The Gemini Contenders (10 page)

Vittorio stared at the scene, sick and uncomprehending. Behind them a heavyset man floated in death in a piazza fountain, the handle of a knife protruding from his blood-soaked shirt. Here, in an unmarked, speeding police car disguised as a taxi, a man slumped in the front seat, a bullet in his lifeless body. Miles away in a small guardhouse on the Via Canelli, two other men lay dead, killed by the Communist who had saved his life. The continuing nightmare was destroying his mind. He held his breath, desperately trying to find an instant of sanity.

“Here we are!” shouted Pear, holding up a rectangular sheet of heavy paper he had been studying in the inadequate light. “By God, it’s a clean wicket!”

“An inland passport, I expect,” said Apple, slowing down for a curve in the road.

“Indeed it is! The bloody
veicolo
is assigned to the
ufficiale segreto!
That bunch has access to Mussolini himself.”

“It had to be something like that,” agreed Apple, nodding his head. “The motor in this tacky box is a bloody marvel.”

“It is a Lamborgini,” said Vittorio quietly.

“What?” Apple raised his voice to be heard over the roar of the engine on the now straightaway road. They were approaching the outskirts of Alba.

“I said it’s a Lamborgini.”

“Yes,” replied Apple, obviously unfamiliar with the engine. “Well, you keep coming up with things like that. Things Italian, that is. We’re going to need your words before we reach the coast.”

Pear turned to Fontini-Cristi. The Englishman’s pleasant face was barely discernible in the darkness. He spoke gently, but there was no mistaking the quiet urgency in his voice.

“I’m sure this is all very strange to you, and damned
uncomfortable, I should think. But that Bolshevik had a point. Remember what you can. The most difficult part of this work isn’t the
doing;
it’s getting
used
to the doing, if you see what I mean. Just accepting the fact that it’s real, that’s the leg up a fellow needs. We’ve all been through it, go through it constantly, as a matter of fact It’s all so bloody outrageous, in a way. But someone’s got to do it; that’s what they tell us. And I’ll say this: You’re getting some very practical on-the-job training. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes,” said Vittorio softly, turning front, his eyes mesmerized by the onrushing road outlined by the beams of the headlights, and his mind frozen by the sudden question he could not avoid.

Training for what?

It was two hours of madness. They turned off the coastal highway and carried the body of the dead driver into a field, stripping it naked, removing all identification.

They returned to the highway and sped south toward Savona. The road checks were similar to those on the Via Canelli: single guardhouses next to telephone booths, two soldiers in attendance at each. There were four checkpoints; three were passed easily. The thick, official document that proclaimed the vehicle assigned to the
ufficiale segreto
was read with respect and not a little fear. Fontini-Cristi did the talking at all three posts.

“You’re damned quick,” said Apple from the front, shaking his head in agreeable surprise. “And you were
right about staying back there. You roll down that window like a Punjab prince.”

The road sign was caught in the headlights.

ENTRARE MONTENOTTE SUD

Vittorio recognized the name; it was one of those mediumsized towns surrounding the Gulf of Genoa. He recognized it from a decade ago, when he and his wife had driven down the coast road on their last trip to Monte Carlo. A journey that had ended a week later in death. In a speeding car at night.

“The coast’s about fifteen miles from here, I think,” said Apple hesitantly, interrupting Fontini-Cristi’s thoughts.

“Nearer eight,” corrected Vittorio.

“You know this area?” asked Pear.

“I’ve driven to Cap Ferrat and Villefranche a number of times.”
Why didn’t he say Monte Carlo; was the name too much of a symbol?
“Usually on the Torino road, but several times on the shore route from Genoa. Montenotte Sud is known for its inns.”

“Then would you know a dirt road that cuts north of Savona—through some hills, I gather—into Celle Ligure?”

“No. There are hills everywhere.… But I know Celle Ligure. It’s on the waterfront just beyond Albisolla. Is that where we’re going?”

“Yes,” said Apple. “It’s our backup rendezvous with the Corsicans. In case anything happened, we were to make our way to Celle Ligure, to a fishing pier south of the marina. It’ll be marked with a green wind sock.”

“Well,
something
happened, as they say,” interjected Pear. “I’m sure there’s a
Corso
wandering around Alba wondering where we are.”

Several hundred yards ahead in the glare of the headlights, two soldiers stood in the center of the road. One held a rifle at port arms; the other had his hand raised, signaling them to stop. Apple slowed the Fiat, the transposed motor emitting the low sounds of its decelerating power. “Do your bitchy act,” he said to Vittorio. “Be arrogant as hell.” The Britisher kept the car in the center of the road, a sign that the inhabitants expected no interruption; pulling off to the side was unnecessary.

One of the soldiers was a lieutenant, his companion a
corporal. The officer approached Apple’s open window and saluted the unkempt civilian smartly.

Too smartly, thought Vittorio.

“Your identification,
signore,”
said the soldier courteously.

Too courteously.

Apple held up the thick official paper and gestured toward the back seat. It was Vittorio’s cue.

“We are the
ufficiale segreto
, Genoa garrison, and in a great hurry. We have business in Savona. You’ve done your job; pass us through immediately.”

“My apologies,
signore.”
The officer took the heavy paper in Apple’s hand and scratinized it. He creased the folds as his eyes scanned downward in the very dim light. He continued politely. “I must see your identifications. There is so little traffic on the road at this hour. All vehicles must be checked.”

Fontini-Cristi slammed his hand down on the top of the front seat in sudden irritation. “You’re out of order! Don’t let our appearances fool you. We’re on official business and we’re late for Savona!”

“Yes. Well, I must read this—”

But he was
not
reading it, thought Vittorio. A man in inadequate light did not fold a page of paper
toward
him; if he folded it at all, it would be
away
—to catch more light. The soldier was stalling. And the corporal had moved to the right front of the Fiat, his rifle still held across his chest; but the left hand was now lower on the barrel grip. Any hunter knew the stance; it was ready-at-fire.

Fontini-Cristi sat back in the seat, swearing furiously as he did so. “I demand your name and the name of your commanding officer!”

In the front, Apple had edged his shoulders to the right, trying to see into the rearview mirror, unable to do so without being obvious. But in his pretended anger, Fontini-Cristi had no such difficulty. He whipped his hand up behind Pear’s shoulders, as if his irritation had reached the breaking point.

“Perhaps you did not hear me, soldier! Your name and that of your commanding officer!”

Through the rearview mirror he saw it. Quite far in the distance, beyond the clear range of the mirror, not easily seen through the window itself. A car had pulled off the
road … so far off, it was half into the field bordering the highway. Two men were getting out of the front seat, the figures barely visible, moving slowly.

“… Marchetti,
signore
. My commanding officer is Colonel Balbo. Genoa garrison,
signore.”

Vittorio caught Apple’s eye in the rearview mirror, nodded slightly, and moved his head in a slow arc toward the back window. At the same time, he tapped his fingers rapidly on Pear’s neck in the darkness. The agent understood.

Without warning, Vittorio opened his door. The rifle-bearing corporal jerked his weapon forward. “Put that
down, caporale
. Since your superior sees fit to take up my time, I will put it to use. I am Major Aldo Ravena,
ufficiale segreto
, from Rome. I will inspect your quarters. I will also relieve myself.”

“Signore!”
shouted the officer from across the Fiat’s hood.

“Are you addressing me?” asked Fontini-Cristi arrogantly.

“My apologies, major.” The officer could not help himself; he stole a quick glance to his right, to the road behind. “There are no facilities inside the guardhouse.”

“Surely you are not immaculate in your bowels, man. The fields must be inconvenient. Perhaps Rome will install such facilities. I’ll see.”

Vittorio walked swiftly toward the door of the small structure; it was open. As he expected, the corporal went with him. He walked rapidly through the door. The instant the corporal entered behind him, Fontini-Cristi turned and jammed the pistol up under the man’s chin. He pushed the weapon into the flesh of the corporal’s throat and with his left hand grabbed the barrel of the rifle.

“If you so much as cough, I’ll have to kill you!” whispered Vittorio. “I don’t wish to do that.”

The corporal’s eyes widened in shock; he had no stomach for heroics. Fontini-Cristi held the rifle and gave his order quietly, precisely.

“Call the officer. Say I’m using your telephone and you don’t know what to do. Tell him I’m calling the Genoa garrison. For that Colonel Balbo.
Now!”

The corporal shouted the words, conveying both his confusion and his fear. Vittorio pressed his back against the wall by the door. The reply from the lieutenant betrayed
the officer’s own fear; perhaps he had made a dreadful mistake.

“I am only following orders! I received orders from Alba!”

“Tell him Colonel Balbo is coming to the telephone,” whispered Fontini-Cristi.
“Now!”

The corporal did so. Vittorio heard the footsteps of the officer running from the Fiat to the guardhouse.

“If you wish to live, Lieutenant, remove your pistol belt—just unbuckle both straps—and join the corporal at the wall.”

The lieutenant was stunned. His jaw dropped, his lips parted in fright. Fontini-Cristi prodded him with the rifle, lancing the barrel into his stomach. The bewildered officer winced and gasped and did as he was told. Vittorio called outside, in English.

“I’ve disarmed them. Now I’m not sure what to do.”

Pear’s half-whispered shout came back. “What to
do?
My God, you’re a bloody marvel! Send the officer back outside. Make sure he knows we have our weapons on him. Tell him to return to Apple’s window right off. We’ll take it from there.”

Fontini-Cristi translated the instructions. The officer, prodded by the barrel of Vittorio’s pistol, lurched out the doors and crossed swiftly in front of the car’s headlights to the driver’s window.

Ten seconds later the officer’s shouts were heard on the road outside.

“You men from Alba! This is not the vehicle! A mistake has been made!”

A moment passed before other voices replied. Two voices, loud and angry.

“What happened? Who are they?”

Vittorio could see the figures of two men come out of the darkness of the field. They were soldiers and held guns at their sides. The officer answered.

“These are
segreti
from Genoa. They, too, look for the vehicle from Alba.”

“Mother of Christ! How many
are
there?”

Suddenly, the officer pushed himself away from the window, screaming as he dove for the front of the automobile.

“Shoot! Open fire!
They are—”

The muffled explosions of the British pistols erupted.
Pear leaped out of the right rear door, covered by the automobile, and fired at the approaching soldiers. A rifle answered; it was a wild shot that thumped into the tarred surface of the road, triggered by a dying man. The checkpoint lieutenant sprang to his feet and started to race toward the opposite field into the darkness. Apple fired; three muted reports accompanied the sharp, abrupt flashes of his weapon. The officer screamed and arched his back. He fell into the dirt off the road.

“Fontini!”
yelled Apple. “Kill your man and get out here!”

The corporal’s lips trembled, his eyes watered. He had heard the muted explosions, the screams, and he understood the command.

“No,” said Fontini-Cristi.

“Goddamn you!” roared Apple. “You do as I
say!
You’re under
my
orders! We’ve no time to waste
or
chances to take!”

“You’re wrong. We would waste more time and take greater risks if we could not find the road into Celle Ligure. This soldier will surely know it.”

He did. Vittorio drove, the soldier beside him in the front seat. Fontini-Cristi knew the area; if they ran into trouble, he could handle it. He had proved that.

“Relax,” said Vittorio in Italian to the frightened corporal. “Continue to be helpful; you’ll be all right.”

“What will happen to me? They’ll say I deserted my post.”

“Nonsense. You were ambushed, forced at the point of a gun to accompany us, to act as a shield. You had no choice.”

They drove into Celle Ligure at ten forty; the streets of the fishing village were nearly deserted. The majority of its inhabitants began their days at four in the morning; ten at night was late. Fontini-Cristi drove into the sandy parking area behind an open fish market that fronted the wide ocean street. Across was the main section of the marina.

“Where are the sentries?” asked Apple. “Where do they meet?”

At first the corporal seemed confused. Vittorio explained. “When you are on duty here, where do you turn around?”

“I see.” The corporal was relieved; he was obviously trying to help. “Not here, not at this section. Up farther; I mean, down farther.”

“Damn
you!” Apple was forward in the back seat. He grabbed the Italian by the hair.

“You’ll get nowhere like that,” said Vittorio in English. “The man’s frightened.”