Corsican Death (5 page)

Étienne, extremely intelligent, cold, given to detached sexual encounters with whores and women working in massage parlors, had to talk with Clayton Harger. Immediately.

Clayton Harger coughed, clearing dry fear from his throat for brief seconds. He stared at the black teen-agers in the hamburger joint, but he really didn’t see them. He spoke slowly, hoping it would hide his fear and at the same time make Étienne see things his way.

“Uh, look, Étienne, I’m not trying to give you people a hard time, believe me, O.K.? I mean, you pay me well, right? But damn, man, you know what I’m trying to say, right?” He stopped, hoping the thin Frenchman would say he understood. Yeah, Clayton would sure feel a hell of a lot better if the skinny Frenchman would say he understood.

Silence.

Étienne Abbé smiled, a cold gesture from his lips. His eyes didn’t smile at all. Like an animal smelling blood, he sensed the American’s fear and responded to it by enjoying the discomfort. Étienne, like others, used whatever power he had.

You’re a sweating, fat fool who scares much too easily, he thought. But you
are
needed. And now you want me to share your weakness. Well, I won’t.

Étienne waited a few seconds more before speaking, enjoying the tense silence because he knew Clayton Harger was uncomfortable, to say the least.

When Étienne spoke it was with the polite insincerity found in Washington in great abundance. “I am not entirely unaware of your position, Mr. Harger. But as you know, our friend has a business arrangement scheduled soon, and he simply wants to be sure no one is, shall we say, talking out of turn.”

Clayton Harger coughed again. Sure, he understood. Count Lonzu wanted to make sure that his kid brother, Alain, hadn’t told narcotics agents about the two hundred kilos of heroin set to come into New York.

“Also,” said Étienne, still talking in that flat, dry voice, “our friend wants to make sure the advance payment is safe. Our friend must conclude his business deal before the competition becomes excessive. He must also keep his associates in line. That’s why this deal is so important.” Étienne didn’t tell Harger that the four million dollars was hidden in the French consulate. The American didn’t need to know.

Clayton Harger understood what the Frenchman was saying. Count Lonzu was thinking about his four-million-dollar advance from his New York customer and he also wanted to dump his heroin before the Turks started growing more and brought down the price of his stockpile. As if that wasn’t enough, the Count had to keep other Corsicans in line, and if Alain had done some talking, all of these things could be trouble spots.

O.K., O.K. But still, Clayton Harger didn’t want this skinny bastard calling him at the office.

“You, Mr. Harger,” said Étienne, his voice causing Harger’s head to jerk up suddenly and his eyes open wide, as though seeing something for the first time. “Our friend also wants to make sure that no one has learned of
your
existence. Do you follow me?” Fool, thought Étienne.You’re a fool if you don’t understand that.

Clayton licked his lips. Shit. Fucking right he understood. If Alain Lonzu gave his name to the narcs … No, no, that’s impossible. Corsicans are tough, and the narcs couldn’t have broken Alain in that short a time.

He wouldn’t have given up Clayton Harger. Oh no. No way. Yet, what the hell
is
certain these days? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. Death and higher taxes, but nothing else.

Now Clayton Harger felt worse. Christ, he needed a drink. Badly.

“Uh, you don’t think Alain talked? I mean—”

Étienne interrupted. “That’s why we pay you, Mr. Harger. We need answers to such questions. I don’t believe he has. Corsicans are tough. Besides, he knows what his brother would do to him, brotherly love notwithstanding. No, I don’t think he talked. However, I suggest you be extremely diligent in keeping us and yourself aware of anything involving Alain Lonzu. You do understand, don’t you?” Étienne wrinkled up his nose, as though smelling something foul.

Clayton Harger nodded his head once, eyes glazed and unseeing. Fear had almost paralyzed him now, and it was an effort for him to speak. “Yeah, yeah. I understand, Étienne. Uh, keep in touch, huh?”

Étienne smiled. “Depend on it, Mr. Harger, depend on it.” He hung up, knowing the American was now frightened almost to the point of being physically ill.

Étienne enjoyed the thought of that.

On board the ship, Alain Lonzu closed his eyes in pain. Two wounds. His right side, and the back of his right arm. The bullet had grazed his right side, passing across the back of his arm, making him cry out in the garage. Lucky for him he had been bent over trying to get into the car in a fucking hurry.

God, the pain. His side burned and his arm felt as though someone was sawing it off. Blood was everywhere, and Alain, forced to lie on his stomach because of the pain in his back, gritted his teeth.

Fucking Americans. He could kill them, goddamn kill them. The pain was hell, but at least he was on the ship and it was pulling out of Baltimore harbor, leaving that ugly, crowded city behind.

France. In five days he’d be in France. He’d tell his brother about the four million dollars, that it was hidden at the French consulate with Étienne.

And he’d explain about Claude. Nappy would understand. The Count, his brother, would understand.

Alain, small slivers of fear stabbing his brain, hoped so. More pain, hot and strong, crawled up his back, reaching his brain. Raising himself up with one hand, his bare chest red with blood and shiny with perspiration, Alain said, “Oh Jesus,” then collapsed on the small bunk bed.

He was unconscious, dreaming bad dreams while crying out not to be killed.

F
RANCE.

Count Napoleon Bonaparte Lonzu ignored his small glass of golden-colored cognac, leaving it untouched on the small marble table to the left of the dark brown leather chair in which he sat. His right hand reached down toward the floor, finding the dog’s head. Casually, gently, his long thin fingers stroked the German shepherd’s black-and-tan fur, feeling the animal’s hot, damp breath on his hand.

“First, I talk with Alain. I hear what he has to say, then,
then
I make a decision.” The Count didn’t look at Remy Patek when he talked to him. It was as though the lean gray-haired man was thinking out loud, and simply letting the small dark-haired man sitting across from him know what had already been decided.

Remy Patek resented that—Lonzu’s way of talking to people as though he sat on a throne and they were on their hands and knees in front of him, dressed in rags and mud. Right now there was a lot to be bitter about as far as Remy was concerned. His brother Claude’s death, the disappearance of the four million dollars, and the chance that Alain Lonzu was responsible for both.

Claude. The thought of him dead in a foreign land was hard to accept. Grief and disbelief that Claude was really dead tore at Remy Patek with equal harshness. Was Claude actually dead? Or was it all a joke?

Claude’s death was the reason Remy Patek had come to “the monastery,” Count Lonzu’s home, located fifty miles outside of Paris in a deserted, beautiful wooded valley. It was once a monastery. Now it was one of the most beautiful and expensively decorated homes in Europe, filled with antiques and art treasures representing Count Lonzu’s excellent taste and intense love of luxury.

The Count’s taste and heroin profits had turned the former monastery—four long two-story buildings forming a square—into an artistic showplace, a comfortable museum. His caution had turned it into a fortress, with armed guards and killer dogs everywhere.

Because the Count was the most powerful of the Corsican drug dealers in France, at least for the time being, Remy Patek had agreed to come to the monastery. A command performance, he thought bitterly. One day
I
shall command. And we’ll see who crawls on his knees to whom.

“My brother is dead,” said Remy in a quiet, flat voice. His tiny, delicate brandy glass was touching his small, thin mouth, but he wasn’t drinking the expensive cognac. His dark brown eyes never moved from Count Lonzu, and the reMarc was tossed at the older man as if to say. “You’d better do something about it before I do.”

Count Lonzu nodded his head once, accepting the news as though he had been told it was raining outside. Every gesture he made was done as though he were of royal blood, sitting in a packed court and the center of all eyes. The fifty-two-year-old heroin dealer had an actual connection with royalty through the marriage of an ancestor to a member of a minor Corsican titled family.

More than thirty years ago Lonzu had adopted the title Count, using the slim evidence of that long-ago marriage as grounds for his action. No one challenged him then, because he had been young and his act was considered a young man’s foolishness. When he got older, no one challenged him because he was now a dangerous man with a reputation for taking his claim to royalty seriously.

“Your brother is dead,” repeated the Count calmly. A difficult situation, he thought. He didn’t care whether Claude Patek was dead or alive, but he did care if Remy Patek and his mob declared war. Because when you’re fighting a drug war, you’re not selling heroin and making money.

“I came here to find out what you’re going to do about it.” Tell me something, old man. Anything.

Remy Patek was bitter because by listening to this phony Count sitting in front of him he had lost a younger brother, maybe a lot of money, and if Alain Lonzu had done a lot of talking to agents, maybe Remy had also lost some heroin. What if Alain had told agents about the smuggling route? If he had, the Americans could be waiting right now to grab any drug shipment coming through.

Yes, Remy had lost a lot and could lose more. He was sitting in this huge, drafty museum because he wanted to find out what was going to be done about his losses. Remy, forty-four, five-feet-six, sometimes called “Matchstick” because he was thin and dark, was tired of taking orders from the Count. The little Corsican with the big head, sad eyes, and small mouth could be vicious and sadistic when he wanted to be.

The more he sat in the huge leather chair staring at Lonzu, the more he felt like being vicious very soon. There wasn’t a thing he could do now, because he’d come out here unarmed, with only two men. Besides, he was counting on his share from the New York sale to the black to give him money for any future wars against Lonzu.

Even now he had to wait. And sit. And listen to Lonzu. But that was going to change. Soon, very soon.

“I talk with Alain, I find out about your brother, I find out about the money. We have very little information. My man in America, the one at the consulate, he says the Americans aren’t sure about Claude’s death.”

Count Lonzu stroked the dog’s head, fingers gently scraping across the top of the German shepherd’s skull. That’s a lie, thought the Count. The Americans are almost sure Alain killed Claude, but why tell that to Remy? So far he’s calm, almost too calm. I wonder what’s on his mind. I know. Actually I know. He wants me dead and he wants to rule in my place.

“Alain can tell us when he returns,” said Lonzu. “The
La Rochelle
docks at Le Havre in five days. Then we’ll know.” The Count knew where the money was because of a telephone call from Étienne, but he wanted to hold back that news until a later time, perhaps when it was of more use to him. Remy was unpredictable, and only the Count’s strength and success had kept him in line so far.

But with Claude’s death and the incomplete newspaper accounts of what had really happened in America, Remy’s unpredictability could be a serious problem, and soon. Maybe Claude had been ready to betray them, maybe he had tried to steal the four million dollars. If he had, was Remy behind this?

The Count had a lot of questions for his own younger brother, but they would have to wait until five days from now. He loved Alain, even though he was too wild sometimes and spent too much time with women. Alain the lover. That’s what everybody called him.

Alain was proud of his body, exercising constantly, lifting weights, and posing bare-chested in front of mirrors with oil smeared on his muscles. Weight lifting and women. It took up a lot of his time, though he worked well if the Count pushed him hard and forced him to.

Baby brother Alain. Thirty-two years old and still in need of someone to keep an eye on him. How old was Claude? Twenty-eight, twenty-nine? No matter. Alain had his reasons,
if
he did kill Claude. But we’ll have to wait and ask him.

Remy set the cognac down on a small wooden table near his chair, leaning forward, pressing his hands down on his thighs, and gripping his own flesh hard. “Understand something,
Count.
If your brother did kill Claude, there will be trouble over that, I promise you.” To hell with you, Count, thought Remy. I don’t care about you, your monastery, your dogs, and your fat wife.

Count Lonzu looked at Remy. So you make your move, do you, little man? Well, here’s my move. “Alain’s my brother, Remy. Remember that.”

Silence.

Licking his lips, Remy sat back in the chair. The Count was always calm, his thin, bony face rarely smiling or frowning. But he had a way of talking as if he had the power of life and death over you, and that was the trouble: he often did. Fear brushed Remy, but his grief pushed it back. “You heard me, Count. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

I wish it were, thought Lonzu. Aloud he said, “What if your brother was causing trouble, what if he did something that was a danger to all of us?”

Remy frowned. His hands, resting on the arms of his leather chair, dug into the arms, and he held his breath. For a few seconds he was angry, ready to leap from the chair and strangle the Count. You old bastard. The dog sensed it too, for his head and ears snapped up, and he froze, bright brown eyes on Remy.

Remy’s pink tongue went from corner to corner of his small mouth; then he exhaled, sinking back against the chair. He hadn’t thought of that. Claude an informer. Christ, it was impossible, impossible! Not Claude. He was young, yes, and he laughed a lot, but he was tough.