The Gemini Contenders: A Novel Page 14

  Item: Mannheim, Germany. Government printing offices. Bilingual technical translators needed imperatively.

  Item: Turin, Italy. Turin Aircraft. Source partigiano. Mechanical engineers in short supply.

  Item: Linz, Austria. Berlin claims consistent overpayment fabrics company. Cost accountants needed.

  Item: Dijon, France. Wehrmacht legal department. Lawyers demanded by occupation forces.… (So like the French, Victor had thought. In the midst of defeat, the Gallic mind sought debate in practical legalities.)

  And so they went. Scores of “requirements,” dozens of possibilities that would grow in numbers as the German demands for productivity grew.

  There was work to be had, to be done, by the small brigade of Loch Torridon continentals. It was now merely a question of proper allocations and Fontine would personally oversee the specifics. He carried in his briefcase a very small strip of reusable tape that could be attached to any part of the body. The adhesive had the tensile strength of steel, but could be removed by a simple solution of water, sugar, and citrus juice.

  Within that tape were twenty-four dots, each containing a microfilm. On each microfilm was a microscopically reduced photograph and a brief résumé of talents. They would be used in concert with the underground leaders. Twenty-four positions of employment would be found … temporary, to be sure, for such skilled personnel would be desirable in many locations during the coming months.

  But first things first, and the first item on Fontine’s agenda was a business trip of undetermined length. He would be parachuted into France, in the province of Lorraine near the Franco-Swiss border. His first conference would take place in the small town of Montbéliard, where he would stay for several days. It was a strategic geographical point, affording maximum accessibility for the underground from northern and central France and southern Germany.

  From Montbéliard he would head north on the Rhine as far as Wiesbaden, where contingents of anti-Reichists from Bremen, Hamburg, Berlin, and points north and west would gather for meetings. From Wiesbaden he would take the underground’s routes east to Prague, then northwest into Poland and Warsaw. Schedules would be created, codes refined, official work papers provided for eventual duplication in London.

  From Warsaw he would return to Lorraine. The decision would then be made whether to head south into his beloved Italy. Captain Geoffrey Stone was against it in principle. The agent Fontine had known as Apple made that clear. All things Italian filled Stone with loathing, his revulsion traced to a pier in Celle Ligure and a hand shattered because of Italian naïveté and betrayal. Stone saw no reason to waste their resources on Italy; there were too many other pressure points. The nation of incompetents was its own worst enemy.

  Fontine reached Paddington and waited for the Kensington bus. He had discovered buses in London; he had never taken public conveyances in his life before. The discovery was partly defensive. Whenever official cars were used, they were shared, calling for conversation between the passengers. None was called for on a bus.

  There were times, of course, when he carried highly sensitive material home to read, when Alec Teague simply refused to allow him his newfound indulgence. It was too dangerous. Tonight had been a case in point, but Victor had fought his superior; the official car had two other riders and he wanted to think. It was his last night in England. Jane had to be told.

  “For heaven’s sake, Alec! I’ll be traveling several thousand miles in hostile territory. If I lose a briefcase that’s chained to my wrist with a combination lock on a London bus, I think we’re all in for immense trouble!”

  Teague had capitulated, checking the chain and the lock himself.

  The bus pulled up and he climbed in, threading his way down the crowded corridor to a seat in the front. It was by a window; he looked out and let his thoughts dwell first on Loch Torridon.

  They were ready. The concept was valid. They could place their personnel in succeeding managerial positions. All that remained was the implementation of the strategy. He would accomplish a great deal of that on his trip. He would find the right positions for the right personnel … the chaos and the havoc would shortly follow.

  He was primed for the moment of departure. Yet he was not really prepared for the one thing that faced him now: telling Jane the moment had finally come.

  He had moved into her Kensington flat when he returned from Scotland. She’d rejected his offer of considerably grander quarters. And these past weeks were the happiest in his life.

  And now the moment had come and fear would replace the comfort of daily existence together. It made no difference that thousands upon thousands were going through the same experience; there was no comfort in mathematics.

  His stop was next. The June twilight washed the trees and scrubbed the houses. Kensington was peaceful, the war remote. He got off the bus and started down the quiet street when suddenly his attention was drawn away from the entrance gate. He had learned over the past months not to betray his concern, so he pretended to wave to an unseen neighbor in a window across the way. By doing so, while squinting his eyes against the setting sun, he was able to see more clearly the small Austin sedan parked on the opposite side of the street fifty yards diagonally in front of him. It was gray. He had seen that gray Austin before. Exactly five days ago. He remembered vividly. He and Stone had been driving up to Chelmsford to interview a Jewess who had worked for the Kraków civil service until just before the invasion. They had stopped at a service station outside of Brentwood.

  The gray Austin sedan had driven in behind them to the pump beside theirs. Victor had noticed it only because an attendant who sold the driver petrol was caustic when the pump registered less than two gallons … and the Austin’s tank was full.

  “That’s bein’ a mite greedy,” the attendant had said.

  The driver had looked embarrassed, turned the ignition, and sped out on the highway.

  Fontine had noticed because the driver was a priest. The driver of the gray Austin across from him now was a priest. The white collar could be seen clearly.

  And the man, he knew, was staring at him.

  Fontine walked casually to the gate of the house. He lifted the latch, entered, turned, and closed the gate; the priest in the gray Austin sat motionless, his eyes—behind what appeared to be thick glasses—still directed at him. Victor approached the door and let himself inside. The moment he was in the hallway he shut the door and moved quickly to the narrow column of windows that flanked the doorframe. A blackout curtain was draped over the glass; he parted the edge and looked out.

  The priest had inched his way over to the right window of his car and was looking out and up at the front of the building. The man was grotesque, thought Fontine. He was extremely pale and thin, and the lenses of his glasses were thick.

  Victor let the curtain fall back and walked rapidly to the staircase, climbing the steps two at a time to the third floor, their floor. He could hear music within; the radio was on; Jane was home. As he closed the door behind him, he heard her humming in the bedroom. There was no time to shout greetings; he wanted to get to the window. And he did not wish to alarm her if he could avoid it.

  His binoculars were in the bookshelf on the fireplace wall. He pulled the case from its recess between a section of books and took out the binoculars, went to the window and focused the glass below.

  The priest was talking to someone in the back seat of the small automobile. Fontine had not seen anyone else in the car. The rear seat was in shadow and he had been concentrating on the driver. He edged the binoculars behind the priest and refined the focus.

  Victor froze. The blood rushed to his head.

  It was a nightmare! A nightmare that repeated itself! Fed upon itself!

  The streak of white in the close-cropped hair! He had seen that shock of white from an embankment … inside an automobile … under the glaring lights … soon to erupt in smoke and death!

  Campo di Fiori!

  The man in the back
seat of the gray Austin below had been in another back seat! Fontine had looked down at him from the darkness as he was now looking down at him thousands of miles away in a Kensington street! One of the German commanders! One of the German executioners!

  “Good heavens! You startled me,” said Jane, walking into the room. “What are you—?”

  “Get Teague on the telephone! Now!” shouted Victor, dropping the binoculars, struggling with the combination lock on his briefcase.

  “What is it, darling?”

  “Do as I say!” He fought to keep control. The numbers came; the lock sprang open.

  Jane stared at her husband; she dialed rapidly, asking no further questions.

  Fontine raced into the bedroom. He pulled his service revolver from between a pile of shirts and tore it from its holster, running back into the living room toward the door.

  “Victor! Stop! For God’s sake!”

  “Tell Teague to get over here! Tell him a German from Campo di Fiori is below!”

  He ran out into the corridor and raced down the narrow staircase, manipulating his thumb beneath the barrel of the weapon, unlatching the safety. As he reached the top of the first flight, he heard the gunning of an engine. He yelled and plunged down to the hallway, to the front door, yanking furiously at the knob, pulling the door open with such force that it crashed against the wall. He ran outside to the gate.

  The gray Austin was speeding down the street; pedestrians were on the sidewalks. Fontine chased it, dodging two oncoming cars, their tires screeching as they braked. Men and women shouted at him; Victor understood. A man racing in the middle of the street at seven in the evening with a gun in his hand was a cause for violent alarms. But he could not dwell on such thoughts; there was only the gray Austin and a man in the back seat with a shock of white in his hair.

  The executioner.

  The Austin turned right at the corner! Oh, God! The traffic on the throughfare was light, only a few taxis and private cars! The Austin accelerated, speeding, weaving between the vehicles. It jumped a traffic light, narrowly missing a delivery truck which jolted to a stop, blocking all vision beyond.

  He had lost it. He stopped, his heart pounding, sweat pouring down his face, his weapon at his side. But he had not lost everything. There were six numbers on the gray Austin’s license plate. He’d managed to distinguish four of them.

  * * *

  “The automobile in question is registered to the Greek embassy. The attaché assigned to it claims it must have been removed from the embassy grounds late this afternoon.” Teague spoke rapidly, annoyed not only with his conceivably false information but with the entire incident itself. It was an obstruction, a serious obstruction. The Loch Torridon operation could not tolerate barriers at this moment.

  “Why the German? Who is he? I know what he is.” Victor spoke quietly, with enormous feeling.

  “We’re putting on every trace we can come up with. A dozen experienced field men are pulling the files. They’re going back years, getting everything we have. The description you gave the artist was good; his sketch quite accurate, you said. If he’s there, we’ll find him.”

  Fontine got out of the chair, started for the window and saw that heavy black drapes had been drawn, shutting in all light. He turned and looked absently at a large map of Europe on Teague’s wall. There were dozens of red mark-pins protruding from the thick paper.

  “It’s the train from Salonika, isn’t it?” He asked the question softly, not needing an answer.

  “That wouldn’t explain the German. If he is a German.”

  “I told you,” interrupted Victor, turning to face the brigadier. “He was there. In Campo di Fiori. I remembered then that I’d thought I’d seen him before.”

  “And you’ve never been able to recall where?”

  “No. There are times when it drives me mad. I don’t know!”

  “Can you associate? Go back. Think in terms of cities, or hotels; start with business dealings, contracts. Fontini-Cristi had investments in Germany.”

  “I’ve tried all that. There’s nothing. Only the face, and that not terribly clear. But the white streak in the hair, that’s what stays in my mind.” Wearily, Victor returned to the chair and sat down again. He leaned back, both hands over his closed eyes. “Oh, God, Alec, I’m frightened to death.”

  “You’ve no reason to be.”

  “You weren’t in Campo di Fiori that night.”

  “There’ll be no repetition in London. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Tomorrow morning your wife will be escorted to the Air Ministry, where she will turn over her workload—files, letters, maps, everything—to another officer. The ministry has assured me the transition can be concluded by early afternoon. Thereupon, she’ll be driven to very comfortable quarters in the countryside. Isolated and totally secure. She’ll stay there until you return, or until we find your man. And break him.”

  Fontine lowered his hands from his eyes. He looked questioningly at Teague. “When did you do this? There’s been no time.”

  Teague smiled, but it was not the unsettling smile Victor was used to. It was, if anything, gentle. “It’s been a contingency plan since the day you were married. Within hours, as a matter of fact.”

  “She’ll be safe?”

  “No one in England more so. Frankly, I’ve a twofold motive. Your wife’s safety is directly related to your state of mind. You’ve a job to do, so I’ll do mine.”

  Teague looked at the wall clock, then at his wristwatch. The clock had lost nearly a minute since he’d last adjusted it. When was that? It must have been eight, ten days ago; he would have to bring it back to the watchsmith’s in Leicester Square.

  It was a foolish preoccupation, he supposed, this obsession with time. He’d heard the names: “Stopwatch Alec,” “Timer Teague.” His colleagues often chided him; he wouldn’t be so damned concerned with time if he had a wife and small ones clattering about. But he had made that decision years ago; in his profession he was better off without such attachments. He was no monk. There had, of course, been women. But no marriage. It was out of the question; it was a hindrance, an obstacle.

  These passive thoughts gave rise to an active consideration: Fontine and his marriage. The Italian was the perfect coordinator for the Loch Torridon operation, yet now there was an obstacle—his wife.

  Goddamn it! He had cooperated with Brevourt because he really did want to use Fontini-Cristi. If a convenient relationship with an English girl served both objectives, he was willing to go along. But not this far!

  And now, where the hell was Brevourt? He had given up. He had faded away after having made extraordinary demands of Whitehall in the name of an unknown freight from Salonika.

  Or had he merely pretended to fade away?

  It seemed that Brevourt knew when to cut his losses, when to back away from an embarrassing failure. There’d been no further instructions regarding Fontine; he was now the property of MI6. Just like that. It was as though Brevourt wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Italian and the goddamned train. When the report of the infiltrating priest of Xenope was given to Brevourt, he feigned only a mild interest, ascribing the episode to a lone fanatic.

  For a man who had moved his government to do what it did, that wasn’t natural. Because the priest of Xenope had not acted alone. Teague knew it; Brevourt knew it, too. The ambassador was reacting too simply, his sudden disinterest too obvious.

  And that girl, Fontine’s wife. When she appeared, Brevourt had snapped up her existence like a true MI-Sixer himself. She was a short-range anchor. She could be appealed to, used. If Fontine’s behavior became suddenly strange, if he entered into or sought abnormal contacts that could be traced to the train from Salonika, she was to be called in and given her instructions: report everything. She was an English patriot; she would comply.

  But no one had even considered a marriage. That was mismanagement-at-all-costs! Instructions could be given to a convenient mistress; th
ey were not given to a wife.

  Brevourt had taken this news with an equanimity that was again unnatural.

  Something was happening that Teague did not understand. He had the uncomfortable feeling that Whitehall was using MI6 and that meant using him, tolerating Loch Torridon because it might lead Brevourt to a greater objective than the scattered disruption of enemy industry.

  Back to the train from Salonika.

  So two parallel strategies were being played out: Loch Torridon, and the search for the documents of Constantine. They allowed him the former; he was dismissed from the latter.

  Dismissed and left with a married Intelligence officer—the most vulnerable kind.

  It was ten minutes to three in the morning. In six hours he would be driving down to Lakenheath with Fontine to see him off.

  A man with a streak of white in his hair. A sketch that eluded thousands of photographs and file descriptions, a hunt that led nowhere. A dozen MI6 staffers were down in the archives continuing the search. The field agent who broke the identity would not be overlooked when choice assignments were passed around.

  His telephone rang, startling him.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Stone, sir. I think I have something.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer coming up. It’s a bit mad. I’d rather see you alone.”

  “Very well.”

  What had Stone found? What could be so odd that it required in-house security?

  “Here is the sketch Fontine approved, general,” said Captain Geoffrey Stone, standing in front of Teague’s desk, placing the charcoal portrait on the blotter. An envelope was clamped awkwardly between his arm and his chest, above the immobile, gloved right hand. “It matched nothing in the Himmler files, or any other German—or German-related—sources, including collaborationist circles in Poland, Czechoslovakia, France, the Balkans, and Greece.”

  “And Italy? What of the Italians?”

  “That was our first consideration. Regardless of what Fontine claims to have seen that night in Campo di Fiori, he is Italian. The Fontini-Cristis made enemies among the fascists. But we found nothing, no one faintly resembling the subject in question. Then quite frankly, sir, I began thinking about the man. His marriage. We didn’t expect that, did we, sir?”