The Gemini Contenders (39 page)

“Father Enrici Gaetamo. Defrocked,” interrupted Fontine softly.

Land paused. “Yes. Gaetamo. I received permission to break the seals. I read the paranoid ramblings of a madman, a self-canonized fanatic.” Again the monsignor stopped briefly, his eyes wandering. “What I found there took me to England. To a man named Teague. I met with him only once, at his country house. It was raining and he repeatedly got up to stoke the fire. I never saw a man finger a watch so. Yet he was retired and had no place to go.”

Victor smiled. “It was an annoying habit, that watch. I told him so many times.”

“Yes, you were good friends, I learned that quickly. He was in awe of you, you know.”

“In awe of me? Alec? I can’t believe that. He was far too direct.”

“He said he never admitted it to you, but he was. He said he felt inadequate around you.”

“He didn’t convey it.”

“He said a great deal more, too. Everything. The execution at Campo di Fiori, the escape through Celle Ligure,
Loch Torridon, Oxfordshire, your wife, your sons. And Donatti; how he kept the name from you.”

“He had no choice. The knowledge would have interfered with Loch Torridon.”

Land unclasped his hands and uncrossed his legs. He seemed to have difficulty finding the words. “It was the first time I had heard of the train from Salonika.”

Victor raised his eyes abruptly; they had been focused on the priest’s hands. “That’s not logical. You read Donatti’s papers.”

“And suddenly they were clear. The insane ramblings, the disjointed phrases, the seemingly deranged references to out-of-the-way places and times … suddenly made sense. Even in his most private papers, Donatti wouldn’t spell it out; his fear was too great.… Everything was reduced to that train. And whatever was on it.”

“You don’t know?”

“I came to. I would have learned more quickly, but Brevourt refused to see me. He died several months after I tried to reach him.

“I went to the prison where Gaetamo was held. He spat at me through the wire mesh, clawing his hands over it until they were bleeding. Still, I had the source. Constantine. The Patriarchate. I gained an audience with a priest of the Elders. He was a very old man and he told me. The train from Salonika carried the Filloque denials.”

“That was all?”

Monsignor Land smiled. “Theologically speaking, it was enough. To that old man and his counterparts in Rome, the Filioque documents represented triumph and cataclysm.”

“They don’t represent the same to you?” Victor watched the priest closely, concentrating on the steady hazel eyes.

“No. The church isnt the church of past centuries, even past generations. Simply put, it couldn’t survive if it were. There are the old men who cling to what they believe is incontrovertible … in most cases it’s all they have left; there’s no need to strip them of their convictions. Time mandates change gracefully; nothing is as it was. With each year—as the old guard leaves us—the church moves more swiftly into the realm of social responsibility. It has the power to effect extraordinary good, the wherewithal—spiritually and pragmatically—to alleviate enormous suffering. I speak with a certain expertise, for I am part of this
movement. We’re in every diocese over the globe. It’s our future. We are
with
the world now.”

Fontine looked away. The priest had finished; he had described a force for good in a sadly lacking world. Victor turned back to Land.

“You don’t know precisely, then, what is in those documents from Salonika.”

“What does it matter? At the worst, theological debate. Doctrinal equivocation. A man
existed
and his name was Jesus of Nazareth … or the Essenian Archangel of Light … and he spoke from the heart. His words have come down to us, historically authenticated by the Aramaics and Biblical scholars, Christian and non-Christian alike. What difference does it really make whether he is called carpenter, or prophet, or son of God? What matters is that he spoke the truth as he saw it, as it was
revealed
to him. His sincerity, if you will, is the only issue, and on that there is no debate.”

Fontine caught his breath. His mind raced back to Campo di Fiori, to an old monk of Xenope who spoke of a parchment taken out of a Roman prison.

 … 
what is contained in that parchment is beyond anything in your imagination … it must be found … destroyed … for nothing has changed yet all is changed
.…

Destroyed.

 … 
what matters is that he spoke the truth as he saw it, as it was revealed to him.… His sincerity is the only issue, and on that there is no debate.…

Or was there?

Was this scholar-priest, this good man beside him, prepared to face what had to be faced? Was it remotely fair to ask him to do so?

For nothing has changed, yet all is changed
.

Whatever those contradictory words meant, it would take exceptional men to know what to do. He would prepare a list for his sons.

The priest named Land was a candidate.

The four massive overhead blades slowed to a stop, sending metallic thuds throughout the aircraft. An airman opened the hatch and sprang the lever that swung the short flight of steps out from the undercarriage. Maj. Andrew
Fontine emerged into the morning sunlight and climbed down the metal stairs onto the helicopter pad at Air Force Base Cobra in Phan-thiet.

His paper authorized priority transportation and access to the restricted warehouses down at the waterfront. He would commandeer a jeep from the officers’ pool and head directly to the piers. And to a file cabinet in Warehouse Four. The Eye Corps records were there; and they would stay there, the safest place in Southeast Asia, once he saw for himself that nothing was disturbed. He had two more stops to make after the warehouse: north to Da-nang, then south again, past Saigon into the Delta. To Can-tho.

Captain Jerome Barstow was in Can-tho. Marty Greene was right; it was Barstow who had betrayed Eye Corps. The others agreed; his behavior was that of a man who had broken. He had been seen in Saigon with a legal officer named Tarkington. It wasn’t difficult to understand what had happened: Barstow was preparing a defense, and if that was so, a defense meant he would testify. Barstow did not know where the Eye Corps records were, but he had seen them. Seen them,
hell!
He’d prepared twenty or thirty himself. Barstow’s testimony could finish Eye Corps. They could not allow that.

The legal officer named Tarkington was in Da-nang. He didn’t know it but he was going to meet another man from Eye Corps. It would be the last person he met. In an alley, with a knife in his stomach, and whiskey on his shirt and in his mouth.

And then Andrew would fly to the Delta. To the betrayer named Barstow. Barstow would be shot by a whore; they were easy to buy.

He walked across the hot concrete toward the transit building. A lieutenant colonel was waiting for him. At first Andrew was alarmed; had something gone wrong? The five days weren’t up! Then he saw that the colonel was smiling, somewhat patronizingly, but nevertheless in friendship.

“Major Fontine?” The greeting was accompanied by an extension of the hand; no salute was expected.

“Yes, sir?” The handshake was brief.

“Washington cable, straight from the secretary of the army. You have to get home, major. As soon as possible. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but it concerns your father.”

“My
father?
Is he dead?”

“It’s only a matter of time. You have priority clearance for any aircraft leaving Tan Son Nhut.” The colonel handed him a red-bordered envelope with the imprimatur of General Headquarters, Saigon, across the top. It was the sort of envelope reserved for White House liaisons and couriers from the Joint Chiefs.

“My father’s been a sick man for many years,” said Fontine slowly. “This isn’t unexpected. I have another day’s work here. I’ll be at Tan San Nhut tomorrow night.”

“Whatever you say. The main thing is we found you. You’ve got the message.”

“I’ve got the message,” said Andrew.

In the phone booth, Adrian listened to the weary voice of the police sergeant. The sergeant was lying; more credible still, someone had lied to him. The pathology report on Nevins, James, Black male, victim of hit-and-run, showed no apparent evidence of cranial, neck, or upper thorax injuries unrelated to the impact of collision.

“Send the report and the X-rays to me,” said Adrian curtly. “You’ve got my address.”

“There were no X-rays accompanying the pathology report,” replied the police officer mechanically.

“Get them,” said Adrian, hanging up the phone.

Lies. Everywhere lies and evasions.

His was the biggest lie of all; he lied to himself, and accepted that lie and used it to convince others. He had stood up in front of a group of very frightened young lawyers from the Justice Department and told them that under the circumstances, the subpoena on Eye Corps should be delayed. They needed to regroup their evidence, obtain a second deposition; to go to the adjutant general with only a list of names was meaningless.

It
wasn’t
meaningless! The moment was right to confront the military and demand an immediate investigation. A man was murdered; the evidence he carried with him removed from the scene of his death. That evidence was the indictment of Eye Corps! Here are the names! This is the gist of the deposition!

Now,
move
on it!

But he could not do that. His brother’s name was at the top of that list. To serve the subpoena was to charge his
brother with murder. There was no other conclusion. Andrew was his brother, his twin, and he was not prepared to call him killer.

Adrian walked out of the phone booth and down the block toward his hotel. Andrew was on his way back from Saigon. He had left the country last Monday; it didn’t take a great deal of imagination to know why. His brother wasn’t stupid; Andrew was building his defense at the source of his crimes; crimes that included conspiracy, suppression of evidence, and obstruction of justice. Motives: complex and not without fundamental substance, but still crimes.

But no murder at night in a Washington street.

Oh, Christ!
Even now he lied to himself! Or to be charitable, he refused to face the possible. Come on!
Say it, think it!

The probable.

There was an eighth member of Eye Corps in Washington. Whoever that man was, he was Nevins’s killer. And Nevins’s killer could not have acted without the knowledge given by brother to brother in a boathouse on Long Island’s North Shore.

When Andrew’s plane landed, he would learn that the subpoena had not been served. Eye Corps was intact for a while longer, free to maneuver and manipulate.

There was one thing that would stop it, though. Stop it instantly and recharge a group of frightened lawyers who wondered if what happened to Nevins could happen to them; they were attorneys, not commandos.

Adrian would look into his brother’s eyes, and if he saw Jim Nevins’s death in them, he would avenge it. If the soldier had given the order of execution, then the soldier would be destroyed.

Or was he lying to himself again? Could he call his brother killer? Could he
really?

What the hell did his father want? What difference did it make?

The two chairs were placed on opposite sides of the bed. It was proper this way. It could divide his attention between his sons; they were different people, their reactions would be different. Jane preferred to stand. He had asked a terrible thing of her: to tell his sons the story of Salonika. Everything, leaving out nothing. They had to be made to understand that powerful men, institutions, even governments could be moved by the vault from Constantine. As they had been moved three decades before.

He could not tell the story himself. He was dying; his mind was clear enough to know that. He had to have the simple energy to answer their questions; he had to have the strength to give his charge to his sons. For theirs was now the responsibility of the Fontini-Cristis.

They walked into the room with their mother. So tall, so alike, yet so different. One in uniform, the other in a nondescript tweed jacket and flannel trousers. Blond-haired Andrew was angry. It was in his face, the continuous tensing of his jaw muscles, the firm set of his mouth, the neutral, clouded gaze of his eyes.

Adrian, on the other hand, seemed unsure of himself. His blue eyes were questioning, his mouth slack, the lips parted. He drew his hand through his dark hair as he stared down, his expression equal parts of compassion and astonishment.

Victor indicated the chairs. The brothers looked at each other briefly; it was impossible to define the communication. Whatever had happened to alienate them had to be erased. Their responsibility demanded it. They sat down, the Xeroxed pages of his recollections of July 14, 1920, in their hands. He had instructed Jane to give them each a copy; they were to read them through before seeing him.
No moments were to be lost on explanations that could be covered beforehand. He hadn’t the strength.

“We won’t waste words on sentiment. You’ve heard your mother; you’ve read what I’ve written. You’ll have questions.”

Andrew spoke. “Assuming this vault can be found—and we’ll get to that—what then?”

“I’ll prepare a list of names. Five or six men, no more; they are not easily arrived at. You’ll bring the vault to them.”

“What’ll they do?” pressed Andrew.

“That will depend on what the vault contains,
specifically
. Release it, destroy it, rebury it.”

Adrian interrupted quietly. The lawyer was suddenly disturbed. “Is there a choice? I don’t think so. It doesn’t belong to us; it should be public knowledge.”

“With public chaos? The consequences have to be weighed.”

“Does anyone else have the key?” asked the soldier. “The location of this trip on July 14, 1920?”

“No. It would be meaningless. There are only a few left who knew of the train, knew what was
really
on it. Old men from the Patriarchate; one remains in Campo di Fiori and cannot have much time.”