The Gemini Contenders: A Novel Read online

  HOLY BLOOD

  Dawn came over the waters of Lago Maggiore. They were on the Stresa freight barge. Petride wondered what would greet them in Milan, although he realized that it did not matter.

  Nothing mattered now. The journey was coming to an end.

  The holy thing was in its resting place. Not to be unearthed for years; perhaps to be buried for a millennium. There was no way to tell.

  They sped southeast on the main track through Varese into Castiglione. The countryside rushed by, and the skyline of Milan came into view.

  “We’re here!” shouted Annaxas. “A day’s rest, then home! I must say you people are remarkable!”

  “Yes,” said Petride simply. “We’re remarkable.”

  The priest of Xenope removed the large Italian pistol from under his shirt. He took two steps forward, toward his beloved brother, and raised the barrel of the weapon. It was inches from the base of Annaxas’s skull.

  He pulled the trigger.

  THE GEMINI CONTENDERS

  “TREMENDOUS SUSPENSE.”

  —San Francisco Sunday Examiner & Chronicle

  “A MASTERLY JOB … COMPLEX, THOUGHT PROVOKING, AND INTRICATELY PLOTTED.”

  —San Diego Union

  Bantam Books by Robert Ludlum

  Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed

  THE APOCALYPSE WATCH

  THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION

  THE BOURNE IDENTITY

  THE BOURNE SUPREMACY

  THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM

  THE CHANCELLOR MANUSCRIPT

  THE CRY OF THE HALIDON

  THE GEMINI CONTENDERS

  THE HOLCROFT COVENANT

  THE ICARUS AGENDA

  THE MATARESE CIRCLE

  THE MATARESE COUNTDOWN

  THE MATLOCK PAPER

  THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND

  THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC

  THE RHINEMANN EXCHANGE

  THE ROAD TO GANDOLFO

  THE ROAD TO OMAHA

  THE SCARLATTI INHERITANCE

  THE SCORPIO ILLUSION

  TREVAYNE

  THE GEMINI CONTENDERS

  A Bantam Book/published by arrangement with the author

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Doubleday edition published 1976

  Bantam edition/August 1989

  Excerpt from “Trevayne” copyright © 1973 by Jonathan Ryder.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1976 by Robert Ludlum.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-81383-1

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books. New York, New York.

  v3.1_r2

  For Richard Marek, Editor.

  Brilliance cloaked in great humor. Perception beyond any writer’s imagination. Simply, the best there is.

  And for lovely Margot, who makes it all perfect.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Book One

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part Two

  Chapter 6

  Part Three

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part Four

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Book Two: Part One

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part Two

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Part Three

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Part Four

  Chapter 34

  Excerpt from The Bourne Identity

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  BOOK ONE

  PROLOGUE

  DECEMBER 9, 1939

  SALONIKA, GREECE

  One by one the trucks struggled up the steep road in the predawn light of Salonika. Each went a bit faster at the top; the drivers were anxious to return to the darkness of the descending country road cut out of the surrounding forests.

  Yet each of the five drivers in the five trucks had to control his anxiety. None could allow his foot to slip from a brake or press an accelerator beyond a certain point; eyes had to be squinted, sharpening the focus, alert for a sudden stop or an unexpected curve in the darkness.

  For it was darkness. No headlights were turned on; the column traveled with only the gray light of the Grecian night, low-flying clouds filtering the spill of the Grecian moon.

  The journey was an exercise in discipline. And discipline was not foreign to these drivers, or to the riders beside the drivers.

  Each was a priest. A monk. From the Order of Xenope, the harshest monastic brotherhood under the control of the Patriarchate of Constantine. Blind obedience coexisted with self-reliance; they were disciplined to the instant of death.

  In the lead truck, the young bearded priest removed his cassock, under which were the clothes of a laborer, a heavy shirt and trousers of thick fabric. He rolled up the cassock and placed it in the well behind the high-backed seat, shoving it down between odd items of canvas and cloth. He spoke to the robed driver beside him.

  “It’s no more than a half mile now. The stretch of track parallels the road for about three hundred feet. In the open; it will be sufficient.”

  “The train will be there?” asked the middle-aged, powerfully built monk, narrowing his eyes in the darkness.

  “Yes. Four freight cars, a single engineer. No stokers. No other men.”

  “You’ll be using a shovel, then,” said the older priest, smiling but with no humor in his eyes.

  “I’ll be using the shovel,” replied the younger man simply. “Where’s the weapon?”

  “In the glove compartment.”

  The priest in the laborer’s clothes reached forward and released the catch on the compartment panel. It fell open. He put his hand inside the recess and withdrew a heavy, large-calibered pistol. Deftly, the priest sprung the magazine out of the handle, checked the ammunition, and cracked the thick steel back into the chamber. The metallic sound had a finality to it.

  “A powerful instrument. Italian, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” answered the older priest without comment, only the sadness in his voice.

  “That’s appropriate. And, I suppose, a blessing.” The younger man shoved the weapon into his belt. “You’ll call his family?”

  “I’ve been so ordered—” It was obvious that the driver wanted to say something more, but he controlled himself. Silently he gripped the wheel more firmly than necessary.

  For a moment the moonlight broke through the night clouds, illuminating the road cut out of the forest.

  “I used to play here as a child,�
�� said the younger man. “I would run through the woods and get wet in the streams … then I would dry off in the mountain caves and pretend I had visions. I was happy in these hills. The Lord God wanted me to see them again. He is merciful. And kind.”

  The moon disappeared. There was darkness once more.

  The trucks entered a sweeping curve to the west; the woods thinned out and in the distance, barely visible, were the outlines of telegraph poles, black shafts silhouetted against gray night. The road straightened and widened and became one with a clearing that stretched perhaps a hundred yards from forest to forest. A flat, barren area imposed on the myriad hills and woodlands. In the center of the clearing, its hulk obscured by the darkness beyond, was a train.

  Immobile but not without movement. From the engine came curls of smoke spiraling up into the night.

  “In the old days,” said the young priest, “the farmers would herd their sheep and cart their produce here. There was always a great deal of confusion, my father told me. Fights broke out constantly over what belonged to whom. They were amusing stories.… There he is!”

  The beam of a flashlight shot out from the black. It circled twice and then remained stationary, the white shaft directed now at the last freight car. The priest in laborer’s clothes unclipped a pencil light from his shirt pocket, held it forward and pressed the button for precisely two seconds. The reflection off the truck’s windshield briefly illuminated the small enclosure. The younger man’s eyes were drawn swiftly to the face of his brother monk. He saw that his companion had bitten his lip; a rivulet of blood trickled down his chin, matting itself in the close-cropped gray beard.

  There was no reason to comment on it.

  “Pull up to the third car. The others will turn around and start unloading.”

  “I know,” said the driver simply. He swung the wheel gently to the right and headed toward the third freight car.

  The engineer, in overalls and a goatskin cap, approached the truck as the young priest opened the door and jumped to the ground. The two men looked at each other and then embraced.

  “You look different without your cassock, Petride. I’d forgotten how you looked—”

  “Oh, come now. Four years out of twenty-seven is hardly the better part.”

  “We don’t see you often enough. Everyone in the family remarks about it.” The engineer removed his large, calloused hands from the priest’s shoulders. The moon broke through the clouds again; the spill lighted the trainman’s face. It was a strong face, nearer fifty than forty, filled with the lines of a man constantly exposing his skin to the wind and the sun.

  “How’s mother, Annaxas?”

  “Well. A little weaker with each month of age, but alert.”

  “And your wife?”

  “Pregnant again and not laughing this time. She scolds me.”

  “She should. You’re a lustful old dog, my brother. But better to serve the church, I rejoice to say.” The priest laughed.

  “I’ll tell her you said that,” said the engineer, smiling.

  There was a moment of silence before the young man replied. “Yes. You tell her.” He turned to the activity taking place at the freight cars. The loading doors had been opened and lanterns hung inside, shedding their muted light sufficiently for packing, but not bright enough to be obvious outside. The figures of robed priests began walking swiftly back and forth between the trucks and the doors, carrying crates, boxes of heavy cardboard framed with wood. Prominently displayed on each crate was the crucifix and thorns of the Order of Xenope.

  “The food?” inquired the engineer.

  “Yes,” answered his brother. “Fruits, vegetables, dried meats, grain. The border patrols will be satisfied.”

  “Then where?” It was not necessary to be clearer.

  “This vehicle. In the middle section of the carriage, beneath tobacco nets. You have the lookouts posted?”

  “On the tracks and the road; both directions for over a mile. Don’t worry. Before daybreak on a Sunday morning, only you priests and novices have work to do and places to go.”

  The young priest glanced over at the fourth freight car. The work was progressing rapidly; the crates were being stacked inside. All those hours of practice were showing their value. The monk who was his driver stopped briefly by the muted light of the loading door, a carton in his hands. He exchanged looks with the younger man, then forced his attention away, back to the carton which he swung up into the well of the freight car.

  Father Petride turned to his brother. “When you picked up the train, did you speak with anyone?”

  “Only the dispatcher. Naturally. We had black tea together.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Words I wouldn’t offend you with, for the most part. His papers said the cars were to be loaded by the fathers of Xenope in the outlying yards. He didn’t ask any questions.”

  Father Petride looked over at the second freight car, on his right. In minutes all would be completed; they would be ready for the third car. “Who prepared the engine?”

  “Fuel crews and mechanics. Yesterday afternoon. The orders said it was a standby; that’s normal. Equipment breaks down all the time. We are laughed at in Italy.… Naturally, I checked everything myself several hours ago.”

  “Would the dispatcher have any reason to telephone the freight yards? Where supposedly we are loading the cars?”

  “He was asleep, or practically so, before I left his tower. The morning schedule won’t start—” the engineer looked up at the gray black sky “—for at least another hour. He’d have no reason to call anyone, unless the wireless reported an accident.”

  “The wires were shorted out; water in a terminal box,” said the priest quickly, as if talking to himself.

  “Why?”

  “In case you did have problems. You spoke to no one else?”

  “Not even a drifter. I checked the cars to make sure none were inside.”

  “You’ve studied our schedule by now. What do you think?”

  The trainman whistled softly, shaking his head. “I think I’m astounded, my brother. Can so much be … so arranged?”

  “The arrangements are taken care of. What about the time? That’s the important factor.”

  “If there are no track failures the speed can be maintained. The Slav border police at Bitola are hungry for bribes; and a Greek freight at Banja Luka is fair game. We’ll have no trouble at Sarajevo or Zagreb; they look for larger fish than food for the religious.”

  “The time, not the bribes.”

  “They are time. One haggles.”

  “Only if not haggling would seem suspicious. Can we reach Monfalcone in three nights?”

  “If your arrangements are successful, yes. If we lose time we could make it up during the daylight hours.”

  “Only as a last resort. We travel at night.”

  “You’re obstinate.”

  “We’re cautious.” Again the priest looked away. Freight cars one and two were secure, the fourth would be loaded and packed before the minute was up. He turned back to his brother. “Does the family think you’re taking a freight to Corinth?”

  “Yes. To Navpaktos. To the shipyards on the straits of Patrai. They don’t expect me back for the better part of a week.”

  “There are strikes at Patrai. The unions are angry. If you were a few days longer, they’d understand.”

  Annaxas looked closely at his brother. He seemed startled at the young priest’s worldly knowledge. There was a hesitancy in his reply. “They’d understand. Your sister-in-law would understand.”

  “Good.” The monks had gathered by Petride’s truck, watching him, waiting for instructions. “I’ll join you at the engine shortly.”

  “All right,” said the trainman as he walked away, glancing at the priests.

  Father Petride removed the pencil light from his shirt pocket and in the darkness approached the other monks at the truck. He searched out the powerfully built man who was his drive
r. The monk understood and stepped away from the others, joining Petride at the side of the vehicle.

  “This is the last time we speak,” said the young priest.

  “May the blessings of God—”

  “Please,” interrupted Petride. “There’s no time. Just commit to memory each move we make here tonight. Everything. It must be duplicated exactly.”

  “It will be. The same roads, the same orders or trucks, the same drivers, identical papers across the borders to Monfalcone. Nothing will change, except one of us will be missing.”

  “That’s the will of God. For the glory of God. It’s a privilege beyond my worth.”

  There were two master padlocks on the truck’s panel. Petride had one key; his driver held the other. Together they approached the locks and inserted the keys. The irons sprung; the locks were lifted out of the steel hasps, the hasps slapped up, and the doors opened. A lantern was hung high on the edge of the panel.

  Inside were the crates with the symbols of the crucifix and thorns stenciled on the sides between the strips of wood. The monks began to remove them, maneuvering like dancers—robes flowing in the eerie light. They carried the cartons to the loading door of the third freight car. Two men leaped up into the heavy-beamed deck of the car and started stacking the boxes at the south end.

  Several minutes later half the truck was empty. In the center of the van, separated from the surrounding cartons, was a single crate draped in black cloth. It was somewhat larger than the cases of produce and not rectangular in shape. Instead, it was a perfect cube: three feet in height, three in width, and three in depth.

  The priests gathered in a semicircle in front of the open panels of the truck. Shafts of filtered white moonlight mingled with the yellow spill of the lantern. The combined effect of the strange admixture of light, the cavernous truck, and the robed figures made Father Petride think of a catacomb, deep in the earth, housing the true relics of the cross.

  The reality was not much different. Except that what lay sealed inside the iron vault—for that was what it was—was infinitely more meaningful than the petrified wood of the crucifixion.

  Several of the monks had closed their eyes in prayer; others were staring, transfixed by the presence of the holy thing, their thoughts suspended, their faith drawing sustenance from what they believed was within the tomblike chest—itself a catafalque.