The Gemini Contenders (26 page)

“Stone convinced you of that?”

There was a pause before the ambassador replied. “Yes. Several years ago.”

“Did Stone also tell you he hated Fontine?”

“He didn’t approve of him; he wasn’t alone.”

“I said
hated!
Bordering on the pathological.”

“If you knew that, why didn’t you replace him?”

“Because, damn it, he controlled it! As long as he had a reason to. He has
none
now.”

“I don’t see—”

“You’re a goddamn fool, Brevourt! Stone left us a photostat;
he kept the original. You’re helpless and he wants you to know it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s walking around with an official document that gives him a warrant to kill Fontine. Countermanding it now is meaningless. It would have been meaningless two
years
ago! He has the paper; he’s a professional. He intends to carry out the assignment and place that document where you can’t get it. Can the British government—can
you
, or the foreign secretary, or Churchill, himself, justify that execution? Would any of you care to even
comment
on it?”

Brevourt replied swiftly, urgently. “It was a contingency. That was
all
it was.”

“It was the best,” agreed Teague harshly. “Startling enough to cut through red tape. Sufficiently dramatic to break down bureaucratic walls. I can hear Stone mounting his argument.”

“Stone must be found. He must be stopped.” Brevourt’s breathing could be heard over the line.

“We’ve reached one area of agreement,” said the brigadier wearily.

“What are you going to do?”

“To begin with, tell Fontine everything.”

“Is that wise?”

“It’s fair.”

“We expect to be kept informed. If need be, hourly.”

Teague looked absently across the office at his wall clock. It was nine forty-five; moonlight streamed through the windows, no curtains blocked it now. “I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“What?”

“You’re concerned with a vault taken out of Greece five years ago. I’m concerned with the lives of Victor Fontine and his family.”

“Has it occurred to you,” said Brevourt, drawing out his words, “that the two are inseparable?”

“Your conjecture is noted.” Teague hung up and leaned back in his chair. He would have to call Fontine now. Warn him.

There was a knock on his door,

“Come in.”

Harold Latham walked in first, followed by one of the best investigating officers in MI6. A middle-aged, former
Scotland Yard forensic specialist. He carried a manila file folder in his hand.

A few weeks ago, Pear would not have walked into Teague’s office smoking a cigarette. He did so now; it was important to him. Yet, thought Teague, Latham’s hostility had lessened. Pear was first and foremost a professional. Civilian status would not change that.

“Did you find anything?” asked Teague.

“Scratchings,” said Latham. “They may mean something, they may not. Your man here is sharp. He can lift a book off a pinhead.”

“He knew where to point me,” added the analyst. “He was familiar with the subject’s habits.”

“What have we got?”

“Nothing on the premises; his office was clean. Nothing but case work, dossiers marked for the ovens, all quite legitimate. His flat was something else. He was a thorough chap. But the arrangements of the hangers in the closets, the clothes in his bureau, the toilet supplies … they all indicate that Stone had been planning his departure for some time.”

“I see. And these scratchings?”

Pear answered. The professional in him needed recognition. “Stone had a disagreeable habit. He would lie in bed making notes. Words, brackets, figures, arrows, names—doodling, I call it. But before he turned in he’d tear off the pages and burn them. We found a writing pad on the shelf of the bedside table. There was nothing on it, of course, but the Yarder here knew what to do.”

“There were depressions, sir. It wasn’t difficult; we lifted them under spectrograph.” The officer handed Teague the folder across the desk. “Here are the results.”

Teague opened the folder and stared at the spectrogram. As Pear had described, there were numbers, brackets, arrows, words. It was a disjointed puzzle, a wild diagram of incoherent meanderings.

And then the name leaped up from the mass of incoherence.

Donatti
.

The man with the streak of white in his hair. The executioner of Campo di Fiori. One of the most powerful cardinals in the Curia.

“Salonika” had begun.

“… Guillamo Donatti.”

Fontine heard the name and it triggered the memory locked in his mind. The name was the key, the lock was sprung, and the memory revealed.

He was a child, no more than nine or ten years old. It was evening and his brothers were upstairs preparing for bed. He had come down in his pajamas to find a book, when he’d heard the shouting from his father’s study.

The door was open, no more than a foot, and the curious child had approached it. What he saw inside so shocked his sensibilities that he stood there hypnotized. A priest was in front of his father’s desk, roaring at Savarone, pounding the top of the desk with his fist, his face pinched in anger, his eyes wide in fury.

That anyone could behave this way in his father’s presence, even—perhaps especially—a priest, so startled the child that he involuntarily, audibly gasped.

When he did the priest whipped around, the burning eyes looking at the child, and it was then that Victor had seen the streak of white in the black hair. He had run away from the living room and up the staircase.

The next morning Savarone had taken his son aside and explained; his father never left explanations suspended. What the violent argument referred to was obscured with time, but Fontine recalled that his father had identified the priest as Guillamo Donatti, a man who was a disgrace to the Vatican … someone who issued edicts to the uninformed and enforced them by fear. They were words a child remembered.

Guillamo Donatti, firebrand of the Curia.

“Stone’s after his own, now,” said Teague over the line from London, bringing Victor’s focus back to the present. “He wants you, and whatever price you’ll bring. We were looking in the wrong areas; we’ve traced him now. He used Birch’s papers and got a military flight out of Lakenheath. To Rome.”

“To the cardinal,” corrected Fontine. “He’s not taking chances with long-distance negotiations.”

“Precisely. He’ll come back for you. We’ll be waiting.”

“No,” said Victor into the telephone. “That’s not the way. We won’t wait, we’ll go after them.”

“Oh?” The doubt was in Teague’s voice.

“We know Stone’s in Rome. He’ll stay out of sight, probably
with informer cells; they’re used to hiding men.”

“Or with Donatti.”

“That’s doubtful. He’ll insist on neutral territory. Donatti’s dangerous, unpredictable. Stone realizes that.”

“I don’t care what you’re thinking, but I can’t—”

“Can you circulate a rumor from reliable sources?” interrupted Fontine.

“What kind of rumor?”

“That I’m about to do what everyone expects me to do: return to Campo di Fiori. For unknown reasons of my own.”

“Absolutely not! It’s out of the question!”

“For God’s
sake,”
shouted Victor. “I can’t hide out for the rest of my life! I can’t live in fear that each time my wife or my children leave the house there is a Stone or a Donatti or an execution team waiting for them! You promised me a confrontation. I want it
now.”

There was silence on the line from London. Finally Teague spoke. “There’s still the Order of Xenope.”

“One step leads to another. Hasn’t that been your premise all along? Xenope will be forced to acknowledge what
is
, not what it thinks
should
be. Donatti and Stone will be proof. There can be no other conclusion.”

“We have men in Rome, not many—”

“We don’t
want
many. Very few. My being in Italy must not be linked with M.I.-Six. The cover will be the Court of Reparations. The government wants to control our factories, the properties. The court bids higher every week; they don’t want the Americans.”

“Court of Reparations,” said Teague, obviously writing a note.

“There is an old man named Barzini,” continued Fontine. “Guido Barzini. He used to be at Campo di Fiori, he tended the stables. He could give us background. Put a trace on him in the Milan district. If he’s alive, he’ll be found through the
partigiani.”

“Barzini, Guido,” repeated Teague. “I’ll want safety factors.”

“So do I, but very low profile, Alec. We want to force them out in the open, not further underground.”

“Assuming the bait’s taken, what will you do?”

“Make them listen. It’s as simple as that.”

“I don’t think it is,” said Teague.

“Then I’ll kill them,” said Victor.

The word went out. The
padrone
was alive; he had returned. In a small hotel several blocks from the Duomo, he was
seen
. Fontini-Cristi was in Milan. The news was known even in Rome.

There was a knock on the hotel door. Barzini. It was a moment Victor both looked forward to and dreaded. The memories of white light and death inadvertently came into focus. He suppressed them as he walked across the room to the door.

The old farmhand stood in the hallway, his once muscular body now bent and thin, lost within the coarse fabric of his cheap black coat. His face was wrinkled; the eyes were rheumy. The hands that had held Victor’s writhing, lashing body to the earth, the fingers that had clawed at his face and saved his life, were withered, gnarled. And they shook.

To Fontine’s sorrow and embarrassment, Barzini fell to his knees, his thin arms outstretched, grasping Victor’s legs.

“It’s true. You’re alive!”

Fontine pulled him to his feet and embraced him. In silence he led the old man into the room, to the couch. Beyond his age, it was obvious that Barzini was ill. Victor offered food; Barzini asked for tea and brandy. Both were brought quickly by the hotel waiters, and when both were finished, Fontine learned the salient facts of Campo di Fiori since the night of the massacre.

For months after the German killings, the fascist troops kept the estate under guard. The servants were allowed to take their possessions and leave; the maid who had witnessed the shooting was murdered that night. No one was permitted to live in Campo di Fiori except Barzini, who was obviously mentally deficient.

“It was not difficult. The
fascisti
always thought everyone else was crazy but themselves. It was the only way they could think, and face themselves in the morning.”

In his position of stablehand and groundkeeper, Guido was able to watch the activity at Campo di Fiori. Most startling were the priests. Groups of priests were permitted in; never more than three or four at a time, but there were many such groups. At first Guido believed they had been sent by the holy father to pray for the souls of the house of
Fontini-Cristi. But priests on sacred missions did not behave as these priests behaved. They went through the main house, then the cottages and, finally, the stables, searching with precision. They tagged everything; furniture was pried apart; walls tapped for hollow sections and panels removed; floors ripped up—not in anger but as experienced carpenters might do; lifted and replaced. And the grounds were combed as though they were fields of gold.

“I asked several of the young fathers what they were looking for. I don’t think they really knew. They always replied, ‘thick boxes, old man. Cartons of steel and iron.’ And then I realized that there was one priest, an older priest, who came every day. He was forever checking the work of the others.”

“A man in his sixties,” said Victor softly, “with a streak of white in his hair.”

“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.”