“I wrote,” Alex said. His face hardened. “Europe was forbidden to me.”
Antoine grunted. “We have been surrounded by dunces,” he said. “But tell us. We want to know of your life.”
Alex told them. He ended it with the visit from Cisco, and the training at Bragg, and finally the meeting with Hennesey and his father.
“I need you to help me,” he said. “And I need the use of your men.”
“You don’t trust the help they offer you,” Meme said. It was not a question and was not spoken as one. He watched Alex nod that it was so. “You are wise,” he said. “I do not trust them either, even though we have little choice.”
“Tell me what has happened,” Alex said. They were speaking French as they always had, and the sentence structure of the language—which he had not used much in the intervening years—seemed strangely formal to him. “I have heard their version. Now I need to know yours.”
“Much,” Antoine said. And he explained the war that had been launched against them by Montoya and Ludwig.
“They have been killing our men at will,” Antoine said. He glowered. “We have struck back. But we have not been able to do so with the force that is needed.”
“Why?” Alex asked. “Is the milieu not behind you?”
“It is not the milieu,” Meme said. “Although there are enemies there as well.” He shrugged. “Francisci and some others would like to see us fall. As you know, in the milieu the leader of a faction does not have the authority to choose an heir. If he dies, or loses power, each lieutenant has the right to break away to join another group or start his own faction. So it is in the interests of the other factions for us to fall. They would no longer have to deal with our power, and what we have would be there for the taking.” He offered Alex a face filled with contempt. “But that is a problem we have always faced. It is not what is hurting us. Now it is politics more than anything. We lack the influence we once had there.”
“I don’t understand,” Alex said. “What caused it to disappear?”
“Fate,” Antoine said.
“More than fate,” Meme countered. “Madness as well.”
Alex waited, and Meme drew a long breath, then explained.
“Old Gaston died in 1986, and there was a grasping for the power that had been his for more than thirty years. At first the Socialists could not agree on a candidate, which was to be expected after so many years of Gaston’s iron rule. Robert Vigouroux, a surgeon, stepped in after Gaston died, and wanted to run for a full term as mayor. We were never close to him, so we did not support him.” Meme raised a finger. “But we did not oppose him. We supported no one.” He shrugged. “Then there was Michel Pizet, a longtime activist in the local Socialist organization, and Bernard Tapie, a businessman, who owned a soccer team, and they both wanted to keep the Socialist nomination from Vigouroux.” He waved his hand. “If it had been the milieu, blood would have flowed in the streets, the fight was so bitter.
“Then there was Jean-Claude Gaudin, the neo-Gaullist, and the Communists as well, all seeing a chance to seize City Hall from the Socialists at long last, along with all the political wealth and power it holds.”
He raised a finger again, wagging it. “But it was Jean-Marie Le Pen who turned it all to true madness. The man is a fascist, although he claims he is not, and his National Front Party made the immigrants their battle cry. France for the French. It was shit, but people listened.”
“And Corsicans were suddenly viewed as foreigners,” Antoine added. “Because of the great separatist movement at home on our island.”
“And the others—the Socialists, all of them—were suddenly fearful that association with the milieu would be the kiss of death,” Meme said. He shook his head sadly.
“So we had waited to see who would come out of it strongest. And suddenly no one wanted us. It was as though we were diseased. So we supported no one, and when Vigouroux won, he owed us nothing. And he has given it to us.”
“Then the other madness started,” Antoine said. “Suddenly the people of Marseilles became offended by their image. They did not want to be known as a place of criminals and thieves. They pointed to Paris and the fact that its crime rate was higher than Marseilles.” He beat a hand against his chest. “And who made it that way? We did. It was our power that stopped the fighting within the milieu. We have given them peace, and they give us shit.”
“And now there is this new organization,” Meme said. “They call it: A New Outlook on Marseilles. It is filled with businessmen and doctors and politicians and lawyers, and they even threaten to sue the newspapers if they say anything bad about the city. They even threaten to sue individual citizens who say the city is corrupt.” He raised his hands to the heavens. “My God, they are all mad.” He let his hands fall to his lap. “But we are now like shit on the street. And they are pleased when they hear another Corsican has been murdered. They are delighted. It is the elimination of a plague to them.”
“And the police—the bastards—they have picked up on it,” Antoine said. “And we can count on them for nothing, except to raid our businesses and hound us. And this, after all the money we have paid them all these years.” He waved both hands. “We can survive that. These men could not find their dicks in their own pants. But they do not interfere with our enemies. We do not get the help we once got. And that has left us exposed as we have not been in years.”
“And if we fight back too hard, they will hound us even more,” Meme concluded. “So we have kept the killing outside the city. But we cannot continue it. Not if we want to survive.”
“Don’t they see the danger of the drugs?” Alex asked. “The cocaine and the South Americans, all the killing it has brought with it everywhere it has gone?”
Meme snorted. “They do not want to know about it. Vigouroux visited Panama four years ago, right after Gaston died. He went there, he said, to urge the Panamanians to give a contract to a local company. And then he entertained Noriega here in Marseilles.” He offered a ferret’s smile. “It was before anyone knew about Noriega’s drug business. But now they know, and they are pointing back to it, and all the politicians are hiding. ‘What drugs?’ they are saying. ‘There are no drugs in Marseilles. We have never heard of such a thing.’” He used a high-pitched, little girl’s voice, mocking them. “And when anyone even suggests the Colombians are moving in, they tuck their heads under their arms and make believe they are like little ducks, just sleeping in the sunshine.” He turned and spat into the fireplace, unable to control the need.
“And every time our names come up in the bastard newspapers, they talk about The French Connection,” Antoine snapped. “Shit, that was decades ago. And was anyone ever arrested? Did we spend one day in jail? It is we who should sue.” He forced himself to calm down, then almost smiled. “Except everyone would laugh at us.”
“I am glad to hear I won’t be limited where I work,” Alex said. “But if you think it is better without your men—”
“No, no,” Meme said. “We want to end this. You must kill the bastards where you find them. And our men will help you.”
“Do you know where Ludwig is?”
Antoine snorted. “If I knew, I would be able to take you to his grave and help you piss on it.” His face grew red, angry. “He is like a phantom. We only see him when he kills us. And when we kill his men, others arrive within days.”
“I’ll find him,” Alex said. “I have a need to.”
“And we have someone who will help you,” Meme said. “She has a need as well.”
“She?” Alex questioned.
“It is someone you know,” Meme said. “Her husband was killed by Ludwig.” He shook his head. “He was an accountant, nothing more. He was not truly part of us. He should not have died.” Meme was silent for a moment. As was Antoine. It was as though they couldn’t bring themselves to speak the rest.
“And her son,” Meme finally added. “Only three years old. Blown up in the same car.”
<
br /> “Who is this woman?” Alex asked.
“Michelle Cabarini,” Antoine said. “The young girl you knew as Michelle Sabitini, whose family you lived with in Cervione.” He paused, as though the words left a taste in his mouth. “She works for us now. She manages export sales for our vineyards. And she too has a need to kill Ludwig.”
Michelle arrived after lunch. She entered the study, much the same as Alex had remembered her, only older, more womanly, and with a look of deep sadness about her eyes.
“Hello, Alex,” she said, extending her hand, then thinking better of it and reaching out to embrace him. She felt soft and warm in his arms, and he recalled the beauty and innocence he had come to know in Cervione so many years before. The beauty was still there, even more so, he thought. But there was something hard there as well, and it was something he understood and appreciated.
“I am sorry about your husband and your son,” he said. “Deeply sorry for you.”
“It has been almost a year,” she said. “And the pain is not as strong.”
Alex knew it was a lie, or rather, something she wished to be true.
He stood looking at her. She was exceptionally beautiful, even through the deep sorrow that lay beneath the surface. Perhaps even more so because of it. She was wearing heels now, and was taller than the five foot, seven inches he remembered, and she was wearing a silk business suit that flattered her figure, a far cry from the young woman who had dressed so demurely in Cervione. But the soft brown eyes and the lustrous dark hair were as he remembered them, along with the delicate Mediterranean features that had once tempted him to forget she was little more than a child.
“It’s odd to meet you grown.” He stumbled over the next words. “To see you not … as a child,” he said.
“I was not a child then,” she said, smiling. “And I did not think of you as older, really. But now I know you were. If not in years, then in life. It is a sad truth I have learned.”
“Cervione was a protected place,” Alex said.
“Yes. I should have stayed there. But I was ambitious. The years at the Sorbonne made me so,” She hesitated, looking toward Antoine and Meme, smiling at them. She looked back at Alex. “You remember the great lecture I gave you about the evils of vengeance?” she asked.
He nodded. “I remember. We were in the old graveyard.”
“Then I suppose I was a child,” she said. “Intellectually. And I spoke with all the naivete of a child.” Her eyes were suddenly very hard.
It saddened Alex to see it. But he understood.
They sat before the fireplace talking, the four of them. Several hours passed, and they reviewed in detail every attack Ludwig had made, the methods used, the weapons, the number of men, and how they had been deployed. Antoine and Meme skipped the attack against Michelle’s husband and child. But she added it to the conversation, telling it completely despite the pain it obviously caused.
He learned more of Michelle’s role in the Pisani vineyards. Meme had been modest. She was chief executive of that legal enterprise, although it was clear it had some illegal aspects as well, notably the smuggling of wine out of Corsica in violation of French law. And Alex knew it was unusual for a faction of the milieu to trust a woman with such authority. Chauvinism was deeply rooted and unending. So she had to be a woman of high business acumen. And she had to be someone who would not speak beyond the walls of a Pisani stronghold. And now she had indicated she was ready—no, anxious—to kill a man to avenge her husband and child. He had no doubt she would try. He had not known how Corsican she truly was.
“Michelle can provide you with a believable cover,” Meme said. “She often deals with representatives of foreign vineyards who want to buy cuttings for transplantation.” He waved his hand in a circle. “It is a common thing, and these people often spend considerable time with her. You could be a representative from a vineyard in California. They are common here now.”
Alex nodded. “I’ll use it with the police if necessary.”
The telephone rang, and Antoine moved to get it.
“It would be good to keep your presence hidden from Ludwig as well,” Meme said.
“I am not sure I want that,” Alex said.
Meme stared at him through narrowed eyes, and Alex caught a look of surprise from Michelle as well.
“The telephone. It is for you, Alex.” Antoine too looked surprised, but about the call. It was on a private line few people had, and one only the Pisanis themselves answered. “Someone knows you are here?” he asked, cupping the mouthpiece with his hand to hide his words.
“No one should,” Alex said.
He walked to the telephone. “Yes,” he said.
“It is good to hear your voice again, Alex Moran,” another voice replied.
Alex stood listening as the voice continued.
“Yes, I know,” he said at length. His left eye had narrowed, and his jaw had become tight, the muscles dancing beneath the skin. Several moments passed.
“I will see you soon,” he said, then replaced the receiver.
He turned to face the others. “We don’t have to worry about that other matter,” he said. “That was Ernst Ludwig on the phone.”
CHAPTER
37
The telephone call played out in Alex’s mind. It had done so throughout the night, and had continued into the morning.
“It’s so good to hear your voice again, Alex Moran.” The same sneering contempt, the same overriding superiority, met now only with silence.
“Do you know who this is, Alex?”
“Yes, I know.”
“I thought you would remember me. Recall the sound of my voice. It has been ten years. But I am told people have a tendency not to forget me.” A laugh. Soft but filled with ridicule.
Again silence.
“I remember you very well. And I remember your wife, although for the life of me, I can’t seem to recall her name.” The soft laughter again. “But then, I am like that. I have this difficulty for names.” More soft laughter. “But I never forget what certain individuals do. There my memory is always excellent. Especially if what they do is pleasurable.” Alex could feel him grinning. “Have you brought me a new woman, Alex? It will be so nice if you have.”
Silence from Ludwig now, awaiting some reply.
“I will see you soon.”
“Oh, yes, Alex Moran. Yes, you will.” The final words coming as Alex lowered the receiver.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel, and the traffic ahead became a momentary blur. He was driving to the U.S. consulate in a car the Pisanis had given him. There was another car behind Alex, filled with Pisani men who were shepherding him through the city. His uncles had been concerned that Ludwig had found him the very day he had arrived, had traced him to their home within hours.
It was obvious to Alex that someone had leaked his arrival. The idea that Ludwig might have people watching the airport and that they would be able to identify him from a ten-year-old description was not plausible. Ludwig himself might have, of course. But the man would not expose himself that way. And he was not a watcher. He was a killer, and a director of killers. And his ego would never allow him to take on such a subservient role.
No, Alex told himself. It was possible someone with access to CIA information was helping him. And it meant that someone was helping Montoya. It also meant he would have to be careful dealing with Wheelwright, the CIA station chief he was on his way to see.
Of course, it could have been someone within the Pisani faction. Traitors were not unknown to the milieu. He had mentioned that, as gently as possible, to his uncles, and the idea did not seem to surprise them. It was obviously something they had considered, had been worried about. So they had chosen men to protect him whom they considered beyond suspicion. Alex wondered if anyone truly fitted that category.
And then there was Michelle. Concern had flooded her face when she learned it was Ludwig on the telephone. Then her eyes had glittered with hatre
d and anticipation at the thought it might bring the man to Alex. And therefore to her. He had thought then that the look in her eyes was not dissimilar to that of the boar he had seen so many years ago. The look just before it charged. Pure, naked malevolence. A hatred that could only be satisfied by death. And he had instantly known that Michelle would never betray him, unless it was to bring Ludwig close. And that was a betrayal he would gladly live with.
So there were three people he could trust. His uncles and Michelle. His father flashed to mind, and he instinctively wanted to include him. But he was too removed from the action. He was inconsequential.
Alex left the car in front of the U.S. consulate, and quickly moved to the reception area, getting himself off the street.
The interior of the building hit him at once. It had not changed—not even the furnishings, he thought—since Stephanie had moved through its rooms every day. Stephanie and Morganthau, the secret lovers playing out their clandestine romance. He hated the building, hated being there. It was stupid, absurd, but he knew he would always feel that way. It made him think of his last days with her, his final memories, much as his telephone conversation with Ludwig had. Perhaps if he destroyed Ludwig and the building, he would be able to forget. Perhaps.
Michelle moved about her apartment, dressed only in a short black silk robe. The apartment was on the broad hill that rose on the south side of the city’s center, not far from the Basilica of Notre Dame-de-la-Garde, and it looked down on the distant quaintness of the Vieux Port. But Michelle ignored the view. She ignored everything but her own agitation—and her unsuccessful attempt to control it.
The man was close. For the first time in almost a year, the man who had killed her husband and her little Pierre was coming close. Close enough … She allowed the thought to die, but just barely. Rene and Pierre. How much the thought of them made her ache, tore at her in a way she had never dreamed possible. And Alex would bring the pig who had killed them to her, give her the chance she had sworn to have, even at the cost of her own life.
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