The Corsican Page 11
Sartene nodded. “Vendettas last a long time among some peoples,” he said. “What about the present?”
Bently drew a deep breath. “That’s where it gets a bit fuzzy. It involves certain diplomatic decisions made by the French, and as you know, diplomats often justify their mistakes with one-sided information.”
Sartene watched Baker twist uncomfortably in his seat, but just nodded for Bently to continue.
The hot breeze crossed the veranda again, hitting Bently like a sauna. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead.
“Lo Bliayao died in 1935, and in the four succeeding years before Ly Foung’s death, the Ly clan virtually pushed the Los into obscurity. It was supposed to have something to do with better management of local tax collection for the French, but I suspect it was more likely a better payoff on opium protection.”
Again Baker twisted uncomfortably in his seat, this time throwing a harsh glance at Bently.
Bently either didn’t notice or didn’t care, Sartene observed. “I’m familiar with the corruptibility of the French,” he said.
Bently returned the comment with a slight grin. “In any event, Ly Foung was made chief of the Keng Khoai district for the French, a job traditionally held by the kaitong of the Lo clan. It’s a position that carries a great deal of power among the Meo, as long as the person holding it is strong enough to enforce his will.
“After Ly Foung got the job, Lo Bliayao’s younger son, Lo Faydang, took control of the clan from an inept older brother, and immediately sought out and got the support of a very important Lao aristocrat, Prince Phetsarath. The prince then interceded on behalf of Faydang with the French, other Lao aristocrats and Ly Foung, and reached a rather clever agreement that when Ly Foung died or became incapacitated, Faydang would take over as district chief of Keng Khoai.”
Bently mopped his face again, then leaned forward as if ready to impart some secret. “The French went back on their word, of course, when Ly Foung died in 1939, and gave the post to Touby. Both Touby and Faydang had been prepared to present themselves to an assembly of Keng Khoai village headmen for election to the job—a mere formality, really. But the French suddenly announced that Faydang was barred from the election, without giving any explanation.”
“What were the reasons?” Sartene asked.
Bently smiled, sure that Sartene already knew the answer. “We believe the French decided they wanted someone of proven loyalty who would guarantee the opium harvest to them and keep the amount diverted to smugglers at a minimum. Faydang, it seems, has strong ties with the Lao nationalist movement, the Pathet Lao. He was actually pushed into their hands by the French. And so was Prince Phetsarath. The French believed they would divert much of the opium to the communists who run the movement. Personally, I think Faydang could have been brought back into the fold if he hadn’t been stabbed in the back that way. But that’s really moot. There’s no question he’s vying with Touby for control of opium in the region now, and will divert everything he can get to the Pathet-Lao. And he’s very strong among the hill people of the region.”
Sartene stared silently toward the river for several moments, then nodded to himself. “To what degree can the French be expected to satisfy our needs in taking care of this problem?” he asked at length.
“Completely,” Baker said, his voice exuding confidence.
Bently glanced at him, then lowered his eyes. “We feel we can pressure them and keep pressuring them to live up to any commitments given. But we also understand that you too have influence there that would have to be applied as well. They’re up to their asses right now, trying to keep the Pathet Lao in line, and they’re spread pretty thin in doing it. I think they’d welcome any help in resolving this problem. As far as their keeping their word afterward, I think we’d both have to keep the pressure on to ensure that.”
Sartene studied Bently’s eyes closely. He was pleased with his honesty, and the answer to his question did not surprise him. He had already been aware of the realities of the situation
“I think I can find a way to ensure that,” he said. “But I have one more concern.” He waited, allowing the curiosity of both men to peak. “When the French are driven out there will be a void here that your government will undoubtedly be forced to fill, unless the area is to be surrendered, in which case everything becomes academic. I believe your government will find it impossible to abandon the region, because of your past problems in the Pacific. What I want is your guarantee that when that happens, you will live up to our arrangement.”
Baker blustered forth immediately. “I assure you,” he said, “the French have no intention of giving up Southeast Asia.”
Sartene looked at him coldly. “I’m sure they don’t,” he said. “But it will happen anyway, and I will require those assurances.”
“Monsieur Sartene,” Baker said, offering his most indulgent smile, “the French forces here are quite capable of keeping this rabble in line. General de Gaulle certainly has no intention—”
“Monsieur Baker. The French have not been able to accomplish anything militarily in many years.” Sartene had cut him short, both with his words and a piercing, almost malevolent stare. “General de Gaulle is a man who ran a make-believe army from the safety of Great Britain during the last war. He is a politician who makes political decisions, not military ones. So please don’t tell me about his intentions. Either you give this assurance to me, along with Colonel Bently’s later confirmation that documents stating the fact have been filed with your government, or we can end our discussion now.”
“You have it,” Bently said. He turned to Baker. “Malcolm?”
Baker stuttered, then caught hold of himself. “Well, of course. If that’s what you require. I see no problem.”
“Good,” Sartene said, pausing and looking both men in the eyes. “I assure you, gentlemen, I have the ability to know if those documents exist or not.”
Bently smiled. “I don’t doubt it one bit, sir.”
Sartene stood abruptly and smiled coldly at Baker, gesturing, as he did, toward Benito. “Since you have such great interest in my house and my agricultural plans,” he said, “Benito will give you a tour of what we are doing here, while Colonel Bently and I discuss details of this matter with my son, Jean.”
Baker rose, confused. “Well, thank you, I, uh …”
“Don’t thank me at all,” Sartene said. “It’s my pleasure.”
He turned abruptly and walked into the house with Bently behind him. As they entered the hall that led to the front of the house, Sartene glanced at Bently and smiled. “I thought a nice walk in the jungle would be good for him,” he said.
Bently stifled his laughter. “He’ll love it, sir,” he said.
They returned to the veranda through the front door, on the opposite side of the house. There Jean waited with Auguste, his hard flat features and muscular frame a sharp contrast to the older man’s almost frail body and cagy eyes. The comparison struck Bently immediately, and he wondered if their ways of conducting business, this business, would be equally different.
Introductions not being necessary, Sartene simply gestured to his son and explained that he, with the help and guidance of Auguste, would deal with the problem of the Meo.
They took chairs, arranged in a semicircle on the veranda, Sartene flanked by his son and Auguste, Bently to Jean’s right.
Sartene’s face was solemn, almost as though he questioned the wisdom of what he was about to say. Auguste noticed his change in demeanor and wondered if it was due to his lingering doubts about the opium business they were about to enter. He saw that Bently appeared to notice as well.
“We will take three steps at first,” Sartene said to Bently. “Each is needed to take a firm grasp on the situation, and in each, to a small degree, we’re going to need your assistance.”
Bently nodded but remained silent. Sartene opened his hands and held them at his sides, palms up, in an almost saintly gesture.
“That’s true,” Bently said.
“I will need to know if he is there now, and how many men he has guarding him.”
“Our information is that he’s always there this time of year and usually has between twelve and fifteen men, including servants, at the house. But I can reconfirm that within twenty-four hours and keep a running surveillance on the house.”
“Good,” Sartene said. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers in front of his lips, gesturing with them by moving his wrists as he spoke. “The second thing I’ll need is a commission in the colonial French army for Touby Lyfoung, and I’ll need you to present it to him. He’s an egotistical man, and I think since you are a colonel, we should make him a colonel as well. Within the next two weeks my son will visit him, and I would like you to go with him when he does so. While you’re there an action will also be taken against this man Faydang, and while you won’t have to be personally involved in that, I’d like you to be present in the area when it happens.”
Bently turned uncomfortably in his chair and began stroking his chin absentmindedly, something he did only when worried. “Monsieur Sartene.”
Sartene raised his hand, stopping him. “Please call me Buonaparte. I like informality with people who have close business dealings with me.”
“Buonaparte,” Bently began again, still nervous. “I’m going to have to know a little more detail about this. I’m going to be asked about it, and while I assure you I’ll give out only limited information, I have to be able to cover my own butt.”
“I understand,” Sartene said, pleased again with the man’s honesty. “What I plan is very simple, yet very forceful, and will involve the smallest amount of violence possible.” He smiled at Bently. “No matter what you’ve heard, I’m not a bloodthirsty man. But I’m also a man who knows that force is respected by forceful people.” He extended his hands to his sides again in that saintly gesture. “What I’ll do is very simple. First, a force of my Laotians, led by one of my fellow Corsicans, will attack the home of this Phetsarath. He will not be killed. He’ll be allowed to escape. And being a sensible man, seeing an attack by Laotians, led by a European, I think he will do the wise thing and leave the country. His ancestral home will then be destroyed as a warning not to come back.” Sartene shrugged his shoulders. “It’s unfortunate, but necessary, since Faydang’s power in this country comes largely from this man.
“Next, one of his men will be captured and given a message to take to Faydang. It will be a simple message, suggesting he also leave Laos. Now, the royal capital is about one hundred twenty miles from the Meo country, and the roads there are difficult. So it should take about five days for the message to be received. We will give a week to be sure. Then my son and you will visit Touby Lyfoung, along with the men who raided the prince’s home. Touby will be given his commission, provided an agreement is reached with us, and the following day Faydang’s village will be attacked by Lyfoung’s men, along with those led by my son.”
“Don’t you think Faydang will be forewarned and ready for just such an attack?” Bently asked.
“Of course he will,” Sartene said. “If he’s as clever as I believe he is, he’ll have spies in Touby’s inner circle. He’ll then know of Touby’s commission, which will imply French backing for what is happening. And he’ll know that you’re there, and will assume there is American backing as well. He’ll also know of the prince and of the very similar force in Touby’s village.”
“And so he’ll protect himself against attack?” Bently asked.
Sartene nodded. “But he doesn’t have the men available to meet that type of attack with force. That I already know. So he’ll hide and wait to see what happens. And then, being sensible, he’ll leave and hope to be able to regroup and come back. I don’t want to kill this man Faydang, or this prince. They believe in what they’re doing, and they only fight to get what they think is theirs.”
“And if they come back?” Bently asked.
Sartene shrugged again. “Then we have no choice.”
Bently leaned forward in his chair. The manner in which Sartene talked about general mayhem was chilling, but he could not help admiring how the man’s mind worked, and his somewhat warped—at least to Bently—sense of morality.
“It’s very clever,” he said at length. “The prince and Faydang running with Touby and his supporters at their heels; the military commission; the appearance of an outside force—all of it should make Touby very powerful among his people. And he’ll owe that power to you.”
Sartene smiled for the first time since they had begun talking. “And he’ll know that power will continue only as long as he follows our arrangement.”
Bently sat back in his chair, shaking his head. “I have no problem with it,” he said. “I only wish I’d thought of it.” He paused a moment, his eye catching the movement of two figures walking toward the river. One was a child, small and active. The other was a woman, and although he could not make out her features, the grace with which she moved convinced him she must be quite beautiful. He brought himself quickly back. “Outside of being there and handing over the commission, what role would you like me to play?” he asked.
Sartene too had noticed the movement toward the river and took time to watch his grandson run wildly ahead of his mother. He was concerned the dog was not with him, as it should be. “A very minor one,” he said, looking back at Bently. “I would like you to show a certain respect for my son and an interest in the arrangement they’re seeking. A quiet show of support, nothing more. Any part you want to take in the attack against Faydang is up to you.”
“Will Jean also lead the attack on the prince’s home?”
Sartenc shook his head. “Francesco, whom you’ve met, will do that. It will be very fast, hit-and-run as you Americans like to say, and Francesco’s training as a partisan is well suited for that.” Sartene did not look at his son. He also avoided mentioning his own belief that involving Francesco to some degree was needed to avoid future problems.
Bently noticed Jean’s jaws tighten almost imperceptibly as his father spoke of Francesco. There’s a rift, he thought. Maybe a serious one. “You’ll need transport for your men?” Bently asked Sartene.
“Only to the Meo country. There’s a landing strip at Phong Savan on the Plain of Jars. Lyfoung’s village of Lat Houang is in the valley below. He can provide the transportation to Faydang’s village. We have to let him do something,” Sartene said.
“Do you think it would be better to have a French official deliver the commission? It might seem more authentic.”
“No,” Sartene said. “I don’t want to involve the French any more than necessary. Besides, the Meo aren’t stupid. They recognize real power and they know the French have none.”
“All I’ll need to know is the date, then,” Bently said.
“As soon as you confirm the information about the prince, I can give you that.”
Sartene’s eyes flashed back toward the river, where Madeleine and Pierre now walked. “Come,” he said to Bently. “I’d like you to meet my grandson.” He stood and clapped his hands several times. From the rear of the house the hulking Weimaraner appeared, running full out.
They started down the steps. “We’ll take the dog,” Sartene said to Bently. “It’s a foolish beast, but I bought it because nothing on the ground escapes it. We have many snakes here, some dangerous, and the dog is supposed to be with Pierre, my grandson, when he is out. My daughter-in-law must have forgotten. You see, I’m overprotective of my grandson, and even though I know it’s a weakness, I can’t help myself.”
Bently smiled to himself, pleased to find the man had a weakness.
Madeleine and Pierre were standing on the dock when they reach
ed the river. They were watching the water. Sartene and Bently moved quietly, something each had learned from the war, something they had not forgotten and never would.
Madeleine and Pierre did not hear them until Sartene spoke. As always his voice was soft, a conspirator’s voice, Bently thought, and the sound did not startle them. The dog had remained behind on the shore, obeying a hand signal from Sartene, and upon turning and seeing the gray hulk twisting there anxiously, Pierre ran past the men and began playing with it.
Madeleine smiled, taking the time to study Bently closely. She was as beautiful as he had assumed she would be, long and lithe, yet ample in a pleasing way, and her eyes were a stunning blue, like the child’s. He felt both an immediate admiration and envy toward Sartene’s son.
“Madeleine, I’d like you to meet Monsieur Bently. He’s an official of the American government and is here discussing some business with us,” Sartene said.
She inclined her head in greeting. “I met the other American,” she said.
“This one is different,” Sartene said.
“That’s good, I think,” she said, smiling slightly.
Bently found it difficult to speak to the woman. It made him feel slightly foolish, like a goddam high school kid, he told himself.
“Good day,” he said. It was all he could manage, except for a small smile.
“And this,” Sartene said, turning and gesturing toward Pierre, “this wild man is my grandson, Pierre. Pierre,” he called. “Come meet the gentleman.”