The Gemini Contenders: A Novel

  “Yes! That was he! How did you know?”

  “He was expected. How long did the searching go on?”

  “For nearly two years. It was an unbelievable thing. And then it stopped.”

  All activity stopped, according to Barzini, except German activity. The Wehrmacht Officer Corps appropriated Campo di Fiori, turning it into an elaborate retreat for the higher echelon commanders.

  “Did you do as the Englishman from Rome told you, old friend?” Fontine poured Barzini more brandy; the trembling had partially subsided.

  “Yes, padrone. For the past two days I have gone to the markets in Laveno, in Varese, and Legnano. I say the same to a few chosen loudmouths: ‘Tonight I see the padrone! He returns! I go to Milan to meet him, but no one is to know!’ They will know, son of Fontini-Cristi.” Barzini smiled.

  “Did anyone ask you why I insisted you come to Milan?”

  “Most did. I say only that you wish to talk with me privately. I tell them I am honored. And I am.”

  “It should be enough.” Victor picked up the phone and gave a number to the hotel switchboard. While he waited for the call to be placed, he turned to Barzini. “When this is over, I want you to come back with me. To England, then America. I’m married, old friend. You’ll like the signora. I have sons, two sons. Twins.”

  Barzini’s eyes shone. “You have sons? I give thanks to God—”

  There was no answer on the line. Fontine was concerned. It was imperative that the MI6 man be at that telephone! He was stationed halfway between Varese and Campo di Fiori. He was the contact for the others, spread out on the roads leading from Stresa, Lugano, and Morcote; he was the focal point of communications. Where the hell was he?

  Victor hung up the phone and took his wallet out of his pocket. In a concealed recess was another telephone number. In Rome.

  He gave it to the operator.

  “What do you mean there’s no answer?” asked the precise English voice that answered.

  “Is there a clearer way to say it?” responded Fontine. “There is no answer. When did you last hear from him?”

  “About four hours ago. Everything was on schedule. He was in radio contact with all vehicles. You got the message, of course.”

  “What message?”

  There was a momentary silence. “I don’t like this, Fontine.”

  “What message?”

  “He said he might have been zeroed, but we weren’t to worry. He’d reach you at the hotel when you arrived. He spotted up the car himself. It was on the road that passes the main gates at Campo di Fiori. He didn’t reach you?”

  Victor suppressed a desire to shout. “He didn’t reach me. There were no messages for me. What car?”

  “A green Fiat. The license was from Savona, that’s on the Genoa gulf. One of the descriptions matched a Corsican in the police files. A contrabandist London believes worked for us. The others are also Corsos, we think. And him.”

  “I presume you mean—”

  “Yes. Stone’s the fourth man.”

  Stone had taken the bait. Apple had gone back to Celle Ligure, back to the Corsicans to find his recruits. And Apple, the professional, had removed the contact in Varese.

  Eliminate the couriers. Immoblize communications. Loch Torridon.

  “Thank you,” said Victor to the man in Rome.

  “See here, Fontine!” came the harried voice over the telephone. “You’re to do nothing! Stay where you are!”

  Without answering, Victor replaced the phone and walked back to Barzini. “I need some men. Men we can trust, who are willing to take risks.”

  Barzini look away; the old man was embarrassed. “Things are not what they were, padrone.”

  “Partigiani?” said Fontine.

  “Mostly Communists. They’re concerned with themselves now. With ther pamphlets, their meetings. They—” Barzini stopped. “Wait. There are two men who don’t forget. They hid in the mountains; I brought them food, news of their families. We can trust them.”

  “They’ll have to do,” said Victor, starting for the bedroom door. “I’m going to change clothes. Can you reach them?”

  “There’s a telephone number,” answered Barzini, getting up from the couch.

  “Call them. Tell them to meet me at Campo di Fiori. I assume there are guards.”

  “Only a nightwatchman now. From Laveno. And myself.”

  Fontine stopped and turned to Barzini. “Would these men know the back road north of the stables?”

  “They can find it.”

  “Good. Tell them to start out now and wait for me on the bridle path at the rear of the stables. It’s still there, isn’t it?”

  “It is still there. What are you going to do, padrone?”

  Victor realized as he spoke that he was repeating the words he had used over the phone to Teague five days ago. “What everyone expects me to do.” He turned and continued toward the bedroom.

  16

  The lessons of Loch Torridon were always present, thought Victor, as he stood in front of the hotel desk, his arms on the marble counter, watching the night clerk carry out his request. He had demanded a car for hire in a voice loud enough to draw attention. It was a difficult order considering the hour; vehicles were hard enough to come by during the day, much less in the middle of the night. But they could be had if the money was sufficient. Then, too, the argument at the front desk was sufficiently disagreeable to alert any observer. Also, there were the clothes he wore: dark gray trousers, boots, and a dark hunting jacket. It was not the hunting season.

  There were only a few stragglers in the lobby; several businessmen making unsteady treks to their rooms after long, liquid conferences; a couple arguing over one or the other’s behavior; a nervous, rich youth signing in with a whore who waited discreetly in a chair. And a dark, swarthy man with the hard leather face of the sea, who was across the lobby in an armchair reading a magazine, seemingly oblivious to the hotel’s night scene. A Corsican, thought Victor.

  It was this man who could carry the message to other Corsicans. To the Englishman named Stone.

  It was simply a matter of coordinating the upcoming sequence. To make sure there was a green Fiat on the street, probably in shadows, ready to take up a discreet position when the rented car drove away. If there was no such automobile, Victor could find reasons to delay until it arrived.

  No delay was necessary. The Fiat could be seen in the middle of the next block. Captain Geoffrey Stone was sure of himself. The auto was positioned in front of Fontine’s car, heading west, toward the road to Varese. To Campo di Fiori.

  Barzini sat in the front with Victor. The brandy had done its work. The old man’s head kept falling to his chest.

  “Sleep,” said Victor. “It’s a long drive and I’ll want you rested when we get there.”

  They drove through the open gates and into the long winding entrance of Campo di Fiori. Although he was braced for it, the sight of the house filled his chest with pain; hammering seared through his temples. He approached the execution grounds. The sights and sounds of that agony returned, but he knew he could not permit them to overwhelm him. The lessons of Loch Torridon: Divided concentrations were dangerous.

  He contracted the muscles of his stomach taut and stopped the car.

  Barzini was awake, staring at him. The nightwatchman emerged from the thick oak doors beyond the marble steps, the beam of his flashlight examining the car and those inside. Barzini stepped out and spoke.

  “I bring the son of Fontini-Cristi. He’s the padrone of this house.”

  The watchman threw the beam over at Victor, who had gotten out of the car and stood by the hood. His voice was respectful. And not a little frightened.

  “I am honored, padrone.”

  “You may go home to Laveno,” Fontine told him. “If you don’t mind, use the north road. You probably do anyway. It’s the shortest way.”

  “Much the shortest, signore. Thank you, signore.”

  “There may be
two friends waiting for me at the stables.

  Don’t be alarmed, I asked them to drive through the north gate. If you see them, please tell them I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Of course, padrone.” The nightwatchman nodded and walked rapidly down the marble steps into the drive. There was a bicycle in the shadows by the shrubbery. He mounted and pedaled off into the darkness toward the stables.

  “Quickly,” said Victor, turning to Barzini. “Tell me. Are the telephones as they were? Is there still a line connecting the house with the stables?”

  “Yes. In your father’s study and in the hall.”

  “Good. Go in and turn on all the lights in the hall and in the dining room. Then go back to the study, keeping those lights out. Stay by a window. When I reach your friends, I’ll call you from the stables and tell you what to do. Soon the Corsicans will appear. On foot, I’m sure. Watch for small flashlights. Tell me what you see.”

  “Very well. Padrone?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have no gun. Weapons are outlawed.”

  “Take mine.” Victor reached into his belt and removed his Smith & Wesson. “I don’t think you’ll need it. Don’t fire unless your life depends on it.”

  Thirty seconds later the lights in the great hall shone through the stained-glass windows above the huge entrance doors. Victor hurried along the side of the house and waited by the edge of the building. The chandeliers in the dining room were switched on. The whole north section of the house was a blaze of light, the south section in darkness.

  There were still no signs of life on the road; no beams of flashlights or flares or matches. It was as it should be. Stone was a professional. When he moved it would be with extreme caution.

  So be it. His moves would be cautious also.

  Victor ran into the north road toward the stables. He kept low to the ground and alert, listening for the unusual. Stone might have opted for the north gates as his means of entry, but it was unlikely. Stone was anxious; he would move in swiftly, close behind his quarry, and seal off the exits.

  “Partigiani. It’s Fontini-Cristi.” Victor walked down the bridle path at the rear of the stables. The few horses left inside were old and weary, the whinnies intermittent.

  “Signore.” The whisper came from the woods to the right of the path; Fontine approached. Suddenly a flashlight beam shot out from the opposite side. From the left. And another voice spoke.

  “Stay where you are! Don’t turn!”

  He felt the hand of the man behind him on the small of his back, holding him steady. The flashlight moved forward over his shoulder, shining in his face, blinding him.

  “It’s him,” said the voice in the darkness.

  The flashlight was removed. Fontine blinked and rubbed his eyes, trying to erase the residual image of the blinking light. The partigiano came out of the darkness. He was a tall man, nearly as tall as Victor, dressed in a worn American field jacket. The second man came from behind; he was much shorter than his comrade and barrel-chested.

  “Why are we here?” asked the tall man. “Barzini’s old and doesn’t think clearly. We agreed to watch you, warn you … nothing else. We do this because we owe Barzini much. And for old time’s sake; the Fontini-Cristis fought against the fascists.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What do the Corsicans want? And this Englishman?” The second man moved to his friend’s side.

  “Something they believe I have, which I don’t have.” Victor stopped. From the stables there was a soft, tired snort followed by a series of hoof thumps. The partisans heard it, too; the flashlight was extinguished.

  A crack of a limb. A pebble dislodged under a footstep. Someone approached, following the same path Fontine had taken. The partisans separated; the stocky man moved forward and disappeared into the foliage. His brother did the same in the opposite direction. Victor stepped to his right and crouched off the path.

  Silence. The footsteps scratching over the dry earth became clearer. Suddenly the figure was there, only inches in front of Fontine, outlined in the forest night.

  And then it happened. A powerful beam of light burst out of the darkness, piercing the opposite woods; at the same instant there was the sudden, muted spit of a pistol, its noise contained by a silencer.

  Victor sprang up, lashing his left arm around the throat of the man, his right surging beyond for the weapon, forcing it downward. As the man’s back arched, Victor crashed his knee into the base of the spine. The man’s breath was expunged; Fontine yanked with all his strength at the taut neck in his hammerlock. There was a snap, sickening and final. The light rolled on the path.

  The tall partigiano raced out of the woods, crushing the light underfoot, his pistol in his hand. He and Victor plunged into the foliage, both silently acknowledging the fear that their ally was dead.

  He was not. The bullet had only creased his arm. He lay wild-eyed in shock, his mouth open, his breathing loud. Fontine knelt beside him, tearing off the partisan’s shirt to check the wound. The man’s friend remained standing, his gun on the stable path.

  “Mother of Christ! You damn fool! Why didn’t you shoot him?” The wounded partigiano winced in pain. “Another second and he would have killed me!”

  “I had no weapon,” replied Victor quietly, wiping the blood from the man’s flesh.

  “Not even a knife?”

  “No.” Fontine bound the wound and knotted the cloth. The partigiano stared at him.

  “You’ve got balls,” he said. “You could have waited out of sight. My comrade has a gun.”

  “Come on, stand up. There are two other Corsi somewhere. I want them. But without gunfire.” Victor bent down and picked up the dead man’s pistol. There were four bullets in the chamber; the silencer was one of the best. He beckoned the tall partisan off the path and spoke to both. “I’m going to ask a favor of you. You can refuse me and I’ll understand.”

  “What is it?” asked the larger man.

  “The other two Corsicans are back there. One’s probably watching the main road, the other may be behind the house, in the gardens, there’s no way to tell. The Englishman will stay out of sight, near the house. I’m sure the Corsi won’t kill me. They’ll watch every move I make, but they will not open fire.”

  “That one,” said the wounded partisan, pointing to the dead man, “did not hesitate to pull his trigger.”

  “These Corsi know me by sight. He could see you weren’t me.”

  The strategy was clean. Victor was the bait; he would walk openly down to the circular drive and turn into the gardens at the rear of the house. The partisans were to follow him, staying out of sight in the trees. If Fontine was right, a Corsican would be seen. And taken. Or killed silently. It did not matter; these Corsi murdered Italians.

  The strategy would then be repeated on the main entrance road, the partisans crossing diagonally far behind the embankment, meeting him at a juncture a quarter of a mile away. Somewhere between the circular drive and the gates, the third and last Corsican would be stationed.

  The positions were logical, and Stone was nothing if not a logical man. And thorough. He would seal off the exits.

  “You don’t have to do this for me,” said Victor. “I’ll pay generously, but I understand—.”

  “Keep your money,” interrupted the wounded man, looking first at his comrade. “You didn’t have to do what you did for me.”

  “There’s a telephone in the stables. I must talk with Barzini. Then start down the road.”

  The surmise was confirmed. Stone had covered both roads and the gardens. And the remaining Corsicans were taken, their lives ended with partisan knives.

  They met at the stables. Fontine was sure that Stone had been watching him from the embankment. The quarry was walking the killing ground; the return was painful. Loch Torridon had taught them both to anticipate reactions. It was a weapon.

  “Where’s your car?” Victor asked the partigiani.

  “Outside the north ga
te,” replied the tall one.

  “You have my thanks. Get your friend to a doctor. Barzini will know where I can send a more concrete form of gratitude.”

  “You want the Englishman for yourself?”

  “There’ll be no trouble. He’s a man with one hand, without his Corsi. Barzini and I know what to do. Get to a doctor.”

  “Good-bye, signore,” said the tall man. “Our debts are canceled. To old Barzini. To you, perhaps. The Fontini-Cristis were good to this land once.”

  “Many thanks.”

  The partisans nodded a last time and made their way swiftly up the road into the darkness toward the north gate. Fontine went down the path and let himself into the stables through a side door. He walked by the stalls, past the horses and Barzini’s small bedroom, into the tack room. He found a wooden box and began filling it with braces and bits and musty, framed citations from the walls. He crossed to the telephone by the door and pushed a button beneath it.

  “All is well, old friend.”

  “Thank God.”

  “What about the Englishman?”

  “He’s waiting across the drive, in the high grass. On the embankment. The same—” Barzini stopped.

  “I understand. I’m starting out now. You know what to do. Remember, at the door speak slowly, clearly. The Englishman hasn’t spoken Italian in recent years.”

  “Old men talk louder than they must,” said Barzini, humor in his voice. “Because we hear poorly, so must everyone else.”

  Fontine replaced the phone and checked the pistol the partisans had left him; it had been taken from a dead Corsican. He unscrewed the silencer and put the weapon in his pocket. He picked up the box and went out the tack room door.

  He walked slowly down the road to the circular drive opposite the embankment. In front of the steps, in the spill of light from the windows, he paused, giving his arms a moment of rest, conveying the fact that the box was heavier than its size might indicate.

  He continued up the steps to the large oak doors. He then did the most natural thing that came to him: he kicked at the right door.