Corsican Honor Page 4

  “Can you at least tell me why?” he finally asked.

  Stephanie stared at his back. He was standing there in his shirtsleeves, his body silhouetted against the bright sun as it reflected off the water. He wore a fitted shirt that hugged the slim, hard body she had always loved. So different from the man she had chosen to be with. Why? He wants to know why?

  She looked down at the floor, her hair falling forward, surrounding her face like a veil. She snapped her head up, exhaled, then tossed her hair back over her shoulders.

  “I’m not sure I can tell you why,” she said at length. “I’m not sure I can explain it to myself, without making it sound like some cheap bloody excuse.” She straightened her back, then drew another deep breath. “Sometimes,” she began, then stopped. “Sometimes I feel smothered by how much you love me.” She shook her head, sending her hair forward again, then tossed it back. “And sometimes I feel you don’t even know I exist. You become so involved in your work, in all the things going on in your head. You don’t even seem to know I’m here. Oh, I know you love me. And I know you try so hard to make me happy. But you seem to have this pre-set image of me, this pat idea of what I am, of what I need.” She drew a long breath that seemed to catch in her throat. “I’m not the person you think I am. The person you want to think I am.” She stared at his back again, watching the shoulders stiffen. “Oh, it’s not just you. It’s everyone I’ve ever known. Everyone who’s ever been in my life.”

  “And your ‘friend’ at the consulate, he doesn’t make you feel that way?” Alex had used the word friend like the cutting edge of a knife, slashing out at her. He regretted it at once, but knew he’d do it again.

  “I don’t want to talk about him. There’s no point.” He still hadn’t turned to face her, offering only his back. Now he did, his lean, six-foot frame swiveling against the bright backdrop of the Mediterranean. Stephanie stared up at his face. It wasn’t a classically handsome face. She had never thought it was. His features were strong, rugged, and in that sense it was handsome. But now it seemed soft, almost puffy.

  “Have there been others?” His left eye had narrowed slightly, something that signaled a building anger, almost a warning to others, especially other men.

  “Oh God, Alex. These questions don’t do any good. It happened. I can’t really explain it. It’s nothing that anyone did or didn’t do. The opportunity presented itself, and I guess I needed it, or at least wanted it.” She ran the fingers of both hands through her hair, almost as though she were going to grab it, pull it. “I know this couldn’t be happening at a worse time for you. I know you’re under a great deal of pressure, that what you’re doing now is dangerous, and you don’t need all of this crowding your mind. I wish it hadn’t happened now.” She paused, as if correcting herself. “Especially now. Please believe that.”

  Alex stared at her, wondering if she regretted “it” at all, afraid to ask if she did.

  “What will you do?” Her eyes entreated him.

  “I don’t know.” The honesty of his answer surprised him.

  Stephanie stood and came to him, slipping her arms under his and pressing her head against his chest. “I love you. Please believe that too.”

  He could feel her pressing against him, the moment slowly becoming sexual. It sent a shiver of both desire and revulsion through him.

  “Come to bed with me. Please. I need you. I need to know you still love me.”

  Over her shoulder he could see the tower of the Basilica. It had been one of their favorite places when they were courting, walking up the steep hill from the center of the city, hand in hand, joking, teasing each other about how romantically hackneyed it all was. It seemed different now, juxtaposed against the soft, beseeching sensuality of her voice. Now he hated the sight of it.

  “Please,” she whispered. He could feel her tears dampening his shirt, and he wanted to push her away, strike out at her, something he had never done to any woman. And then he could feel himself hardening against her, knew she could feel it too.

  “I don’t know if I can,” he said, hating his own weakness, knowing he wanted her to ask him to try.

  “Just come into the bedroom,” she said. “Let me love you.” She turned and slipped her hand in his and led him across the room. He felt like a small child being taken to school on his first day.

  Her mouth slid across his chest and down his body, licking him, kissing him, and his fingers gripped the sheet as if that was all that held him to the bed. Her hand cupped his testicles, the fingers moving gently, almost imperceptibly, and she took him in her mouth, her own passion seemingly ignited now, her head and mouth and tongue moving wildly, forcing him to arch his neck in the near painful pleasure of it. But he knew it was all a ruse, a way for her to make him believe she still wanted him, still loved him. And to show him how much he still wanted her. And she succeeded and yet failed at the same time, as his mind attacked him, wondering if this was what she had done for him. And how many times, and where. And why. Yes, most of all. Why?

  And, worst of all, he could see her hand. See the rings he had given her.

  CHAPTER

  5

  The music filled the large garret apartment, the sound captured under the eaves of the roof and held there with no escape possible.

  Ernst Ludwig winced at the volume, at the mixture of cigarette and marijuana smoke that assaulted his nostrils, at the tightening grip of the young woman who held onto his arm as though afraid he might escape. It seemed as if all his senses were being attacked at once. And he loved it.

  He had discovered the party that afternoon at a small café on La Canebiére, when he had stopped for a coffee. Or, rather, it had discovered him. The young woman who now clung to him had been there with a small group of friends, all fellow students, and she had flirted so openly, so flagrantly, that he had been amused and simply walked to their table and joined her. Blatancy to blatancy, much to the shock and surprise of her friends, much to her delight, and from there to here—this after-classes party—in the twinkling of an insistent invitation.

  The music changed, a faster, earthier, more urgent beat, and Justine—her name was Justine—began to gyrate next to him. Ludwig looked at her and smiled. She was quite lovely. Short dark hair and green eyes. A large, wide mouth that excited him, and a nose that was long and straight and very French. And her body was exquisite, even offering full breasts, so unusual for a young Frenchwoman.

  “Dance with me,” Justine said, smiling, tugging him toward the center of the crowded room. She used her native tongue with all the sensuality it was purported to possess.

  He went and began to dance smoothly but unexcitedly, choosing instead to watch her, to enjoy the obstreperousness of her movements. She was truly fucking him without penetration, and sweating and smiling and enjoying it.

  When the music ended, replaced by something mournfully romantic and French, they drifted toward a long table that was serving as a bar. There was a group of students, the males bearded to a man, the women all dressed in the obligatory black, each and every one discussing the need for revolution, the change in social structure so essential for mankind.

  He wanted to laugh in their faces. Yes, the change would come. But not from these fools, who would puke their guts out if forced to stand ankle deep in the blood required of revolution, who would be horrified to discover that revolution only meant the changing of those in power, those who would hand out the “better life” to the masses, but who themselves would prove just as elite, just as corrupt as those who dispensed it now, however badly.

  Justine went up on her toes to place her lips close to his ear. “You should tell them what you think. What it is really like,” she whispered.

  He looked at her quickly. It was almost as if she had read his mind. His eyes hardened on hers. And if not that, certainly she knew more about him than was possible. Unless … unless … “Why do you say that?” He had told her his name was Peter Luntz, that he was Swiss, and an instructor in
economics at the university in Zurich.

  “Because I know who you are,” she whispered.

  He smiled at her, trying to appear amused by her romanticism, then took her arm and led her to a quieter corner. His stomach was churning, and he could feel fresh sweat beginning to form under his shirt—sweat that was not from the dancing or the close quarters of the room. “And what have you decided I am?” he asked when they were alone.

  “You’re a terrorist,” she said, grinning wildly. “You are certainly not Swiss but German. I can tell. I’m very good with accents. I studied acting for a time, and my teacher said I had the most natural ear he’d ever heard.”

  Ernst nodded. Probably while he was fucking you, he thought. He was beginning to relax. He forced a smile and a small laugh. “I will be whatever you want me to be,” he said. He slid his hand into his jacket pocket, feeling the handle of the switchblade stiletto. He could move her back into the crowd of dancers and slide the blade into her so expertly she would never make a sound. She would merely gasp and fall to the floor; he would already be moving away, and her friends and everyone else would simply think she was drunk, or stoned, and had suddenly passed out.

  He looked at her again and laughed, more convincingly this time. No, the little fool offered no threat. He would let her play her game and he would enjoy her. He would kill her only if she annoyed him. Or if it amused him to do so.

  “God, I’m so hungry. I could eat everything. Even you. Especially you.” Justine looked at Ludwig and giggled. She was drunk and stoned and she was drawing attention to herself.

  They were in a small restaurant, where she had insisted on going after leaving the party. She had just finished her second order of sabayon, and he was convinced she would want even more of the sickly sweet dessert. But then her mood suddenly shifted, and she began running her shoeless toe against his ankle beneath the table; there was a glint of mischief in her eyes.

  “Why do you lie to me?” she asked, her voice coy rather than offended. “You tell me you’re Swiss, but I can tell you’re German. You tell me you’re a teacher, but I know what you really are.” She gave him an impish grin, then leaned forward and whispered: “You tell me your secrets, and I’ll tell you mine.”

  “But I already know your secrets,” Ludwig said.

  Justine sat back and assumed a haughty look. “Oh, and what are they?”

  Ludwig leaned forward, imitating Justine’s feint at intimacy. “You love sabayon,” he whispered, “and you are absolutely wicked in bed.” She began to giggle. “What I don’t know,” he continued, “is whether it is your natural inclination, or if it is the sabayon that makes you depraved.”

  “Then you must bring some sabayon to my bed and conduct an experiment,” she said.

  Justine lived in a small apartment not far from the New Labor Exchange. It was decorated in student motif, as Ludwig suspected it would be, complete with a heroic poster of Che Guevara, to which Justine took pains to draw his attention. It was as though she were proclaiming that she too was a revolutionary in whose company he could feel safe and at ease. The thought made him smile, and he wished he had the inclination to explain to the little fool that only those who played at revolution hung posters on their walls. Those who worked at it made themselves appear anything but what they were. But he had neither the inclination nor the interest. He had only one use for this woman, and her political education played no part in it.

  Justine took his hands in hers and began slowly moving back toward the large bed that dominated one corner of the room. She was smiling lasciviously, and as he looked past her shoulder he realized the bed—actually a mattress laid atop an elevated platform—had the quality of an altar about it that was definitely intended. When they reached the foot of the platform Justine slipped her arms about him and pressed her body against his.

  “Tell me how you do it,” she whispered, undulating her pelvis against him with a faint, almost unnoticeable pressure that was more erotic than if it had been done with abandon. “Tell me how you kill for the revolution.”

  Ernst ran his hand down her back, caressing the sharp curve of her buttock, arousing himself with the firmness, the severity of it. “Why do you want to know about it?” he whispered, allowing his tongue to lightly roam the inner contour of her ear. “What will it do for you to know?”

  Justine arched her back and rotated her hips. She wanted the talk to arouse him, drive him into a frenzy. She could feel what it was doing for her. She was already so wet, so ready to have him. But she wanted more. She wanted him beyond the point of control. She wanted him unable to dictate the flow of their lovemaking. She wanted to dominate him, and she wanted him to feel that domination, to know there was nothing he could do about it, and to realize that he didn’t care. That his pleasure was so intense he just wanted it to continue, so intense he would beg her not to stop if he had to. It was her fantasy, and she knew if she could make it work, her own pleasure would be overwhelming.

  “It will make me so hot to hear it, to hear you talk about it. I want to know how you do it. If you use a bomb or a gun. I want to know how it makes you feel: if it excites you, or makes you sad. I don’t think it makes you sad. I think maybe it makes you hot.” She was rambling and she knew it, knew it was part of what she wanted to do. But still, there was some loss of control for her in doing it. And she could feel it arousing him, feel his body stiffen, and just feeling it, and hearing herself do it, was driving her into her own frenzy.

  “You make me hot,” Ernst whispered as he began to run his mouth along her neck. He was fighting back fear now, the same fear that had come to him earlier when she had begun insisting she knew he was a terrorist. But he was certain she was just playing with him, simply cajoling him into acting out her own sexual game. She knew nothing, could know nothing. But still it gnawed at him, and he could feel himself going limp with the fear it might be more.

  He pulled at her clothes, ripping free buttons in his haste, struggling to rekindle his passion. And she responded, pulling his shirt open as well, then attacking his belt and drawing down his pants. She was naked now; he only partially so, standing there ridiculously dressed, naked from the waist down, his jacket and shirt still on but spread apart to reveal his chest and stomach, which Justine now wildly kissed, licked, and sucked on.

  “Tell me,” she begged, her tongue flicking across his belly, inching fractionally, infinitesimally lower with each movement.

  “Sometimes a bomb, sometimes a gun, and sometimes this.” His words were breathless and he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the stiletto, pressed the button, and sent the blade shooting out. “It’s best with this,” he said, his voice little more than a pant. “Because you’re close and you can feel it. You can feel their death in your hand.”

  Justine dropped down, took his semi-erect penis in one hand, and looked up at him. “Tell me,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Tell me how it feels.”

  She took him in her mouth and sucked long and hard, and, hearing his first moan of pleasure, settled to a steady, rhythmic flicking of her tongue that immediately made him begin to grow inside her.

  Ernst dropped his head back, low, guttural grunts and moans coming from him, unheard, unnoticed in the pleasure that controlled him. “It’s good,” he said. “It feels good. It always feels good.” He held her head with one hand, his other, still holding the knife he had shown her, hanging loosely at his side. She kept at him, giving him wild, unbelievable pleasure, and suddenly he could stand it no longer and he exploded into her mouth, the release continuing until he was certain she would gag on the sheer volume of his flow. But she continued, her mouth, her tongue working unabated, draining him, soothing him until he was again limp inside her. Then she withdrew and looked up at him smiling.

  He stared down at her, a faint, weak smile playing across his own lips, and he took her hair in his hand and pulled back her head. Then he drew the blade of the knife across her neck, opening her throat from ear to ear.


  Justine’s body began to buck violently, the spasms shaking her arms and legs, and he reached down and lifted her, drawing her against him, as the blood pumping from her throat washed over him. Her head had dropped back, a head almost severed from her torso, as her body writhed in his arms, the throes of death vibrating, pulsing erratically, the only sound the steady gurgling of her throat.

  And he looked down and saw that he was hard again. So hard now that it almost caused him pain.

  CHAPTER

  6

  It was 10:00 A.M. when Alex’s car pulled to a stop in front of the Basilica Notre Dame-de-la-Garde. The telephone call a half hour earlier had been nothing more than a terse message by an unrecognizable voice. “Your uncle needs to see you about the matter you discussed. Come to the Basilica.” Then a dial tone.

  It was very Corsican, Alex thought, as he climbed from his car. It was obscure, sinister, byzantine, all the things Corsicans cherished. But they also cherished success, and so he had come, knowing that whatever they had for him, it would be more than he would get from any other source.

  Alex pushed through the heavy front door and was immediately confronted by one of Antoine’s bodyguards, a short, black-eyed box of a man who had the look of someone to be challenged only at peril. He nodded perfunctorily, then gestured toward the front of the church. Alex walked down the center aisle, the heavy stone walls rising about him, the only light filtered through the long stained-glass windows and fed from the candles that filled the ornate altar. As he approached, Antoine rose from the pew in which he was seated.

  “I like churches,” he said. “You should go to them more often.” Then he shook his head, part in disbelief, part in disgust. “This man you are after,” he said. “He is a beast. Worse than a beast.”

  “What has he done?” Alex asked.

  “He has killed a woman,” Antoine said. “But it is how he has killed her.” He shook his head again; he looked as though he wanted to spit, but realized it couldn’t be done here.