The Gemini Contenders: A Novel Page 11

  Vittorio picked up the telephone. “Yes?”

  “Fontini?” The Intelligence man was also given to brevity when it came to names. Apparently he saw no reason to add the Cristi when the Fontini was sufficient.

  “Hello, Alec, I’ve been expecting you.”

  “I’ve got the papers,” said Teague rapidly. “And your orders. The Foreign Office was reluctant. It’s an equal wager whether they were concerned for your well-being, or whether they thought you’d present the crown with a bill.”

  “The latter, I can assure you. My father drove ‘hard bargains,’ I think is the term. Frankly, I’ve never understood the phrase; can bargains be soft?”

  “Damned if I know.” Teague was not really listening. “I think we should meet right off. How’s your evening?”

  “I’m having dinner with Miss Holcroft. Under the circumstances I can cancel, of course.”

  “Holcroft? Oh, the Spane woman.”

  “I think she prefers Holcroft.”

  “Yes, can’t blame her. He’s a bloody fool. Still, you can’t deny the ceremony.”

  “She’s doing her best to, I believe.”

  Teague laughed. “Damned gutsy girl. I think I’d like her.”

  “Which means you don’t know her, and you want me to know you’ve had me followed. I never mentioned her married name to you.”

  Teague laughed again. “For your own benefit, not ours.”

  “Shall I cancel?”

  “Don’t bother. When will you be finished?”

  “Finished?”

  “Dinner. Damn, I forgot; you’re Italian.”

  Vittorio smiled. Alec’s recollection was made in complete sincerity. “I can see the lady home by ten thirty … ten o’clock. I gather you wish to meet tonight.”

  “I’m afraid we have to. Your orders call for you to leave tomorrow. For Scotland. In the morning.”

  The restaurant in Holborn was named Fawn’s. Black curtains were drawn tautly across the windows, stretched and tacked, inhibiting any light from spilling a single shaft into the street. He was in the bar, seated at a corner stool with a clear view of the lounge and the shrouded entrance. She would arrive any minute now and he smiled at himself, realizing that he wanted to see her very much.

  He knew when it had begun with Jane—their swiftly developing relationship that would shortly lead to the splendid comfort of the bed. It was not their meeting in the Savoy lobby; nor was it their first evening together. Those were pleasant distractions; he had sought no more, wanted no more.

  The beginning was five days later when he had been sitting alone in his rooms. There’d been a knock on the foyer door. He had opened it; Jane was standing in the hallway. In her hand was a slightly worn copy of the Times. He had not seen it.

  “For God’s sake, what happened?” she asked.

  He had shown her in without answering, unsure of her meaning. She’d handed him the newspaper. In the lower left corner of the front page was a brief article circled in red pencil.

  MILAN, Jan. 2 (Reuters)—A news blackout has been lowered on the Fontini-Cristi Industries here as government officials moved in assuming managerial control. No member of the Fontini-Cristi family has been seen, and the police have sealed off the family estate at Campo di Fiori. Rumors abound as to the fate of this powerful dynasty headed by the financier Savarone Fontini-Cristi and his eldest son, Vittorio. Reliable sources indicate they may have been killed by patriots, infuriated by recent company decisions many felt were inimicable to Italy’s interests. It was reported that the mutilated body of an “informer” (unseen by this journalist) was found hanging in the Piazza del Duomo, with a sign that would seem to confirm the rumors of execution. Rome has issued only the statement that the Fontini-Cristis were enemies of the state.

  Vittorio had put down the paper and walked across the room, away from the girl. He knew she meant well; he did not fault her concern. Yet he was profoundly annoyed. The anguish was his alone and he did not care to share it. She had intruded.

  “I’m sorry,” she’d said quietly. “I presumed. I had no right to do that.”

  “When did you first read this?”

  “Less than a half hour ago. It was left on my desk. I’ve mentioned you to friends. I saw no reason not to.”

  “And you came right over?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I cared,” had been her simple answer. The honesty of it had touched him. “I’ll go now.”

  “Please—”

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  “Yes. I think I do.”

  And so he had told her. In measured tones at first, his sentences gathering momentum as he approached the hideous night of white light and death that was Campo di Fiori. His throat was dry. He did not wish to go on.

  And Jane did a strange thing. Separated by the short distance between their opposing chairs, making no move to diminish that separation, she forced him to continue.

  “For God’s sake, say it. All of it.”

  She whispered, but the whisper was a command and in his confusion and anguish he accepted it.

  When he was done, relief swept over him. For the first time in days an unbearable weight had been lifted. Not permanently, it would return; but for the moment he had found his sanity; really found it, not an imposed pretense that left his breath always a little short.

  Jane had known what he had not understood. She had said it.

  “Did you think you could go on keeping it inside? Not saying the words; not hearing them. What kind of man do you think you are?”

  What kind of man? He did not really know. He had not actually thought about the kind of man he was; it was not a question that had concerned him beyond certain limits. He was Vittorio Fontini-Cristi, first son of Savarone. Now he would find out what else he was. He wondered whether Jane could be a part of his new world. Or whether the hate and the war would be all-consuming. He knew only the war—and the hate—were his springboards back to life.

  Which was why he had encouraged Alec Teague when the MI6 man contacted him after the disastrous conference with Brevourt at Intelligence Sector Five. Teague wanted background material—seemingly unimportant conversations, offhand remarks, oddly repeated words—anything that might have a bearing on the train from Salonika. But Vittorio wanted something, too. From Teague. So he spaced out the isolated scraps of information: a river that might or might not have anything to do with Zürich, a district in the Italian Alps that bore the name Champoluc, but possessed no river. Whatever the puzzle was, its pieces remained separate. Still Teague probed.

  And while he probed, Vittorio drew out the conceivable options MI6 might have for him. He was fluent in English and Italian, more than proficient in French and German; he had an intimate working knowledge of a score of major European industries, had negotiated with the leading financial figures throughout Europe. Certainly there was something.

  Teague said he would look. Yesterday Teague said he would call him today at four thirty; there might be something. This afternoon at precisely four thirty Teague had called; he had Vittorio’s “orders.” There had been something. Fontini-Cristi wondered what it was, and even more, why the abruptness of his departure for Scotland.

  “Have you been waiting long?” asked Jane Holcroft, suddenly standing beside him in the dimly lit bar.

  “I’m sorry.” Vittorio was; he had not seen her in the lounge. Yet he had been staring at the door. “No, not at all.”

  “You were miles away. You looked right at me and when I smiled, you scowled. I trust it’s not indicative.”

  “Good heavens, no. You were right; I was miles away. In Scotland.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ll tell you about it at the table. What I know, which is very little.”

  They were led to their table and ordered drinks. “I’ve told you about Teague,” he said, lighting her cigarette, holding the flame of the match for his own.

  “Yes. The man fr
om Intelligence. You didn’t say a great deal about him. Only that he seemed to be a good chap who asked a lot of questions.”

  “He had to. My family required it.” Fontini-Cristi had not told Jane about the freight from Salonika; there was no point. “I’ve been pestering him for several weeks to find me a job.”

  “In the service?”

  “In any service. He was a logical man to approach; he knows people everywhere. We both agreed I have qualifications that might be useful to someone.”

  “What will you be doing?”

  “I don’t know, but whatever it is, it begins in Scotland.”

  The waiter arrived with their drinks. Vittorio nodded his thanks, aware that Jane kept her eyes on his face.

  “There are training camps in Scotland,” she said quietly. “Several are listed as highly classified. They’re quite secret and heavily guarded.”

  Vittorio smiled. “They can’t be too secret.”

  The girl returned his smile, the full explanation in her eyes, only half of it in her words. “There’s an elaborate system of air defense warning-relays throughout the areas. Overlapping sectors; extremely difficult for aircraft to penetrate. Especially single-engine light aircraft.”

  “I forgot. The Savoy manager said you were no-nonsense people.”

  “We’re also given extensive training in all existing systems. As well as those in development stages. Systems vary considerably from sector to sector. When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I see. For how long?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course. You said that.”

  “I’m to meet with Teague tonight. After dinner, but there’s no need to rush. I’m not seeing him until ten thirty. I presume I’ll know more then.”

  Jane was silent for several moments. She locked her eyes with his and then spoke simply. “When your meeting with Teague is over, will you come to me? To my flat? Tell me what you can.”

  “Yes. I will.”

  “I don’t care what time it is.” She placed her hand over his. “I want us to be together.”

  “So do I.”

  Brigadier Alec Teague removed his creased officer’s cap and army overcoat and threw them on the Savoy chair. He unbuttoned his tunic and his collar and loosened his tie. He lowered his large, powerful frame into the soft couch and exhaled a sigh of relaxation. He grinned at Fontini-Cristi, who stood in front of an opposing armchair and held his palms up in supplication.

  “Since I’ve been at it since seven this morning, I do think you should offer me a drink. Whiskey neat would be splendid.”

  “Of course.” Vittorio crossed to the small bar against the wall, poured two short glasses, and returned with the drinks.

  “Mrs. Spane’s a most attractive woman,” Teague said. “And you’re quite right, you know, she does prefer her maiden name. At the Air Ministry the ‘Spane’ is in brackets. She’s called Flying Officer Holcroft.”

  “Flying Officer?” Vittorio did not know why but the title seemed faintly amusing to him. “I hadn’t thought of her in such military terms.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean.” Teague finished his drink quickly and placed his glass on the coffee table. Vittorio gestured for a refill. “No more, thank you. It’s time for serious talk.” The Intelligence man looked at his wristwatch; Fontini-Cristi wondered if Teague really scheduled himself to the precise half-minute for social conversation.

  “What’s in Scotland?”

  “Your place of residence for the next month or so. Should you accept the terms of employment. The pay’s not exactly what you’re accustomed to, I’m afraid.” Teague grinned again. “As a matter of fact, we rather arbitrarily placed it at a captain’s rate. I don’t have the figures in my head.”

  “The figures aren’t my concern. You say I have a choice, but before you said that my orders had arrived. I don’t understand.”

  “We have no hold over you. You can reject the employment and I’ll cancel the orders. It’s as simple as that. However, in the interests of time, I made the purchase first. Frankly, to be sure it could be made.”

  “All right. What is it?”

  “That’s rather difficult to answer quickly. If at all, really. You see, it’s pretty much up to you.”

  “To me?”

  “Yes. The circumstances surrounding your getting out of Italy were unique, we all understand that. But you’re not the only continental who’s fled Europe. We’ve got dozens and dozens. And I’m not talking about the Jews and the Bolsheviks; they’re in the thousands. I’m referring to scores of men like yourself. Businessmen, professionals, scientists, engineers, university people who, for one reason or another—we’d like to think it was moral repugnance—couldn’t function where they lived. That’s about where we are.”

  “I don’t understand. Where are you?”

  “In Scotland. With forty or fifty ragtail continentals—all quite successful in their previous livelihoods—in search of a leader.”

  “And you think I am he?”

  “The more I think about it, the more convinced I become. Rather natural qualifications, I’d say. You’ve moved in the monied circles, you speak the languages. Above all, you’re a businessman, you’ve developed markets all over Europe. Good heavens, man, the Fontini-Cristi Industries are enormous; you were its chief executive. Adapt to the conditions. Do what you’ve done splendidly for the past half-dozen years or so. Only do it from the opposite point of view. Mismanagement.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The brigadier continued, speaking rapidly. “We have men in Scotland who’ve worked in scores of occupations and professions in all the major cities in Europe. One step always leads to another, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s what you’re counting on, isn’t it? We both ask questions.”

  Teague leaned forward, suddenly reflective. “These are hectic and complicated times. There are more questions than there are answers. But one answer was right in front of our eyes only we didn’t see it. We were training these men for the wrong things! That is, we weren’t sure what we were training them for; vaguely for underground contacts, routine information runs, it was amorphous. There’s something better; damned ingenious, if I say so myself. The strategy, the concept is to send them back to disrupt the marketplace, create havoc—not so much physical sabotage, we’ve enough people doing that, but bureaucratic chaos. Let them operate in their former bailiwicks. Accounting offices consistently out of balance, bills of lading constantly inaccurate, delivery schedules at sixes and sevens, mass confusion in the factories: exemplary mismanagement at all costs!”

  Teague was excited, his enthusiasm infectious. It was difficult for Vittorio to keep his concentration on the essence of his original question. “But why do I have to leave in the morning?”

  “To put it bluntly, I said I might lose you if there were any further delays.”

  “Further? How can you say that? I’ve been here less than—”

  “Because,” broke in Teague, “no more than five people in England know why we really got you out of Italy. Your complete lack of information about the train from Salonika has them stunned. They took an extraordinary gamble and lost. What you’ve told me leads nowhere; our agents in Zürich, Berne, Trieste, Monfalcone … they can trace nothing. So I stepped in with a different version of why we got you out and saved a few heads in the bargain. I said this new operation was your idea. They leaped at it! After all, you are a Fontini-Cristi. Will you accept?”

  Vittorio smiled. “ ‘Mismanagement at all costs.’ That is a credo I doubt has a precedent. Yes, I do see the possibilities. Whether they are enormous—or theoretical—remains to be seen. I accept.”

  Teague smiled slyly. “There’s one thing more. About your name—”

  “Victor Fontine?” Jane laughed beside him on the couch in the Kensington flat, warmed by the glow of the burning logs in the fireplace. “That’s British cheek if I ever heard it. They’ve coloni
zed you.”

  “And made me an officer in the process,” chuckled Captain Victor Fontine, holding up the envelope and dropping it on the coffee table. “Teague was amusing. He approached the subject rather the way one expects from the cinema. ‘We must find you a name. Something immediately recognizable, easy to use in cables.’ I was intrigued. I was to be given a code name, something quite dramatic, I imagined. A precious stone, perhaps, with a number. Or an animal’s name. Instead, he merely Anglicized my own and lopped it off.” Victor laughed. “I’ll get used to it. It’s not for a lifetime.”

  “I don’t know if I can, but I’ll try. It’s rather a letdown, frankly.”

  “We must all sacrifice. Am I correct in assuming a capitano is a higher rank than a flying officer?”

  “The ‘flying officer’ has no intention of giving orders. I don’t think either of us is very military. Nor is Kensington. What about Scotland?”

  He told her sketchily, keeping what facts he knew unspecific. As he spoke, he saw and could feel her unusually light-blue eyes probing his, looking beyond the offhand phrases, knowing surely there was more, or would be. She was dressed in a comfortable lounging robe of pale yellow that accentuated her very dark brown hair and emphasized the blue of her eyes. Underneath the robe, between the wide lapels, he could see the soft white of her nightgown and he knew she meant him to see it, and to want to touch her.

  It was so comfortable, thought Fontine. There was no sense of urgency or maneuver. At one point during his monologue he touched her shoulder; she slowly, gently reached up and held his hand, her fingers caressing his. She led his hand down to her lap and cupped it with her other hand as he finished.

  “So there we have it. ‘Mismanagement at all costs’ wherever it can be inflicted.”

  She was quiet for a moment, her eyes still probing, and then she smiled. “It’s a marvelous idea. Teague’s right, the possibilities are enormous. How long will you be in Scotland? Did he say?”