The Corsican (53 page)

Peter looked up from the map at the four MPs dressed in combat gear. “We're going to have to move to the tunnel entrance and just go,” he said. “As soon as we're spotted the word will go out and the whole district will know.”

“Like a white cop in Harlem,” a black MP agreed.

Peter ignored him. “So we'll hit the hole and go. Wallace and Brody will fan the troops out after we're in.” He paused to look at one of the men. “You don't seem worried. Why?”

“'Cause I've done this number before, and we're not gonna find anything,” he said. “Unless you call some old VC delivery boy something.”

You may be surprised this time, Peter thought.

The tunnel entrance was in the rear of a gutted building in a onetime shopping district that had been ravaged by street fighting. Outside, it looked like something that had been plucked from the slum of an American city, battered and beaten, waiting for an excuse to fall down. Inside, it had the smell of an open sewer, and from the crumbling staircase Peter could make out the shining eyes of rats watching him and the four men who trailed behind.

“Reminds me of home,” one MP whispered. “Only it smells worse. Some Chinaman's been eating Szechwan and dumping in here.”

Peter glanced over his shoulder, silencing him. He could see the tension in the men's eyes, and understood the need for humor to relieve it. But now he needed quiet. He raised his hand. “The tunnel entrance should be in the wall in the next room,” he said. He looked at the older MP, who had insisted they would find nothing. “You wanna go first, I guess?”

“Fuck that, sir,” the man snapped. “You wear the silver railroad tracks on your collar and get the extra money. I follow you.”

“That's what I like. Loyal troops.” He looked the other three men over. They too carried M-16 rifles and sidearms, none of which would be very useful in the tunnel. It would be necessary to make their way down and hit the inner chamber in force. Any noise before then and whoever was there would have a deadly field of fire.

“Okay. We move in quietly.
Quietly
. We stay close to the walls, one man to one side, the next to the other, fairly close interval. We have to hit that chamber with force. Watch the ground for wires. We've been told there are no booby traps. But that could be bullshit, so keep your eyes open. The tunnel's supposed to be lit with Coleman lanterns every thirty yards or so, but they don't give off much light down there, so keep watch.”

One hundred yards down from the building. Po had watched the assault team enter. It was time for him to move, to reach Molly and warn her that what she feared was about to happen. He would have to move slowly, he knew. Other Americans would be in the area waiting for the raiding party to flush the quarry. But there was time. Molly would be ready to act when necessary, if necessary. He hoped secretly the whole matter would be resolved before then.

Sweating stone stairs led down into the tunnel. It was cooler than aboveground, and the smell of rot and feces was less noticeable, overcome now by the claustrophobic closeness of the narrow, dark tunnel. One hundred feet ahead a Coleman lantern sent out a dim, eerie glow, as most of the light was swallowed by the black earthen walls. At the bottom of the stairs the five men crouched and listened. Far ahead, muted voices could barely be heard. The raiding party formed their intervals and began inching along the walls. Across the narrow tunnel Peter could barely make out silhouettes of his men. He moved slowly, back against the wall, his left foot forward, his boot gently feeling for any wires that lay in his path. They passed the first lantern crouching low to the ground to avoid detection by anyone farther along the tunnel. Peter could feel the sweat rolling down his arms and neck, and beneath his steel helmet. One false sound, one grenade tossed among them … he forced the thought from his mind. Damn you, Francesco, he told himself. Past the first light they moved in almost complete darkness again. Above, water dripped from the ceiling, filtering down from somewhere above. He looked toward the water. Something dark seemed to sway just beyond it. A wire, some warning system. Peter reached out for it, then stiffened and pulled back.

“Snake,” he whispered, pointing at the twisting body.

Peter's mind clouded with the word, not wanting to realize there would be more. It was a VC trick he had learned of during his training. His body tensed; his eyes scanned the tunnel in front of them.

He pulled one man closer, speaking so softly he could barely hear the words himself. “Snakes tied to wire inside holes. Drop down and strike. Have to stay low. Low. Two-step Charlie. Pass it back.”

A cold shiver ran along Peter's neck. He crouched lower, twisting his head to see above. The shadow twisted slowly, then seemed to pull back, then lower itself. It hung two feet down into the tunnel. The tunnel was less than six feet high, and already they had been forced to crouch slightly while moving through. His mind told him he would have walked face first into the venomous mouth of the krait. Francesco had killed his father with a snake, and now had nearly repeated that success.

His body tensed at the idea; the perspiration intensified and again his body loosed an uncontrolled shiver. He looked back at the other men and gestured with his hand for them to drop to all fours. He jabbed a finger toward the tunnel ceiling, then back to the floor, making sure each understood. The krait, he knew, though sluggish and shy, could inject a poison five times the lethal dose for a man. If abused or oppressed it would strike out again and again.

They moved forward again, struggling to stay near the wall, to grab what cover they could if incoming fire erupted. Ahead the voices seemed to rise in intensity, then fall into hushed whispers again, the words, the sound itself, swallowed by the long, dark oppressive walls.

They passed another lantern, the dull yellow glow itself swallowed within moments, the black again reasserting itself after a few yards. Peter could feel the sweat pouring from his body now, moving in rivulets along his arms, legs, chest and back, dripping from his face onto the hard-packed dirt. He paused to wipe his palms on his combat fatigues, feeling the wet from within already pressing out through the lightweight fabric. The M-16 seemed to slide in his hand as he grasped it again and struggled forward. They were only fifty feet from the chamber now, and the voices had become more steady, but were still indistinguishable. He inched along the ground, the others close behind, each moving so silently he had to glance over his shoulder to be sure they were still there. A figure was silhouetted in the opening to the chamber, someone small, slender, gesturing with one hand. The figure turned, then seemed to jump straight back, and Peter heard the shouted words echo toward him in flat tonal Vietnamese, translating immediately in his mind. “They come, they come.”

He jumped up, still crouching, still aware of the danger above, leveled his rifle toward the chamber, and opened fire in a rotating arc that sprayed a steady stream into the chamber entrance ahead.

“Move,” Peter snapped to the others, rushing forward, keeping the automatic fire spewing out in short bursts. A shadow moved into the tunnel entrance, then spun away. The chamber was twenty feet ahead now, and he could hear the clatter of movement, the frantic rush to escape. “Move, they're running,” he shouted, the report of his rifle devouring his words, the flash from the barrel obscuring his vision.

He hit the chamber entrance and flattened against the tunnel wall. Bodies darted away, toward another tunnel. He raised the rifle, then hesitated. A flash of long black hair, and a green
ao dai
flashed in and out of view. He caught himself and fired again. Too late. They were in the tunnel.

He jumped forward into the chamber. Two Vietnamese lay on the ground, one dead, the other badly wounded in the chest, squirming in pain. The others rushed in behind.

“You three,” he snapped at the MPs, “the other tunnel. Get them.”

He stood over the wounded man, his rifle leveled at his head. One of the MPs knelt beside him and patted him down for weapons. He looked back at Peter. “Cao?” he asked, not believing the words himself.

Peter shook his head, his voice coming in short, fast gasps. He continued to stare at the man, the blood bubbling from several wounds in his chest. He was small, almost like a young boy, only his face showed the age of a mature man, and now it was distorted in pain.

“Cao,” the MP snapped at the man, repeating it again when it produced no response. The man lifted his head and tried to spit, then fell back shuddering, his sallow face turning a pale gray.

“He's just about had it,” the MP said.

Peter nodded and turned away. Behind him he saw a field table and chair. There were papers on the table, and next to them, in an ashtray, a cigarette burned in a carved bone cigarette holder. Slowly, he walked to the desk, and looked through the papers. The odor hit him almost at once, overcoming even the smell of cordite and powder that filled the chamber. Peter fell back into the chair behind the table and stared at the burning cigarette.

“He's dead,” the MP said. “Sir? I said, this one's dead.”

Peter nodded. “He's not Cao,” Peter said.

The MP looked up at him. Peter's eyes were dazed, distant. “How you know that?” he asked.

Peter stared past him, and shook his head.

It was 2100 when he returned to his hotel room. Lin was not there. There was a note on the table.
I waited, darling, then went home. Call me
. He dropped the note on the table, walked to the bathroom, stripping off his fatigues as he went, and climbed into the shower. The water beat down on his head, his face turned away from the force of the flow. Peter's eyes were blank, staring at the wall of the shower.

He dressed slowly, then placed the wallet holster in his pocket. Outside the hotel he caught a Bluebird taxi, handing the driver the excessive fee asked, then settling back, watching the city flash past the window.

The gate was unlocked when he arrived, the guards gone. He opened the front door of the house and entered. She was seated in the large, formal room where they had first met. She saw him and stood abruptly, dressed in a white blouse and western slacks.

“Peter,” she said. She stood, staring at him, her expression uncertain.

“Where are the guards?” he asked.

“My father-in-law is out of town,” Lin said. “The guards went with him. They no longer protect the house when he is away.”

“You left the door open,” he said.

“I had hoped you might come,” she said. She smiled softly, then turned and sat back on the large sofa. “You look tired,” she added.

He stood staring at her. The empty room was cavernous, and her voice seemed to echo off the walls. “Why didn't you tell me?” he asked.

He watched her hand slip down along the side of the sofa cushion, then withdraw, holding a small blue-black automatic. She smiled at him. “That would have been very foolish of me, wouldn't it?”

He shifted his weight, and watched as she raised the gun with his movement. She stood and smiled again.

“How do you know I didn't bring people with me?” he asked.

She laughed, her voice harsh and cold. “You were followed from the tunnel, Peter dear. If you had come in force I would have been warned and you would not have found me here.”

“Perhaps I've already told others about you,” he said.

She laughed again. “Then they would have made you come in force.”

Peter stared at the carpet, then back into her eyes. “It wouldn't have mattered to me if you told me,” he said. “Things could have been arranged.”

“Oh, I'm sure they could. Your grandfather no doubt would have hidden me away.” She walked in a slow semicircle, keeping her distance from him. “But you see, you would have been no use to me then. You certainly didn't believe I wanted to live my life as your concubine.” She stared at him, her eyes widening, then she began to laugh. “Did you really think I might give up what I believed in for you? You're such a fool.”

Peter's stony silence filled the room like a scream. Lin stepped back, then smiled again. “Did you recognize me?” she asked. “You must have. You must have seen me as I escaped.”

He shook his head. “Just a woman. I couldn't tell who she was.”

Her face grew angry. “How then?” she snapped.

“Your driver. He was killed, and I recognized him. And your perfume. The area around the desk gave off a faint hint of lotus. It's somewhat expensive, common only among the upper class here. Then the cigarette holder. I'd seen it before. The carved bone is unusual. And, of course, all the subtle questions you asked over the past weeks.” He smiled at her without warmth. “It all became very clear.”

“And still you were foolish enough to come alone. Did you come to kill me or capture me, Peter?”

“I came for someone else. For Francesco Canterina.”

Her face clouded. “What does he have to do with this?”

“He's the one who pointed us toward the tunnel. Also the one who told Colonel Duc.” Peter was enjoying the confused anger in her eyes, but it gave him no true satisfaction. “Not to get you. To get me.”

She shook her head; anger flashed in her eyes. “It seems I'm having difficulty with Corsicans today.”

“Tell me where he is, and I'll leave. No one will know about you.”

She looked at him thoughtfully, weighing the offer, then smiled. “I'm afraid Francesco is still valuable to us. Believe me, I wish he were not. But when his value ends, he will pay dearly for this. As for you, I'm afraid it would be too dangerous to trust you. You didn't think I would, did you?”

“I was hoping you would, but I knew better.”

“Good. At least you're clever enough for that. It should be some satisfaction to your Corsican ego.”

“Did you offer your husband the same satisfaction?”