SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1CHAPTER FIVE: BLOOD IS NOT FOR SALE



The pleasant, sea-scented breezes of the Mediterranean washed across the deck of the ferry, bringing with them a shower of speckled, salty drops. Most of the French ferries landed at Bastia, the modern capital of Corsica, but Bond had always preferred the Ajaccio approach, which brought one along side the spectacular cliffs of the western face of the island.

Bond abhorred disguises, and thankfully none would be necessary on this trip. Corsica's main business was tourism, with six times as many people visiting the lush, undeveloped island every year as live there. There was no need for a passport as was the case with any of the European Union countries. The land aggressively repulsed occupation and modern amenities, but opened its arms wide for the all mighty Euro. Even now, after centuries of French rule, the Corsican language was still alive, and although the island was predominantly Christian, Pagan rituals and beliefs were still strictly adhered to. Here, Bond was simply one more Brit attempting to get away from the hustle and relax on the sandy white beaches while downing pastis with disabandon. And here, Bond could hide, or strike, from strength, seeking refuge on an island famous for its bandits and home to the vendetta.

James Bond looked up at the imposing sheer face of granite towering straight up next to the dwarfed ferry. Only the gods could have built such a fortress, no wonder the natives were superstitious. The cliffs extended in either direction until they met the sea on the horizons. You might not be able to get warm water or a toilet that flushed, but it certainly was magnificent.

The port of Ajaccio, the famed birthplace of Napoleon, is on the southwest side of the island. Bastia, at the northern tip, is more elegant and appealing to modern eyes, benefiting from its easy accessibility and its proximity to France, but as a capital city should be, Ajaccio was true to its roots, rough and historic. Bond's father-in-law, Marc-Ange, had once described Ajaccio as truly Corsican.

"Bastia is like a whore, James," he had said bluntly. "She paints herself up and calls to every man passing by, saying she will be whatever he wants for 20 francs.  But in Ajaccio, in the south, this is your true love; she doesn't need to wear her make-up, and she may give you the cold shoulder from time to time, but she is within your heart, and you, within hers."

The summer heat on shore led Bond to shed his Mac quickly. He stood patiently at the dock with his few bags of luggage, including the traditional Q-branch briefcase, which unlike credit cards, he never left home without. The motor travel in Corsica was sparse compared to the Continent; too many mountains, too few passable roads, but there were still a few taxis available at the docks. The drivers called to him in French and Italian, but Bond waived them off.

Unlike the service, where when on duty, at least twenty potential leaks had to be informed of his every movement, there was only one man who knew that he was coming to Corsica, and that one man was more than enough.

After about five minutes of baking in the afternoon sun, a camouflage Humvee pulled up next to him. The transport was entirely too large for the narrow streets of the city, but once in the maquis, where the roads could only flatteringly be referred to as game trails, the brutal ruggedness of the enormous vehicle would be invaluable.

Two men got out of the Hummer. The driver maintained his position, standing just outside the vehicle, door open, scanning the dock back and forth. Although the vehicle had tinted windows, it was relatively easy for Bond to make out the Colt M4A1 Carbine automatic rifle the driver held concealed behind the door.

The other man, who was well into his sixties, did not linger with his partner. He sprang out of the passenger seat and approached Bond with a thin smile. The grey skin had aged some, become leathery, under the heavy Corsican sun, but there was no mistaking the small pox scars marring the otherwise thin and jovial face.

James Bond returned the grin with one of his own, and met the outstretched hand extended to greet him.

"Le Commandant," the man said in French, pumping the proffered hand. "It is good to see you."

"And you as well, Toussaint," Bond replied.

The man who had been introduced so long ago to Bond as "Le Pouff" turned to the driver and gave a nod of confirmation. Marc-Ange had sent someone who would recognise him, someone who could be trusted. This man had been with Marc-Ange and Bond when they had raided Piz Gloria a lifetime ago. He was the plastique expert who had levelled the entire chalet, if only Blofeld had been inside at the time. From the feel of the man's hands, Bond could discern he was still active in his chosen trade, despite his age.

"Come, my friend," Toussaint grabbed the few bags Bond had brought, and motioned him to the vehicle. "We should get out of this heat. Your father mentioned you wanted as little exposure as possible."

Bond nodded and climbed into the rear seat of the roomy, but rough riding vehicle, and was introduced to the driver, Emiliano. He would have to readjust himself to the laid back conventions of the Corsicans.  Family meant so much to these people. Bond had bristled at the mention of his "father". His parents had died when he was a child. Marc-Ange was his father-in-law, the result of a marriage that had lasted less than a day. But Tracy's father would always be his own. Tracy had been the only precious thing in the old man's life. He was a widower who spoiled his daughter with the wealth and power a Capu of the Union Corse could bring to bear. With Tracy's death, the man had lost everything. With nothing left to prove, and no one left to lavish gifts upon, he'd done the unthinkable and left the Union Corse, and France, to return to Corsica. In a country, for Corsicans always thought of themselves as independent, where family was the ultimate bond, this was the one man James Bond knew would not betray him.

* * *

As Donn navigated the compact rental car through the streets of Dublin he allowed himself a few vain thoughts of reminiscence. It was a gloomy day, overcast, as so many days were in this part of the world. 

After having been in every conceivable corner of the globe, experiencing new cultures, meeting new and interesting people, and then killing them, it was always strange to see home again. 

The spires of Saint Peter's rose above the rooftops before him, reflecting off his windshield like a grey distorted photograph.  He had to break quickly as some children playing with a football ran out into the street in front of him.  Donn smiled and waved them on across the street, but one boy just stood there a few moments and stared at him.  Donn had finally started to adjust to such stares, but the first few years had been disorienting as hell.

The hostel hadn't changed much over the years; it stood within the shadow of the church, like a smaller, poorer brother, drab in comparison.   He parked the car in the spaces allotted for staff and then pulled the bottle of pills from his glove compartment.  After having forced down another sickening dose he quickly mounted the steps to the rear entrance that accessed the living quarters of Tom Barry and Maelisa. 

By old habit, he gave his traditional knock on the door, the "safe" knock as Tom had dubbed it.  He and Feale had used it as children to let Tom and Maelisa know it was they at the door, and not more official, uninvited guests.

There were sounds of movement from within, and then the door swung open energetically.   

There stood Maelisa who'd been more of a mother to him than his own had ever been.  There was a look of excitement and happiness on her face, but it quickly faded into the indifference of a stranger.

"May I help you?" she asked.  It nearly broke him to carry on this charade with someone he cared so deeply for, but there was method to his madness.

"Is Tom Barry in?" he asked in someone else's voice.

"Tell him that it's an old friend from the war," he said.

This would let her know he was here on business from Sein Fenn.  She quickly excused herself, and in a few moments the huge figure of Tom Barry filled the doorway.  Donn watched an admonishing glance pass between Maelisa and Tom, but then the other man was waving him into the building, and whisking him off to his private study, a room that as small children, he and Feale had been banned from entering.

As the door shut behind them, Tom Barry turned and addressed him.

"We keep this room very clean, and the walls are more than soundproof, you can talk freely."

"Thank you, Da," he said, as he took a seat in one of the comfortable leather reading chairs which fit in nicely with the huge, oak bookcases lining the room from wall to wall.  Letting his eyes roam the volumes he could see books on everything from Irish history, to modern warfare, to the complete works of Leon Uris, to the poetry of Blake.  Taken back for a moment, Donn could remember the young Peter O'Sullivan, cowering beneath the covers of the lower bunk he shared with Feale as a small boy, as the beautiful baritone of Tom Barry read "The Tyger" to them.  

"So, you are still going through with this insanity?" Barry asked him.

"Do you think I could go back now?  Does it look like I could go back now?  I was bound the moment he pulled that trigger, now more than ever."

As Tom Barry shook his head, Donn could easily make out the grey hairs shooting through the older man's temples.  Somewhere along the way, Tom had become old, and with the age had come placidness.

"Before you judge too harshly, remember, the men that died we're friends of yours as well, and this man, Bond, is an enemy of the Irish people.  His hands are sticky with the blood of patriots."

Tom had brought his considerable bulk to rest in a chair facing Donn.

"Ah.  I think I've learned a thing or two about hatred over the years, and revenge, as well.  I've managed to massage the one, and carry out the other, without having gone to the extremes you have, my dear boy.  I mean, how far can a man go out of hatred?"

Donn kept his mouth shut out of respect, but he knew the level of hate he'd carried inside of him for nearly two decades, was of a type Tom Barry had never encountered.  Being willing to kill was one thing, but he was dealing with the kind of flame that could burn so bright he was willing to not only give up his own life, but to also willing go through unimaginable physical and psychological torture along the way. 

"All that matters is that you are with me," he told Barry.

"You know I am," was the reply.

"Then you've made the arrangements?"

"Aye, that I have.  But I hate to see you throw it all away like this."

Donn was convinced the other man had grown soft now, and he hoped he would have the stomach for what was to come.

* * *

"How is Marc-Ange?" Bond asked Toussaint, yelling to overcome the roaring of the Humvee's engine. It had taken less than five minutes to clear the city proper, and they were already crashing through thick foliage on what could best be described as a trail. Marc-Ange basically had a village of his own. He'd retired with millions and built a compound for himself, and his loyal men and their families, called Monte Paese deep in the maquis of central Corsica.

"He is well, " Toussaint replied. "Lately, he is like a young man, running after the ladies like a buck in the springtime. This is your first visit to u Paese, is it not?"

"Yes," Bond yelled back in reply. "But I've heard much about it."

And so he had, from M.  The fact he'd married into a Capu's family had never set well with Sir Miles. Even though Marc-Ange was retired, M made no secret of the fact the service was still keeping track of the man through their links with the Gendarmerie Nationale.

Marc-Ange had never discouraged him from visiting Monte Paese, but he had never invited Bond either. When the two met, it was usually in Ajaccio or Bastia, Marc-Ange owned so many properties and restaurants on the island that he was at home wherever he laid his hat.

James Bond was very interested in catching a look at the compound, however, not so much to settle his own mind, but M's as well.

"He imports a lot of weapons for someone who's retired," M had pointed out upon Bond's return from one of his stays on the island.

"Sir," Bond had quipped back. "As you are well aware, anyone over the age of twelve on Corsica is usually armed. A Capu, even a former one, certainly has his fair share of blood feuds. It's a different world."

"You are right, 007." the old man had replied. "It is a different world, one in which a member of Her Majesty's Service has no place."

In professional respects, M was correct; although Bond's connection with the Union Corse had proven useful on several occasions, even integral in the case of tracking down Blofeld, there was always the possibility they would ask for something in return. About fifteen years earlier, Bond had been duped into helping his father-in-law. After having been notified of Draco's death, Bond had taken a personal leave, and had been flown in for the funeral in Fozzano, Marc-Ange's home village. For five years, he thought the old man was deceased, until he'd shown up in person on Bond's doorstep in London, explaining he'd escaped a vendetta brought upon him by a rival whose daughter he'd made the acquaintance of.

Bond was also distinctly aware Marc-Ange's own safety could be endangered if it were discovered he was so close to a law officer, even one of a foreign government. Corsicans did not take kindly to police of any sort, and the bandits d'honneur were held to even higher standards.

After an hour of travel, through increasingly dense terrain, and scantier paths, the mountains of the Haute Corse began to grow before them. At one point, they wound about a hillside, upon which sat huge granite structures that resembled small houses. Bond tapped Toussaint on the shoulder, and motioned to the buildings.

Toussaint smiled wide, releasing the smell of garlic.

"We take death very seriously in Corsica, Commandant. These are peasant mausoleums. It is hard to find a hillside without them, even high in the mountains.  We fancy ourselves as living very close to death, and usually a violent one.  Funerals are things of beauty, and the wakes are almost worth dying for.  Your loved ones even bury mementos along with you." 

This clicked in Bond's memory.  He could remember the Corsican's in attendance at Tracy's funeral tossing trinkets and photographs into the grave, just as one might throw dirt or flowers.

"Sort of like the ancient Egyptians, packing away things for he afterlife?" Bond asked as he watched the tombstones disappear into the distant maquis behind them.

"No, nothing so ceremonial," Toussaint answered with a shake of his head.  "Just a sign of affection or respect for a loved one, it helps with the, how do you say…separation."

Bond nodded, as he recalled a tearful Toussaint had laid something in Tracy's grave as well.

"Even those killed in a vendetta often have the murder weapon buried along with the body.  Sort of a signpost as to how someone left this world, and how others might follow if they weren't careful. "

The dense vegetation began to give way some as they began a steady assent. The terrain was now more high grass and rocks. A few times they had to stop in order to let a flock of sheep clear from the path, the last of which, the driver extended his hand out the window and let out a hearty, "Bonghjounu!" to the young shepherd.

"Emiliano's son, Curtuis," Toussaint explained. "Many of the young boys of the village tend the sheep."

"How many people live there?" Bond was now a little concerned. The more people that were aware of his presence, the more danger he was presented with. As he asked this, they came around a bend and onto a plateau, or pianu, and Monte Paese presented herself.

"We do not keep a census, my friend," Toussaint replied. "But there are well more than a hundred, not including children."

          Monte Paese was not so much a compound as it was a small, walled city.  It reminded Bond of a miniature version of Carcassonne, France with its high, white walls of stone and watchtowers.   He could make out several dozen houses within, the red tiled roofs protruding like fairy tale cottages from within the encampment.

          The front gate was at least twenty feet wide, and open to them.

They drove about half a block within the walls, passing along a very active thoroughfare where children bounded about in scruffy peasant clothing playing their games in the street. The other inhabitants of the village, the men and women, watched the Hummer pass by with mixed expressions of suspicion and interest.

Seeing the look of concern on Bond's face, Toussaint explained in his heavy accented French. "The Corsican people are a contradiction, Commandant. They are welcome hosts, but also mistrust foreigners. They know the son of the Capu is coming to visit, and they will greet you with love and open arms, but you are Inglese as well, so you may expect more than a few guarded looks."

They came to the central house of the town, a huge, three-storey structure higher than anything within the city, except for a church spire in the distance. If this were a medieval walled city, then this would be its castle, albeit, a modest one.

There was a dog run constructed next to the house, and the front gate to it stood open, a gate through which the massive faces of several large hounds could be seen.  As they climbed out of the Humvee, Toussaint made his way over to the dogs, and bending down began to affectionately coddle the giants with his leathery, old hands.

"Come over here, Commandant, and meet the boys," he beckoned Bond over to him with a waving hand.

"Mastiff's?" Bond commented.

"Cane Corsos," the old man nodded.  "Bred from the historic Roman Molossus.  They have the best temperament you'll ever find in a big dog."

Bond bent down next to the old man, and after a few moments of assessing him with their noses, the dogs assented to his outstretched hand with lathering affection.  There were seven or eight of the animals in total, ranging from red, to brown, to white in colouring.  They were quite large, some of them near 70 centimetres tall, but seemed to be quite well behaved.

"They never get sick, you know?" Toussaint told him.  "They tend the flocks, they guard the houses, they hunt, and yet they're quiet as church mice unless you provoke them."

Much like the Corsicans, themselves, Bond thought to himself.

"Well, James, it is good to see your taste in friends hasn't changed much," a voice boomed from the house's porch.

Bond smiled, and turned, to greet his father in law.

Marc-Ange Draco was now in his seventies but still broad and muscular across his chest. His dark complexion and infectious smile were both on display. As Bond rose to his feet, Marc-Ange nodded to Toussaint and Emiliano, and then embraced his son-in-law with ferocity, firmly planting kisses on both his cheeks.

"Welcome to Monte Paese, James," the well educated, but little spoken English of Marc-Ange was a welcome sound to Bond's ears. " Now, what kind of mess have you gotten yourself into?"

Bond spoke for more than two hours, as he and Marc-Ange sat at a wooden table in the latter's kitchen, sharing figatellu, a garlic-laden pork liver sausage, a hard baguette, and a bottle of Cap Corse, a local, fortified wine flavoured with maquis herbs and quinine. Since there was nothing confidential to give away, he was able to speak freely of Donn, and of the back history involved.

"This Donn is well known to me," Draco had told him. "He would be a poor choice for an enemy, but he is reachable."

Bond had been hoping for, and dreading, this kind of response. He knew if he were to strike out at Donn, and not just lay in hiding, he would have to do so from strength. Since he was cut off from his normal avenues, Marc-Ange was the strongest ally he could hope for. The man had a virtual army of dedicated soldiers at his disposal, and a network of informants spanning across the entire continent.

The downside was that M had been correct. Donn, although highly reputable in terrorist circles, was unknown to the world at large.  If Draco were truly living his isolated retirement here in the middle of the maquis, with his own village of faithful subjects, how would he know of an international assassin who'd become active only after Marc-Ange had left "the business."

The Corsican was perceptive, another trait of his people, and he quickly picked up on Bond's concern.

"James, when Teresa's mother died, all I had left was my little girl. When she was murdered, all I had left was my hatred, and need for vengeance upon the monster, Blofeld. After you killed the bastard, all that was left for me was my work, my home, and my people.  Until recently, my personal life has been a dead thing. The Union Corse is gone; the smuggling, the protection money, the prostitutes, all of it is a thing of the past. I have become like Albert Schweitzer, no?, I have spent the first part of my life living for myself, and accruing more money than a man has a right to. Now, I have spent the second half fighting for causes greater than myself."

"The FLNC?" Bond asked, his regular briefings at the office included updates on all active terrorist activity, even that which did not directly affect England.

Marc-Ange frowned.

"FLNC is such a generic term, it implies there is organisation. What Corsica has is vast amounts of people working toward various, and often contradicting, ends. My cause is the people of Corsica, and our eventual freedom from France, and I work to that end."

"You are the last vestige of family I have, James. And although we are no longer opposite numbers on either side of a battle, we also are not on the same side. I love you, and I will see no harm come to you, especially here at Monte Paese. We Corsicans may have the hottest blood on the planet, and even though vengeance may belong to God, we have borrowed it from time to time. But here you are safer, James, than you could be anywhere else in the world. Corsicans have a saying, "Blood is not for sale." It is that simple."

There were hundreds of questions James Bond wanted to pose. The FLNC was not as virulent, or violent, as the IRA, but they were not, as M had reminded him, someone a servant of the Queen should be associated with.

"In a few moments, we shall stop, and speak no more of this matter until the morning. You are not a son of Corsica, but you are my son. Tonight is a homecoming, of sorts, and the people of Monte Paese do not need much of a reason to celebrate. Although you are Inglese, you are the son of the Capu, there shall be a feast this evening, and you have a chance to show my men you are their brother. Already, I can smell the aromas of what is to come." Bond could as well, there was the distinctive tang of roast pork drifting through the kitchen window, which also displayed the oncoming darkness of evening.  Other, more exotic smells were there as well, and Bond's stomach reminded him there was more to life than liver sausage.

The other man continued on, " There will be music, and many beautiful ladies to distract you from that which makes your heart so heavy."

Bond wanted to protest, but Marc-Ange cut him off with a raised hand.

"There is someone here, someone who works for me and has joined my village, who knows your Donn well...very well. I know you hate the man for what he did to your Samantha, but this woman's venom for him is far greater. She is my Peu de balle, de haine, my "little ball of hate." She will help us track this man, and help us kill him, not so much to bury your dead, but her own as well."



[Comment1]

[Comment2]



[Comment1]!---WEBBOT bot="HTMLMarkup" startspan ALT="Site Meter" --

[Comment2]!---WEBBOT bot="HTMLMarkup" endspan --