, trying to decide where to sit, or if she wanted to sit at all. Her body felt as though it were trembling internally, and her mouth was dry and pasty. She walked to the drinks table and poured herself a glass of red wine from a bottle she had opened earlier, then walked to a chair in front of the wide bank of windows and sat wearily, her body numb, removed from everything.

  The wineglass trembled slightly as she raised it to her lips and sipped the blood red claret. He had left, cleanly and simply, unable to accept this one last bit of madness she had forced on him. Why had she done it? Had she just forced him to take the step she hadn’t the courage to take herself? No, dammit. No. She wasn’t even sure now why she had started the affair in the first place. Oh, what she had told Alex was true enough. There was the neglect, the fact he was never there. And when he was, she felt smothered by his love, by everything he believed her to be. And there was the thrill of it. The excitement of being wanted by someone else, someone she too found appealing. But she was a beautiful woman, and she knew, intellectually, that there were few men she couldn’t have if she made herself available. God, what attractive woman couldn’t? Men were so easy.

  She sipped the wine again, barely tasting it, her hand still trembling. Had he been that irresistible? Had the sex been that different, that overwhelming? She shook her head. No. Be honest. It had just been the thrill of doing something forbidden. Pleasing her ego with the thought that someone was willing to take the same risk just to have her. It swelled her ego, drove away the small fears that she was no longer a young thing who was wanted just by being what she was.

  Don’t even ask yourself if it was worth it. The answer is too brutal, too stark. God, the look on his face when you told him Alex knew. You had wanted him to look strong, relieved even, that it was out in the open. Not that you wanted him to offer to leave his wife, or even to say it didn’t matter, that you could go on just as before. But he didn’t say any of that. All he w
anted to know was if Alex would be difficult about it, if there was going to be trouble. Read: trouble for him. She let out a short, derisive breath. He didn’t even ask if you were all right, or what would happen to you, or had already happened because of it.

  She held the glass in both hands and sipped from it again. The look on Alex’s face, the pain in his eyes, came floating back. Just like you never considered what it would all do to Alex. Oh, yes, you did. You knew what it would do. You just thought you’d get away with it, that he’d never know. Or you were just too damned selfish to really care.

  But you don’t want it to be over. You don’t want Alex to stay away. Then why didn’t you tell him it would never happen again? Why didn’t you tell him it was a stupid mistake, that you were frightened no one else would ever want you? That you had to know that someone else still wanted to take you to their bed, found you desirable, just couldn’t keep from having you.

  Because you didn’t want to sound like a fool. Didn’t want to sound like you were begging to be forgiven. Didn’t want to do all the things you’d want him to do if the situation were reversed. And what do you do now? If you tell him all those things right after he’s left, will he believe you? Would you believe him?

  So you wait and hope it will work out, and then you tell him later. But do you mean it? Deep down, are you sure it won’t happen again? Oh, Christ. Stop it.

  And what if someone comes along while you’re apart, someone who wants him? You’ve certainly made him available, and mentally and physically ready. What would you do if you knew a man like Alex was there for the taking?

  Oh, God. Stop thinking like this. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

  The café had closed more than an hour earlier, but Blount had returned after the waiters and countermen had made their hasty departure. The chairs had been stacked on top of the tables in the outdoor section, and Blount had simply moved back into the deepest recess of the awning-covered area, removed a chair, and continued his watch.

  An hour later, Alex pulled another chair from the table, placed it next to Blount’s, and allowed his gaze to lie long and heavy on the younger man.

  “Tell me why you think it’s Ludwig,” he began without preamble. “And don’t leave out how you happened to be out here when you stumbled across him.”

  Blount told his tale, and Alex had to admire the blatant lie of how Blount happened across this would-be Ludwig. He was pleased to see they were still recruiting people who knew how to cover their asses.

  “Which building?” Alex asked.

  “The side street. Third entry down. Fourth-floor front apartment.”

  Alex just stared at him, allowing that to be his question.

  “The light went on right after he went inside,” Blount explained.

  Alex nodded. Apparently The Farm was still doing its job as well.

  “What do you think?” Blount asked, no longer able to contain his enthusiasm.

  “I think you did a damn fine job,” Alex said, his eyes on the apartment window. “I’m not sure I approve of your methodology, but I can’t complain about the results.” He looked back at the younger man. “It may not be him, but that won’t be your fault.” Alex allowed himself a small smile. “If it is, you may become one of those agents the instructors tell stories about during their ridiculous motivational sessions at The Farm.”

  “They ought to send you back to the fucking Farm.” It was Kolshak, pulling another chair from the table and glaring at Blount. “You trying to get yourself killed, junior?”

  “Okay,” Alex said. “Let’s let it go for now. We’ll yell at him after we figure out whether or not we’ve got Ludwig treed.”

  “Just so long as I can beat him then,” Kolshak said.

  “Hell, if it’s Ludwig, we’ll give him a medal, then we’ll both beat him.”

  Alex glanced at Kolshak, saw the beginnings of a grin flicker, then disappear from his lips, and knew he had the man mollified. Kolshak was a mother hen, pissed that one of her chicks had crossed the road without her. And that was the very reason he had paired him with Blount. But now Ludwig was the focus, the only one that mattered.

  “Tell Kolshak what you told me,” he ordered.

  Blount repeated his tale, including the ass-covering part. Kolshak only rolled his eyes at the effort. “Sounds good,” he said when Blount had finished, but more to Alex than the still woodshed-bound younger agent. “How do you want to do it?”

  Alex turned to Blount. “You sure he didn’t spot you? It’s important.”

  “I’m sure,” Blount said.

  Alex watched his eyes, looking for some hint of doubt, saw none, and turned back to Kolshak, who was studying the building the target had entered.

  “Looks like there’s an alley leading to the back,” Kolshak said, his eyes still on the building.

  “Yeah. We’ll have to have someone cover the back. Then two men in front. One near the entrance and one farther down the block. You know what Marseilles buildings can be like.” Alex was referring to the many buildings in Marseilles connected to one another through their basements, often along the entire length of a block. It was something picked up from the Corsican ghetto, where holes were knocked in basement walls, creating tunnels from one building to the next in a nearly endless network. The Corsicans had used them to escape raids by the police, and others had employed the tactic during the Nazi occupation to provide escape and underground travel routes for the Resistance.

  Kolshak, still thinking like a mother hen who didn’t want her chick off alone, volunteered for the alley.

  “Okay,” Alex said, turning to Blount. “You know what he looks like, so you take the front of the building. I’ll go down the block. You see someone come out at my end who looks like him, you signal me.” He stared hard at the younger man. “But we’re going to call in more people, including some Corsicans who can talk to the concierge. We don’t want to go kicking in any doors and then find out the guy’s lived here the past five years. So, if he comes out, we follow him. Nothing more. We have radios, so we can get our people to wherever he goes. Understood?” Alex didn’t even look at Kolshak. He just waited for Blount’s nod of assent.

  Ludwig stood to the side of the sitting room window and watched the three men deploy separately. The fool who had followed him was on station in a doorway across the street, up slightly from the front of the building toward La Canebière. Another had gone to the back, and the third was somewhere farther down the block. Given the time, and the look about them, it was obvious they were a team.

  And a team with more on the way, Ludwig told himself.

  He moved back away from the window and paced the floor. He was annoyed with himself. He had not spotted the tail until he had stopped at the cafe for a final drink before returning to his hole. But the man had moved too quickly into the cafe across the avenue and had looked once too often in his direction. He hadn’t been certain then, but now he was. He stopped pacing and debated a call to Bugayev. These were Americans. He was sure of it if for no other reason than the hair style of the one across the street. But they might be calling in French police to help them. If so, Bugayev’s people would be useless. No, he must move now, before any others arrived. He must go out the front door and move quickly back to La Canebière, away from the other two. Then he would only have to deal with the one across the street. If they only followed, he would lose them. If not …

  Blount stiffened as the target suddenly appeared on the sidewalk and began walking quickly toward La Canebière. He had been looking the other way, thinking that he would really have to start getting out socially in the evenings, not just use it as an excuse to cover his ass for unauthorized work; try to meet someone who could soothe his long-suffering libido. Someone like the woman the target had met only a few short hours before. But the target’s sudden appearance exploded that daydream with grenade-like force. He glanced toward Alex’s position. He too had seen him and was moving back up the street, his radio to his lips, alerti
ng Kolshak. But he was too far back. To follow him, Blount would have to let him move ahead before stepping into the open, and by that time the bastard would be on La Canebière within easy reach of a taxi, a waiting car, whatever.

  The sonofabitch knew, Blount told himself. Somehow he had been spotted—somehow he had fucked it all up—and now they were losing him, and the goddamned coup he wanted so much was flying right out the window. Shit. There would be no stories at The Farm about super agent Jim Blount.

  Bullshit, Blount told himself as he stepped from the doorway, his right hand going for the Walther under his left arm. He called Ludwig’s name, and at the same moment realized he still hadn’t jacked a round into the chamber of the automatic. His left hand came up to the slide with practiced instinct, as everything seemed to speed up. The target had dropped into a combat shooting crouch, his weapon already out, rising, leveling toward Blount. In his peripheral vision Blount could see Alex running toward them. He would be angry, pissed off at what he had done. Angry. Angry. Angry.

  Blount never heard the slide on his pistol snap forward, chambering a round. Ludwig’s first shot caught him at the base of his throat, blowing out the back of his neck and severing his spinal column. He was already dying when the second shot struck his chest as he fell back into the doorway. Nor did he have time to realize there would be stories told at The Farm about Agent Jim Blount. But they would not be of a kind he would have liked.

  Alex’s gun was out when Ludwig spun and dropped into a shooting stance, but he was running too fast to aim and fire with any hope of hitting anything but an innocent civilian driving through the intersection on La Canebière. He skidded to a halt, still thirty yards away, but before he could level his own pistol the target had already fired twice, and he could see Blount’s body flying back into the darkened doorway.