Corsican Honor

by William Heffernan

  “You know what happened between them before she was killed?” Antoine asked.

  Moran nodded, his lips pinched together with distaste. “It all came out in the investigation the DIA did after her death. This man at the consulate—Morganthau—didn’t know what a pile of shit he was falling into by not keeping his trousers zipped. He’ll find himself posted to Cameroon or some other godforsaken hellhole.”

  Antoine noted the man’s name for the future. “It should be worse for him,” he said.

  “Yes, it should,” Moran said. The anger in his eyes was a clear message.

  Antoine wondered if the woman’s affair with this Morganthau angered Piers because of the pain it had brought his son, or because it had produced a scandal and gossip he found distasteful. With Piers it was difficult to tell.

  “What does the CIA want from us?” Meme asked. He too had been watching Moran, and now wanted to cut to the quick of the matter.

  Moran drew a breath and sat back in his chair. He folded his hands on one crossed knee. “They want you to withdraw your protection and allow them to take Alex. They assure me they will take him alive, and that he will be forced out of the service, forced to retire.”

  “He will never agree,” Meme said, his voice soft. His eyes suddenly hardened, taking on the glare that had so frightened so many people over the years. “And I will not agree to remove our protection.” He turned his eyes on Moran. “I am surprised you would suggest it.”

  “There is not a great deal of choice,” Moran said. “This could cost you a great deal, and no one wants that. There is great interest in your continued success. You know that.”

  “Our success will continue no matter what the Americans think,” Meme said. He had looked away and was staring into the unlighted fireplace. “Even if it was not Alex we were talking about,” he continued, “we could never allow anyone to come into our village, our home”—he almost shouted the final word—“and take someone we had pledged our honor to protect.”

  “But it would be with your permission.”

  “Such permission would never be given, except out of great weakness. And the Pisani faction must never be seen to act out of weakness.” He looked back at Moran, his eyes still black and cold.

  Moran turned to Antoine, hoping he might find an ally there. “Alex would fight no matter who came for him,” Antoine said. He shrugged. “No matter what they tell you, they will have to kill him.” Antoine shook his head. “And no one takes a life that we protect. And never in Cervione.”

  Moran pursed his lips and raised one hand to his tie, straightening it. “There seems no alternative,” he said.

  “There is,” Meme said.

  “And what is that?” A hint of annoyance had crept into Moran’s voice.

  Meme pressed his palms together and gestured with them. “You must promise Alex an alternative, and you must get the CIA to agree.” Moran began to speak, but Meme’s hands cut him off. “Even if the alternative is never acted upon.” He waited, allowing comprehension to register in Moran’s eyes. “And you must convince the Russians to help you. That will be the difficult part.” He shook his head. “I am afraid they will never agree to let him stay in Europe. And we shall miss him.”

  Moran was annoyed by the wistful digression. “And how am I to convince the Russians to help? What can I offer them that they might accept?”

  Meme’s eyes narrowed, but with cunning this time. “You will only need the help of a few Russians. And you know what you can offer them. These Russians are greedy like all men.” His face broke into a rare, if fleeting, smile. “Whatever is decided upon in Moscow, the recommendations will come from the Russians who are here. They only need a reason to make those recommendations favorable.”

  Moran stared down at the shoe of his crossed leg. It was rocking nervously. “I will suggest it,” he said.

  “Do more than suggest it,” Meme said.

  The meeting was set in Geneva, in the same room that had been used a week earlier. The Americans arrived first—Walter Hennesey and Piers Moran. This time the DIA had been excluded. They were not even aware the meeting was taking place.

  The Russians had also changed players. The GRU had been left behind. Instead, Rostoff was accompanied by Sergei Bugayev. No less than the injured party himself, Moran thought, as the two men entered and seated themselves across the long, polished table.

  Moran knew Rostoff, had dealt directly with him in the past. And he knew enough about Bugayev to feel comfortable dealing with him. He had read the man’s file, observed the results of his work, ferreted out his secrets. Until his retirement five years before, Moran had held the post now occupied by Hennesey. It had simply been his job to know those things.

  “It is good to see you again, Boris,” Moran began. “Although I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”

  The Russian nodded, then cocked his head to one side. “I was surprised to hear you would be here. Have you ended your retirement?”

  Moran forced a smile, tried to move it to his eyes and failed. The man places a sanction on your son and then expresses surprise you’re here. “I have a vested interest,” Moran said.

  The Russian nodded again. “But we are not here to discuss vested interests,” he said. He gestured toward Bugayev. “Bugayev here also has a vested interest. But we are not discussing that either. We are discussing an agreement that has been broken. And we wish to know what you intend to do.”

  “What is it you wish?” Moran asked.

  “We want the Corsicans to remove their protection of your son so appropriate action can be taken.”

  Moran felt every muscle in his body tighten, and he fought to keep it from his face. He despised these Russian bastards. They spoke about killing a man’s son, straight to his face, just as if they were haggling over some trade agreement.

  “The Corsicans won’t do that,” Moran said.

  “Then you must make them.”

  “We are both aware that is not practical.” It was Hennesey this time, and his words were firm, as though he were still commanding a ship at sea.

  “Practical?” Rostoff raised his eyebrows. “I was not aware practicality came into this agreement. I thought the purpose of the agreement was that it was practical.”

  Hennesey ignored him. “Will you trade Ludwig for Alex Moran?”

  “Ludwig is not part of the equation,” Rostoff snapped. “He is not a member of the KGB, or any other intelligence agency serving the Soviet people or its allies.”

  “He works for you, was trained by you, acts under your orders, and with your knowledge and support,” Hennesey said.

  It was Rostoff’s turn to ignore facts. “He is not a member of any intelligence agency and is not subject to our agreement.”

  “Neither are the Corsicans,” Hennesey responded. “Does that mean they can sanction the wife of a Soviet official?”

  Rostoff looked away, then up at the ceiling. “We do not say you cannot hunt Ludwig for what he has done.”

  “But you do not offer your assistance. Nor do you tell us that you will ask the Libyans to withdraw their protection from the man.” Hennesey was leaning forward, forearms on the table: a fighting stance for this type of negotiation.

  “We do not control the Libyans,” Rostoff said. He snorted. “Even the Libyans do not control the Libyans.”

  “And we do not control the Corsicans,” Hennesey countered. “And we are not prepared to enter into a bloodbath that you yourself would not undertake. Because it is simply not practical.”

  Rostoff’s face reddened, and he seemed about to stand and leave.

  “But we can suggest an alternative.” It was Moran again.

  “We have already reached an understanding,” Rostoff said. “If your son will agree to accept dismissal, if he will end this insane hunt, we will remove our sanction. What more do you expect of us?”

  “Only one thing,” Moran said. He paused, gathering himself for his final offer. “Ludwig must disap
pear and he must not be active again in Europe.” Moran raised a hand, begging patience. “You can change his name. You can send him elsewhere. South America might be a choice. You can continue to use him.”

  “To what purpose?” Rostoff asked.

  “I believe we can get Alex to accept disgrace. If for no other reason than the good of the service. But I will never get him to agree to end his hunt for Ludwig.” Moran paused again. “He won’t lie to me. He won’t say he’ll agree and then go out on his own again. But if I promise him it is only a question of time, that he will be given a chance at Ludwig when he reappears at a later date, then he will agree. Ludwig must simply not reappear.”

  “And how am I to get Moscow Center to agree to this?”

  “You simply do it,” Hennesey said. “We both know you, and you alone, direct your assets and approve their use by other agencies.”

  “And what if one day someone in Moscow Center says he wants Ludwig for a particular task?”

  “He will simply be too hot to use in Europe. Whatever. You will find an excuse.”

  Rostoff snorted again. “And what will we get if we agree to this madness?”

  “The Soviet Union? Nothing,” Moran said. “You gentlemen individually? Something very interesting indeed.”

  Moran could see both men stiffen. They knew they were about to be bribed, and it was about to take place in front of each other. That was dangerous ground. Especially if the offer was too good to refuse. Moran knew that it was. But he wanted them to be frightened of each other. He wanted them both to know that if they agreed, then one of them backed away from the plan later, there was someone else who could bring them down. It was the only way the plan could work.

  Rostoff turned and stared Bugayev down. It was a battle of wills, and there was no question who would win. Moran knew that Bugayev had turned a few tricks in the past, and he was certain Rostoff knew it as well. It was something that was expected, and was overlooked. Unless, and until, the man became an enemy. Then it was used to destroy him.

  Rostoff turned back to Hennesey and Moran. “And why would we want to agree to something that will give you power over our heads?” he asked.

  “Because you will have the same power over our heads,” Moran said. He smiled, wondering what Rostoff would think if he knew how he had been forced to threaten Hennesey to get him to agree.

  Rostoff’s eyebrows rose again. “Tell us about this offer,” he said.

  Moran smiled. “We have something of value we want to share with you,” he began.

  CHAPTER

  18

  Michelle knelt on the stone floor, her hands clasped at her waist, her head bowed and covered by a scarf. She was kneeling in the tiny Romanesque Chapel of St. Christine in the Valle di Campoloro, which was located a few hundred meters below Cervione and reached by a narrow footpath cut like stairs into the mountainside. It took twenty minutes to navigate the narrow, steep steps, and thirty-five more to make the ascent back to her village, but Michelle came there often, at times when she was sad, or lonely, or frightened by what the future might hold, or when she simply needed to be alone with her God in a place that offered comfort and safety and solitude.

  The chapel was a modest whitewashed building almost lost in a wilderness of flowers, and adjoining the ruins of an old Roman water mill. It was a place easily overlooked as quaint and curious, but not worthy of the rugged, tiring climb required to reach it. But inside it was something rich and unique, with twin, semi-domed, vaulted apses, each covered with delicate, pale frescoes dating back to the fifteenth century.

  Michelle allowed her eyes to roam the cracked, faded paintings—scenes of Christ majestically enthroned, and of the Annunciation and Crucifixion—and she prayed for Alex’s deliverance from “the men who would kill him, and for the soul of his wife, whose name she didn’t even know. She had thought to pray for his success in finding and killing the monster he would soon hunt. But it had seemed wrong to do so, an offense against God in His own house.

  When she had finished praying, she rose and turned in a slow circle, as if looking at this special place a final time. There were no benches, no pews, just the floor of cut, square stones, and as she started for the small arched door, her footsteps echoed through the chapel as though bidding it farewell.

  Outside, the warm late morning sun caressed her face, her body. She was dressed modestly in a skirt and blouse, and as she removed her scarf, she revealed hair that had been tied back in a single long, flowing braid. It seemed to emphasize the delicate, soft lines of her face, the fine, almost fragile curve of her jaw. She stepped forward into a sea of flowers, bent, and began gathering a bouquet to take back for her mother’s table. She saw Alex only at meals now, and they were precious times for her, times she knew would soon be over and would never come to her again.

  A small tear formed at the edge of her eye, and moved slowly down her cheek. Just keep him alive, she thought. Sweet God, don’t let them kill him.

  Alex sat in his room, the small table he hunched over covered with maps and reports he had removed from his office before fleeing Marseilles. It had been a comic adventure, stealing into his own office, talking his way past the young trainee on lone duty for the night, waiting for the young man to find his balls and challenge a superior who might end his career with a single telephone call, or at least call someone to find out what in hell he should do. But none of it had happened, all the wasted sweat notwithstanding, and he had waltzed out of the office with a bag full of documents that would help him reach Ludwig, possibly with breath still in his lungs.

  His eyes burned into a map of North Africa. The men who awaited him, he thought, would expect him to arrive in Libya itself, perhaps directly in Tripoli by plane or boat, or somewhere to the west near Benghazi. But he would land instead south of Tunis, a favorite of Corsican smugglers who plied their trade throughout the Tunisian coast and knew every harbor and crevice that could be safely breached. They would drop him there, as close to the Libyan border as seemed safe, and he would then make his way along the several hundred miles of coastline by the least conspicuous means he could find.

  He replaced the map with another of Tripoli and its environs. The Libyans were known to have a resort to the west of the city, where visiting terrorists were believed to be entertained. There was also a training camp to the south, where these “dignitaries” were allowed to hone their skills, or offer counsel to those being readied to join the myriad terrorist factions—the IRA, Baader-Meinhof, the Red Brigade, or any number of names and collective letters that all spelled mindless and indiscriminate destruction and death.

  He had often postulated, in his mind, a day when victim nations of the world would sicken of the killing and band together and raid these camps and destroy the destroyers. But, of course, it would never happen. Politicians lacked the will, and some savored the occasional indirect advantage the terrorists provided, while others feared their own safety might be jeopardized. And the world was ruled by politicians.

  He pushed the maps away, submitting to his fears that Ludwig might already have been warned and spirited away to safer terrain. But he would find out where and follow. Sooner or later he would catch up with him and kill him or …

  Sounds from the kitchen drove the thought away, and he pushed himself from the table and made his way into the hall. Juliet stood chattering excitedly at the door, and he could see Michelle busying herself at the sink, eyes lowered, waiting to be addressed before she turned.

  Standing in the doorway was Antoine Pisani, his massive bulk obscuring all but the surrounding frame, his eyes warm on the woman, his face creased with a smile.

  He looked up and saw Alex, the smile broadening, then he stepped into the apartment and to one side, revealing Alex’s father standing to his rear, dressed in a suit and tie, and carrying a briefcase like a man on his way to the office, not one visiting his outlaw son.

  Alex came forward and embraced Piers, receiving strong pats on the back in lieu of th
e kiss Antoine would have provided.

  Piers took his arm in one hand and stepped back, holding him a short distance away. “You look well,” he said. “Far better than I expected.” His eyes drifted to Juliet, then to Michelle, who had turned now to watch the reunion. He smiled, keeping his eyes on them as he spoke. “These lovely women have done well by you. Very well indeed.”

  Alex made the introductions, then turned and embraced Antoine, receiving the kiss he wished his father had offered.

  Antoine gestured them all to the kitchen table, then smiled imploringly at the women, who immediately and discreetly left the room. Piers followed them with his eyes, then looked at Antoine for reassurance.

  “Anything they hear will go to their graves with them,” he said. “We are safe here.”

  Piers leaned forward and grasped Alex’s forearm. “I’m sorry about Stephanie,” he said. “Your mother and I felt very strongly about her, and I shall help you see that the bastard pays for what he has done.”

  Alex’s eyes brightened and his pulse began to race. He had not expected this. Help from his father, help from the CIA legend who still regularly lunched at Langley, who was still consulted on decisions that touched his area of expertise, even now, five years after he had left them. Then the euphoria crashed with his father’s next words.

  “But not now, Alex. Not now.”

  “Why?” Alex’s voice was almost a croak. His throat was dry, and he felt—absurdly—as though he might cry.

  “They’re there waiting for you. Antoine and his people can get you away from here. They can probably get you past the CIA and DIA people who have been forced to join the Russians in the hunt.” He shook his head. “But you knew that would happen. You knew the agreement they would be forced to live up to.” He tightened his grip on Alex’s arm. “But in Libya the net will be too tight. No matter how good you are—and I don’t doubt your abilities—you’ll never get within shooting distance of the bastard. And I know you want to be even closer than that.” Piers released his arm and began slapping his palm lightly on the table. “I’m not even certain the Ruskies haven’t already moved him. I’d be flabbergasted if they hadn’t. If he were my asset I’d have him stashed away in an apartment in Minsk, surrounded by a company of KGB guards. It would be too great an embarrassment if a single rogue agent were able to track him down and kill him.”