The Gemini Contenders: A Novel Read online

  “I’ll tell you what I told the British. I know nothing! The English saved my life; why would I lie?”

  “Because you gave your word. To another.”

  “Who?”

  “Your father.”

  “No! He was killed before he could say the words! If you know anything, you know that!”

  The priest of Xenope’s eyes became suddenly fixed. His stare was clouded, his lids wide, almost thyroid. He reached under his field jacket and withdrew a small, snub-nosed automatic. With his thumb he snapped up the safety. “You’re insignificant. We’re both insignificant,” he whispered. “We’re nothing.”

  Victor held his breath. He pulled his knees up; the split second approached when he would have the one opportunity to save his life, when he would lash his feet out at the maniacal priest. One boot at the weapon, the other at Mikhailovic’s weighted leg, sending him over the precipice. It was all there was left—if he could do it.

  Abruptly, the vocal intrusion startling, the priest spoke, his tone chantlike, transfixed. “You’re telling me the truth,” he said, closing his eyes. “You have told me the truth,” he repeated hypnotically.

  “Yes.” Fontine took a deep, deep breath. As he exhaled, he knew he would plunge both legs out; the moment had come.

  Petride stood up, his powerful chest expanding beneath the soldier’s clothes. But the weapon was no longer aimed at Victor. Instead, both Mikhailovic’s arms were extended in an attitude of crucifixion. The priest raised his head to the skies and shouted.

  “I believe in one God, the Father Almighty! I will look into the eyes of the Lord and I shall not waver!”

  The priest of Xenope bent his right arm and put the barrel of the automatic to his temple.

  He fired.

  “You got your first kill,” said Teague casually, sitting in a chair in front of Fontine’s desk in the small, enclosed cubicle.

  “I did not kill him!”

  “It doesn’t matter how it happens, or who pulls the bloody trigger. The result’s the same.”

  “For the wrong reason! That train, that damned, unholy train! When will it stop? When will it go away?”

  “He was your enemy. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “If he was, you should have known it, spotted it! You’re a fool, Alec.”

  Teague shifted his legs in irritation. “That’s rather harsh language for a captain to employ with a brigadier.”

  “Then I’d be delighted to purchase your command and set it right,” said Victor, returning to the papers in manila folders on his desk.

  “One doesn’t do that in the military.”

  “It’s the only reason for your continuity. You wouldn’t last a week as one of my executives.”

  “I don’t believe this.” Teague spoke in astonishment. “I’m sitting here being cashiered by a ragtail guinea.”

  Fontine laughed. “Don’t exaggerate. I’m only doing what you asked me to do.” He gestured at the manila folders on the desk. “Refine Loch Torridon. In that process, I’ve tried to learn how this priest of Xenope, this Mikhailovic, got in.”

  “Have you?”

  “I think so. It’s a basic weakness with every one of these dossiers. There are no clear financial appraisals; there are endless words, histories, judgments—but very few figures. It should be corrected wherever possible before we make our final personnel decisions.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Money. Men are proud of it; it’s the symbol of their productivity. It can be traced, confirmed in a dozen different ways. Records abound. Where possible, I want financial statements on every recruit in Loch Torridon. There was none on Petride Mikhailovic.”

  “Financial—”

  “A financial statement,” completed Fontine, “is a most penetrating look into a man’s character. These are businessmen and professionals, by and large. They’ll be anxious to oblige. Those that are not we’ll question at length.”

  Teague uncrossed his legs, his voice respectful. “We’ll get at it, there are forms for that sort of thing.”

  “If not,” said Victor glancing up, “any bank or brokerage house can supply them. The more complex, the better.”

  “Yes, of course. And beyond this, how are things going?”

  Fontine shrugged, waving his hand again over the pile of the folders on the desk. “Slowly. I’ve read all the dossiers several times, making notes, cataloging by professions and related professions. I’ve detailed geographical patterns, linguistic compatibilities. But where it’s all led me, I’m not sure. It’ll take time.”

  “And a lot of work,” interrupted Teague. “Remember, I told you that.”

  “Yes. You also said it would be worthwhile. I hope you’re right.”

  Teague leaned forward. “I have one of the finest men in the service to work with you. He’ll be your communications man for the whole show. He’s a crackerjack; knows more codes and ciphers than any ten of our best cryptographers. He’s damned decisive, a shark at quick decisions. Which is what you’ll want, of course.”

  “Not for a long time.”

  “Before you know it.”

  “When do I meet him? What’s his name?”

  “Geoffrey Stone. I brought him up with me.”

  “He’s in Loch Torridon?”

  “Yes. No doubt checking the cryp’s quarters. I want him in at the beginning.”

  Victor was not sure why but Teague’s information disturbed him. He wanted to work alone, without distraction. “All right. I imagine we’ll see him at the dinner mess.”

  Teague smiled again and looked at his watch.

  “Well, I’m not sure you’ll want to dine at the Torridon mess.”

  “One never dines at the mess, Alec. He eats.”

  “Yes, well, the cuisine notwithstanding. I’ve a bit of news for you. A friend of yours is in the sector.”

  “Sector? Is Loch Torridon a sector?”

  “For air warning-relays.”

  “Good Lord! Jane is here?”

  “I found out the night before last. She’s on tour for the Air Ministry. Of course, she had no idea you were in this area, until I reached her yesterday. She was in Moray Firth, on the coast.”

  “You’re a terrible manipulator!” Fontine laughed. “And so obvious. Where the devil is she?”

  “I swear to you,” said Teague with convincing innocence, “I knew nothing. Ask her yourself. There’s an inn on the outskirts of town. She’ll be there at five thirty.”

  My God, I’ve missed her! I’ve really missed her. It was rather extraordinary; he had not realized how deeply he felt. Her face with its sharp yet delicate features, her dark, soft hair that fell so beautifully around her shoulders; her eyes, so intensely blue; all were etched in his mind. “I assume you’ll give me a pass to leave the compound.”

  Teague nodded. “And arrange a vehicle for you. But you’ve a while before you should drive off. Let’s spend it on specifics. I realize you’ve only begun, but you must have reached a conclusion or two.”

  “I have. There are fifty-three men here. I doubt twenty-five will survive Loch Torridon, as I believe it should be run—”

  They talked for nearly an hour. The more Fontine expanded his views, the more completely, he realized, did Teague accept them. Good, thought Victor. He was going to make many requests, including a continuing hunt for Loch Torridon talent. But now his thoughts turned to Jane.

  “I’ll walk you to your barracks,” Teague said, sensing his impatience. “We might drop in at the officers’ club for a minute—I promise no longer. Captain Stone will be there by now; you should meet him.”

  But it was not necessary to stop off at the officers’ bar to find Captain Geoffrey Stone. As they walked down the steps of the field complex, Victor saw the figure of a tall man in an army overcoat. He stood about thirty feet away in the compound, his back to them, talking to a sergeant major. There was something familiar about the officer’s build, a kind of unmilitary sl
ouch in the shoulders. Most striking was the man’s right hand. It was encased in a black glove obviously several sizes too large to be normal. It was a medical glove; the hand was bandaged beneath the black leather.

  The man turned; Fontine halted in his tracks, his breath suspended.

  Captain Geoffrey Stone was the agent named Apple, who was shot on the pier in Celle Ligure.

  * * *

  They held each other. Neither spoke, for words were extraneous. It had been ten weeks since they’d been together. Ten weeks since the splendid, exciting moments of lovemaking.

  At the inn, the old woman who sat in a rocking chair behind the front desk had greeted him.

  “Flying Officer Holcroft arrived a half hour ago. ‘A trust you’re the captain, though the clothes dinna’ say it. She said you’re t’ go up, if you’re a mind to. She’s a direct lass. Dinna’ care for sly words, that one. Top of the stairs, turn left, room four.”

  He had knocked softly at the door, the pounding in his chest ridiculously adolescent. He wondered if she was possessed by the same tension.

  She stood inside, her hand on the doorknob, her inquisitive blue eyes bluer and more searching than he could remember ever having seen them. The tension was there, yet there was confidence, too.

  He stepped in and took her hand. He shut the door; they closed the distance between them and slowly reached for each other. When their lips touched, all the questions were put to rest, the answers obvious in silence.

  “I was frightened, do you know that?” whispered Jane, holding his face in her hands, kissing his lips tenderly, repeatedly.

  “Yes. Because I was frightened, too.”

  “I wasn’t sure what I was going to say.”

  “Neither was I. So here we are talking about our uncertainties. It’s healthy, I suppose.”

  “It’s probably childish,” she said, tracing his forehead and his cheek with her fingers.

  “I think not. To want … to need … with such feeling is a thing apart. One is afraid it may not be returned.” He took her hand from his face and kissed it, then kissed her lips and then her soft dark hair that fell, framing the soft smooth skin of her lovely face. He reached around her and pulled her to him, holding her close, and whispered “I do need you. I’ve missed you.”

  “You’re a love to say it, my darling, but you don’t have to. I don’t require it, I won’t ask for it.”

  Victor pulled away gently and cupped her face, staring into her eyes, so close to his. “Isn’t it the same with you?”

  “Very much the same.” She leaned into him, her lips against his cheeks. “I think of you far too often. And I’m a very busy girl.”

  He knew she wanted him as fully and completely as he wanted her. The tension each had felt was transferred to their bodies, release to be found only in the act of love. Yet the swelling, aching urgency in them did not demand swiftness. Instead, they held each other in the warm excitement of the bed, explored each other in tenderness and growing insistence. And they talked softly in whispers as their excitement grew.

  Oh, God, he loved her so.

  They lay naked under the covers, spent. She rose on her elbow and reached across him, touching his shoulder, tracing the skin with her fingers down to his thighs. Her dark hair fell over his chest; behind it, below her delicate face and penetrating blue eyes, her breasts were suspended over his flesh. He moved his right hand and reached for her, a signal that the act of love would begin again. And it suddenly occurred to Vittorio Fontini-Cristi, as they lay naked together, that he never wanted to lose this woman.

  “How long can you stay in Loch Torridon?” he asked, pulling her face down to his.

  “You’re a horrid manipulating spoiler of not-so-young girls,” she whispered, laughing softly in his ear. “I am currently in a state of erotic anxiety, with the memory of thunderbolts and erogenous pleasure still rippling up my most private—and you ask me how long I can stay! Forever and ever, of course. Until I return to London in three days.”

  “Three days! It’s better than two days. Or twenty-four hours.”

  “For what? To reduce us both to babbling idiots?”

  “We’ll be married.”

  Jane raised her head and looked at him. She looked at him for a long time before she spoke, her eyes locked with his. “You’ve been through a great deal of sorrow. And terrible confusion.”

  “You don’t want to marry me?”

  “More than my life, my darling. God, more than all the world.…”

  “But you don’t say yes.”

  “I’m yours. You don’t have to marry me.”

  “I want to marry you. Is it wrong?”

  “It’s the rightest thing I can imagine. But you have to be sure.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She lowered her cheek on his. “Yes. It’s you. You must be sure.”

  With his hand he swept her soft dark hair away from her face and answered her with his eyes.

  Ambassador Anthony Brevourt sat behind the enormous desk in his Victorian study. It was nearly midnight, the household retired, the city of London dark. Everywhere men and women were on rooftops and on the river and in the parks talking quietly into wireless sets, watching the skies. Waiting for the siege they knew would come, but had not yet begun.

  It was a matter of weeks; Brevourt knew it, the records projected it. But he could not keep his attention on the horrors that would reshape history as inevitably as the events moved forward. He was consumed by another catastrophe. Less immediately dramatic, but in many ways no less profound. It was contained in the file folder in front of him. He stared at the handwritten code name he had created for himself. And a few—very few—others.

  SALONIKA

  So simple in the reading, yet so complex in meaning.

  How in God’s name could it have happened? What were they thinking of? How could the movements of a single freight crossing half a dozen national borders be untraceable? The key had to be with the subject.

  From below, in a locked drawer of his desk, a telephone rang. Brevourt unlocked the drawer and pulled it open. He lifted the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  “Loch Torridon,” was the flat reply.

  “Yes, Loch Torridon? I’m alone.”

  “The subject was married yesterday. To the candidate.”

  Brevourt momentarily stopped breathing. Then inhaled deeply. The voice on the other end of the line spoke again. “Are you there, London? Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Torridon. I heard you. It’s more than we might have hoped for, isn’t it? Is Teague pleased?”

  “Not actually. I think he would have preferred a convenient relationship. Not the marriage. I don’t think he was prepared for that.”

  “Probably not. The candidate might be considered an obstruction. Teague will have to adjust. Salonika has far greater priority.”

  “Don’t you ever tell M.I.-Six that, London.”

  “At this juncture,” said Brevourt coldly, “I trust all files relative to Salonika have been removed from M.I.-Six. That was our understanding, Loch Torridon.”

  “It is correct. Nothing remains.”

  “Good. I’ll be traveling with Churchill to Paris. You may reach me through the official Foreign Office channel, Code Maginot. Stay in contact; Churchill wants to be kept informed.”

  9

  LONDON

  Fontine entered the stream of pedestrians moving toward Paddington Station. There was a numbness in the streets, a sense of disbelief that resulted in pockets of silence. Eyes searched other eyes, strangers took notice of the other strangers.

  France had fallen.

  Victor turned into Marylebone; he saw people buying newspapers in silence. It had happened; it had really happened. Across the Channel was the enemy—victorious, invincible.

  The Dover boats from Calais held no crowds of laughing tourists on holiday any longer. Now there were different journeys; everyone had heard of them. The Calais boats sailed under cover of
night, as men and women, some bloodied, some whole, all desperate, crouched below decks, hidden by nets and canvas, bringing out the stories of agony and defeat that were Normandy, Rouen, Strasbourg, and Paris.

  Fontine remembered Alec Teague’s words: The concept, the strategy is to send them back to disrupt the marketplace … create havoc! Mismanagement at all costs!

  The marketplace was now all of Western Europe. And Captain Victor Fontine was ready to send out his Loch Torridon mismanagers of that marketplace.

  Of the original fifty-three continentals, twenty-four remained; others would be added—slowly, selectively—as losses demanded. These twenty-four were as diverse as they were accomplished, as inventive as they were devious. They were German, Austrian, Belgian, Polish, Dutch, and Greek, but their nationalities were secondary. Labor forces were shipped across borders daily. For in Berlin, the Reichsministerium of Industry was pressing into service people from all occupied terrotories—it was a sweeping policy that would accelerate as new lands were brought under control. It was not unusual for a Hollander to be working in a Stuttgart factory. Already—only days after Paris fell—Belgians were being shipped to captured plants in Lyon.

  Acting on this knowledge, the underground leaders were scouring the labor-transfer lists. Objectives: Find specialized temporary “employment” for twenty-four skilled professionals.

  In the confusion that resulted from the German obsession for maximum productivity, positions were unearthed everywhere. Krupp and I.G. Farben were exporting so many experts to get factories and laboratories rolling in conquered countries that German industrialists complained bitterly to Berlin. It led to haphazard organization, slipshod management; it reduced the effectiveness of German plants and offices.

  It was into this morass that the French, Dutch, Belgian, Polish, and German undergrounds infiltrated. Job recruitment directives were sent by espionage couriers to London, for the scrutiny of Captain Victor Fontine.

  Item: Frankfurt, Germany. Messerschmidt subsupplier. Three plant foremen sought.

  Item: Kraków, Poland. Axle division, automobile plant. Draftsmen needed.

  Item: Antwerp, Belgium. Railroad yards. Freight and scheduling divisions. Management scarce.