The Gemini Contenders (11 page)

“So am I!” countered the agent. “There’s a dock across there with a green wind sock on it, and a boat in that dock we have to find! We don’t know what’s happened behind us; there are soldiers on the piers with weapons—one shot would alert the whole area. And we have no idea what orders have been radioed the water patrols.
I’m damned
frightened!”

“I remember!” cried the corporal. “On the left. Up the street on the left! The trucks stopped and we would walk through to the piers and wait for the man on duty. He would give us the patrol sheet and be relieved.”

“Where?
Exactly
where, Corporal?” Pear spoke urgently.

“The next street. I’m sure of it.”

“That’s roughly one hundred yards, wouldn’t you say?” asked Pear, looking at Fontini-Cristi. “And the street below this another one hundred, give or take some.”

“What’s your idea?” Apple had released the corporal, but kept his hands menacingly on the top of the seat.

“Same as yours,” replied Pear. “Take the sentry at midpoint; less chance of his being seen there. Once he’s out we walk south to the wind sock, where, I trust, a Corsican or two will show themselves.”

They crossed the ocean road into an alley that led to the dock complex. The smell of fish and the sounds of half a hundred boats creaking in rhythmic rest in their slips filled the darkness. Nets were hung everywhere; the wash of the sea could be heard beyond the planked walkway that fronted the piers. A few lanterns were swaying on ropes over decks; a concertina played a simple tune in the distance.

Vittorio and Pear walked casually out of the alley, their footsteps muted by moist planks. Apple and the corporal remained in the shadows. The walkway was bordered by a railing of metal tubing above the lapping water.

“Do you see the sentry?” asked Fontini-Cristi softly.

“No. But I hear him,” answered the agent. “He’s rapping the pipe as he walks. Listen.”

It took Vittorio several seconds before he could distinguish the faint metal sounds among the rhythmic creakings of wood on water. But they were there. The unconscious, irregular tattoo of a bored man performing a dull task.

Several hundred feet south on the walkway, the figure of the soldier came under the spill of a pier light, his rifle angled down to the deck through his left arm. He was beside the railing, his right hand aimlessly tapping out his steps.

“When he gets here, ask him for a cigarette,” said Pear calmly. “Pretend you’re drunk. I will, too.”

The sentry approached. The instant he saw them he snapped up his rifle and cracked the bolt, holding his position fifteen feet away.

“Halt!
Who’s
there?”

“Two fishermen without cigarettes,” replied Fontini-Cristi, slurring his words. “Be a nice fellow and give us a couple. Even one; we’ll share it.”

“You’re drunk,” said the soldier. “There’s a curfew tonight on the piers. How come you’re here? It was on the loudspeakers all day.”

“We’ve been with two whores in Albisolla,” answered Vittorio, lurching, steadying himself on the railing. “Only things we heard were music on a phonograph and creaking beds.”

“Very nice,” mumbled Pear.

The sentry shook his head in disapproval. He lowered his rifle and approached, reaching into the pocket of his tunic for cigarettes. “You
Ligurini
are worse than the
Napoletani
. I’ve done duty there.”

Behind the soldier, Vittorio could see Apple coming out of the shadows. He had forced the corporal to lie down on his back in the corner of the alley; the corporal would not move. In Apple’s hands were two spools.

Before Vittorio could realize what was happening, Apple sprang out of the passageway, his arms stretched, angled upward. In two swift moves, the agent’s hands whipped over the sentry’s head, and with his knee jammed into the small of the soldier’s back, he yanked violently, causing the guard to arch spastically and then collapse.

The only noise was an abrupt, horrible expunging of air,
and the quiet fall of the man’s body into the soft, moist wood.

Pear rushed to the corporal; he held his pistol against the soldier’s temple. “Not a sound. Understood?” It was a command that left no room for debate. The corporal rose silently.

Fontini-Cristi looked down in the dim light at the guard on the walkway. What he could see he wished he had not seen. The man’s neck was severed half off his body, the blood was pouring out in a dark-red stream from what had been the man’s throat. Apple rolled the body through a wide space in the railing. It hit the water with a muffled splash. Pear picked up his rifle and spoke in English.

“Off we go. Down this way.”

“Come on,” said Fontini-Cristi, his hand on the trembling corporal’s arm. “You have no choice.”

The green wind sock was limp, no breeze billowing its cloth. The pier was only half filled with boats; it seemed to extend farther out into the water than the others. The four of them walked down the steps, Apple and Pear in front, their hands in their pockets. The two Englishmen were obviously hesitant. It was apparent to Vittorio that they were concerned.

Without warning or sound, men suddenly appeared on both sides of them, their weapons drawn. They were on the decks of the boats; five, no, six men dressed as fishermen.

“Be you George the Fifth?” said the gruff voice of the man nearest the agents, standing on the deck of a small trawler.

“Thank
God!”
said Pear in relief. “We’ve had a nasty time of it.”

At the spoken English, weapons were replaced in belts and pockets. The men converged, a number talking at once.

The language was Corsican.

One man, obviously the leader, turned to Apple. “Go to the end of the pier. We’ve got one of the fastest trawlers in Bastia. We’ll take care of the Italian. They won’t find him for a month!”

“No!” Fontini-Cristi stepped between the two men. He looked at Pear. “We gave our word. If he cooperated, he lived.”

Apple replied, instead, his whispered voice drawn out in
irritation. “Now, you see here. You’ve been a help, I’ll not deny it, but you’re not running this show. Get out to the bloody boat.”

“Not until this man is back on the walkway. We gave our word!” He spoke to the corporal. “Go back. You won’t be harmed. Strike a match when you reach a passageway to the ocean road.”

“And if I say
no?”
Apple continued to grip the soldier’s tunic.

“Then I’ll remain here.”

“Damn!”
Apple released the soldier.

“Walk with him part way,” said Fontini-Cristi to the Corsican. “Make sure your men let him pass.”

The Corsican spat on the pier.

The corporal ran as fast as he could toward the base of the dock. Fontini-Cristi looked at the two Englishmen.

“I am sorry,” he said simply. “There’s been enough killing.”

“You’re a damn fool,” replied Apple.

“Hurry,” said the Corsican leader. “I want to get started. The water’s rough beyond the rocks. And you people are crazy!”

They walked out to the end of the long pier, one by one jumping over the gunwale onto the deck of the huge trawler. Two Corsicans remained on the dock by the pilings; they unwound the thick greasy ropes while the gruff captain started the engines.

It happened without warning.

A fusillade of gunfire from the walkway. Then the blinding shaft of a searchlight shot out of the darkness, accompanied by the shouts of soldiers at the base of the pier. The voice of the corporal could be heard.

“Out
there!
At the end of the dock! The
fishing trawler!
Send out the alarms!”

One of the Corsicans was hit; he plunged to the ground, at the last second freeing the rope from the piling.

“The
light!
Shoot out the light!” screamed the Corsican from the open wheelhouse, revving the engines, heading for open water.

Apple and Pear unscrewed their silencers for greater accuracy. Apple was the first to raise himself over the protection of the gunwale; he squeezed his trigger repeatedly, steadying his hand on the wooden rail. In the distance the
searchlight exploded. Simultaneously, fragments of wood burst around Apple; the agent reeled back, screaming in pain.

His hand was shattered.

But the Corsican had steered the fast-moving trawler out into the protective darkness of the sea. They were free of Celle Ligure.

“Our price goes up, English!” shouted the man at the wheel. “You whoreson bastards! You’ll pay for this craziness!” He looked at Fontini-Cristi crouched beneath the starboard gunwale. Their eyes met; the Corsican spat furiously.

Apple sat back sweating against a pile of ropes. In the night light reflecting the ocean’s spray, Vittorio saw that the Englishman was staring at the bloody mass of flesh that was his hand, holding it by the wrist.

Fontini-Cristi got up and crossed to the agent, tearing off part of his shirt as he did so. “Let me wrap that for you. Stop the bleeding—”

Apple jerked his head up and spoke in quiet anger. “Stay the hell away from me. Your goddamned principles cost too much.”

The seas were heavy, the winds strong, the rolls violent and abrupt. They had plowed through the drenching waves of the open water for thirty-eight minutes. Arrangements had been made, the blockade run; the trawler’s engines were now idling.

Beyond the swells, Vittorio could see a small flashing blue disc: on for a beat, off for a beat. The signal from a submarine. The Corsican on the bow with the lantern began his own signal. He lowered and raised the lamp, using the gunwale as a shutter, imitating the timing of the blue disc half a mile away over the waters.

“Can’t you radio him?” Pear shouted his question.

“Frequencies are monitored,” replied the Corsican. “The patrol boats would circle in; we can’t bribe them all.”

The two vessels began their cautious pavane over the rough seas, the trawler making most of the moves until the huge undersea marauder was directly off the starboard rail. Fontini-Cristi was hypnotized by its size and black majesty.

The two ships drifted within fifty feet of each other, the submarine considerably higher on the mountainous waves.
Four men could be seen on the deck; they were hanging on to a metal railing, the two in the center trying to manipulate some kind of machine.

A heavy rope shot through the air and crashed against the midships of the trawler. Two Corsicans leaped at it, holding on desperately, as if the line had a hostile will of its own. They lashed the rope to an iron winch in the center of the deck and signaled the men on the submarine.

The action was repeated. But the second rope was not the only item that had been shot from the submarine. There was a canvas pouch with metal rings on the edges, and from one of these rings was a thick coil of wire that extended back to the crew on the sub’s deck.

The Corsicans ripped open the canvas pack and pulled out a shoulder harness. Fontini-Cristi recognized it immediately; it was a rig used to cross crevasses in the mountains.

Pear, bracing himself as he lurched forward on the rolling deck, approached Vittorio.

“It’s a bit skin-crawling, but it’s safe!” he yelled.

Vittorio shouted back “Send your man Apple first. His hand should be looked after.”

“You’re the priority. And frankly, if the damn thing doesn’t hold, I’d rather we find out with you!”

Fontini-Cristi sat on the iron bunk inside the small metal room and drank from the thick china mug of coffee. He pulled the Royal Navy blanket around his shoulders, feeling the wet clothes beneath. The discomfort did not bother him; he was grateful to be alone.

The door of the small metal room opened. It was Pear. He carried an armful of clothing which he dropped on the bunk.

“Here’s a dry change for you. It wouldn’t do for you to croak off with pneumonia now. That’d be a clanker in the balls, wouldn’t it?”

“Thank you,” said Vittorio, getting up. “How’s your friend?”

“The ship’s doctor is afraid he’ll lose the use of his hand. The doctor hasn’t told him, but he knows.”

“I’m sorry. I was naïve.”

“Yes,” agreed the Britisher simply. “You were naïve.” He left leaving the door open.

From the narrow metal corridors outside the tiny metal room, there was a sudden eruption of noise. Men raced by the door, all running in the same direction, fore or aft, Fontini-Cristi could not tell. Over the ship’s intercom a piercing, deafening whistle shrieked without letup; metal doors slammed, the shouting increased.

Vittorio lunged at the open door; his breathing stopped. The panic of helplessness under the sea gripped him.

He collided with a British sailor. But the sailor’s face was not contorted in panic. Or fear. Or anything but carefree laughter.

“Happy New Year
, mate!” cried the sailor. “Midnight, chum! We’re in 1940. A bloody new decade!”

The sailor raced on to the next hatchway, which he opened with a crash. Beyond, Fontini-Cristi could see the mess quarters. Men were gathered around holding out mugs into which two officers were pouring whiskey. The shouts merged into laughter. “Auld Lang Syne” began to fill the metal chambers.

The new decade.

The old one had ended in death. Death everywhere, most horribly in the blinding white light of Campo di Fiori. Father, mother, brothers, sisters … the children.
Gone
. Gone in a minute of shattering violence that was burned into his mind. A memory he would live with for the rest of his life.

Why?
Why?
Nothing made sense!

And then he remembered. Savarone had said he had gone to Zürich. But he had not gone to Zürich; he had gone somewhere else.

In that somewhere else lay the answer. But what?

Vittorio walked into the small metal room of the submarine and sat down on the iron ridge of the bed.

The new decade had begun.

Sandbags.

London was a city of sandbags. Everywhere. In doorways, windows, storefronts; piled in mounds on street corners. The sandbag was the symbol. Across the Channel, Adolf Hitler vowed the destruction of all England; quietly the English believed his threat, and quietly, firmly, they steeled themselves in anticipation.