The Gemini Contenders (12 page)

Vittorio had reached the Lakenheath military airfield late on the previous night, the first day of the new decade. He had been taken off an unmarked plane flown out of Majorca and whisked into operations, the purpose of which was to confirm his identity for the Naval Ministry. And now that he was safely in the country, the voices suddenly became calm and solicitous: Would he care to rest up after his grueling journey? Perhaps the Savoy? It was understood that the Fontini-Cristis stayed at the Savoy when in London. Would a conference tomorrow afternoon at fourteen hundred hours be convenient? At the Admiralty, Intelligence Sector Five. Alien operations.

Of course. For God’s sake,
yes!
Why have you English done what you’ve done? I must know, but I will be silent until you tell me.

The Savoy desk provided him with toilet articles and nightclothes, including a Savoy robe. He had drawn a very hot bath in the enormous hotel tub and immersed himself for such a length of time the skin on his fingertips wrinkled. He then proceeded to drink too many glasses of brandy and fell into bed.

He had left a wake-up call for ten but, of course, it was unnecessary. He was fully alert by eight thirty; showered
and shaved by nine. He ordered an English breakfast from the floor steward and while waiting, telephoned Norcross, Limited, on Savile Row. He needed clothes immediately. He could not walk around London in a borrowed raincoat, a sweater, and the ill-fitting trousers provided by an agent named Pear on a submarine in the Mediterranean.

As he hung up the phone, it struck Vittorio that he had no money other than ten pounds courtesy of Lakenheath dispersals. He assumed his credit was good; he would have funds transferred from Switzerland. He had not had time to concentrate on the logistics of living; he had been too preoccupied with staying alive.

It occurred to Fontini-Cristi that he had many things to do. And if only to control the terrible memory—the infinite pain—of Campo di Fiori, he had to keep active. Force his mind to concentrate first on the simple things, everyday things. For when the great things came into focus he could go mad pondering them.

Please, dear God, the
little
things! Spare me the time to find my sanity.

He saw her first across the Savoy lobby while waiting for the day manager to arrange for immediate monies. She was sitting in an armchair, reading the
Times
, dressed in the stern uniform of a branch of the women’s service, what branch he had no idea. Beneath the officer’s visor cap her dark brunette hair fell in waves to her shoulders, outlining her face. It was a face he had seen before; it was a face one remembered. But it was a younger version of that face that stuck in his mind. The woman was, perhaps, in her middle thirties; the face he recalled had been no more than twenty-two or twenty-three. The cheekbones were high, the nose more Celtic than English—sharp, slightly upturned, and delicate above the full lips. He could not see the eyes clearly, but he knew what they looked like: a very intense blue, as blue as he had ever seen a woman’s eyes.

That’s what he remembered. Angry blue eyes staring up at him. Angry and filled with disdain. He had not encountered that reaction often in his life; it had irritated him.

Why did he remember? When was it?

“Signor Fontini-Cristi.” The Savoy manager walked briskly out of the cashier’s arch, an envelope in his hand. “As you requested, a thousand pounds.”

Vittorio took the envelope and shoved it in the raincoat pocket. “Thank you.”

“We’ve arranged for your limousine, sir. It should be here shortly. If you’d care to return to your suite, we’ll ring you the moment it arrives.”

“I’ll wait here. If you can put up with these clothes, I can.”

“Please,
signore
. It is always a great pleasure to welcome a member of the Fontini-Cristis. Will your father be joining you this trip? We trust he’s well.”

England marched to the sudden drums of war and the Savoy inquired about families
.

“He’ll not be joining me.” Vittorio saw no point in further explanations. The news had not reached England, or if it had, the war dispatches made it insignificant. “By the way, do you know that lady over there? The one seated. In the uniform.”

The manager unobtrusively glanced across the sparsely crowded lobby. “Yes, sir. She’s Mrs. Spane. I should say
was
Mrs. Spane; they’re divorced. I believe she’s remarried now. Mr. Spane is. We don’t see her often.”

“Spane?”

“Yes, sir. I see she’s with Air Defense. They’re a no-nonsense group, they are.”

“Thank you,” said Vittorio, dismissing the manager courteously. “I shall wait for my car.”

“Yes, of course. If there’s anything we can do to make your stay more pleasant, don’t hesitate to call upon us.”

The manager nodded and walked away. Fontini-Cristi looked again at the woman. She glanced at her watch, and then returned to her reading.

He remembered the name Spane because of its spelling, and because of the spelling, he remembered the man. It had been eleven, no, twelve years ago; he had accompanied Savarone to London to observe his father in negotiations with British Haviland—the observation a part of his training. Spane had been introduced to him one night at Les Ambassadeurs, a youngish man two or three years older than he was. He found the Englishman mildly amusing but basically tiring. Spane was a Mayfair product quite content to enjoy the fruits of ancestral labors without contributing much of anything himself, other than his expertise at the races. His father had disapproved of Spane and said as
much to his eldest son, which, quite naturally, goaded the son into a brief acquaintanceship.

But it had been brief, and Vittorio suddenly remembered why. That it had not first come to mind was merely further proof that he had blocked her existence from much of his memory: not the woman across the lobby, but his wife.

His wife had come to England with them twelve years ago, the
padrone
feeling that her presence would have a restraining influence on a headstrong, wandering son. But Savarone did not know his daughter-in-law that well; he did later, but not at the time. The heady atmosphere of Mayfair at the height of the season was a tonic to her.

His wife was attracted to Spane; one or the other seduced one or the other. He had not paid much attention; he had been occupied himself.

And somewhere along the way there’d been a disagreeable confrontation. Recriminations had been hurled, and the angry blue eyes had stared up at him.

Vittorio walked across the lobby toward the armchair. The Spane woman glanced up as he approached. There was a moment of hesitancy in her eyes, as if she were unsure. And then she
was
sure and there was no hesitance at all; the disdain he recalled so vividly replaced the hesitation. Their eyes locked for a second—no more—and she returned to the newspaper.

“Mrs. Spane?”

She looked up. “The name is Holcroft.”

“We’ve met.”

“We have. It’s Fontini—” She paused.

“Fontini-Cristi. Vittorio Fontini-Cristi.”

“Yes. A long time ago. You’ll forgive me, but I’ve a full day. I’m waiting for someone and I shan’t have the chance to get through the paper again.” She went back to her reading.

Vittorio smiled. “You dismiss me efficiently.”

“I find it quite easy to do so,” she replied without looking at him.

“Mrs. Holcroft, it
was
a long time ago. The English poet says that nothing so becomes change as the years.”

“The English poet also maintains that leopards do not change their spots. I’m really quite occupied. Good day.”

Vittorio started to nod his departure when he saw that her hands trembled ever so slightly. Mrs. Holcroft was
somewhat less confident than her demeanor implied. He was not sure why he stayed; it was a time to be alone. The terrible memories of white light and death burned; he did not care to share them. On the other hand, he wanted to talk. To someone. About anything.

“Is an apology offered for childish behavior twelve years ago a decade too late?”

The lieutenant glanced up. “How
is
your wife?”

“She died in an automobile crash ten years ago.”

The look in her eyes was steady; the hostility lessened. She blinked in discomfort, mildly embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

“It is my place to apologize. Twelve years ago you were seeking an explanation. Or comfort. And I had neither to give.”

The woman allowed herself the trace of a smile. Her blue eyes had an element—if only an element—of warmth in them. “You were a very arrogant young man. And I’m afraid I had very little grace under pressure. I came to have more, of course.”

“You were better than the games we played. I should have understood.”

“That’s a very disarming thing to say.… And I think we’ve said enough about the subject.”

“Will you and your husband have dinner with me tonight, Mrs. Holcroft?” He heard the words he had spoken, not sure he had said them. It was the impulse of the moment.

She stared at him briefly before answering. “You mean that, don’t you?”

“Certainly. I left Italy in somewhat of a rush, courtesy of your government, as these clothes are the courtesy of your countrymen. I haven’t been to London in several years. I have very few acquaintances here.”

“Now that’s a provocative thing to say.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That you left Italy in a rush and you’re wearing someone else’s clothes. It raises questions.”

Vittorio hesitated, then spoke quietly. “I would appreciate your having the understanding I lacked ten years ago. I would prefer those questions not be raised. But I’d like to have dinner with you. And your husband, of course.”

She held his gaze, looking up at him curiously. Her lips curved into a gentle smile; she had made her decision. “My
husband’s name was Spane. Holcroft’s my own. Jane Holcroft. And I’ll have dinner with you.”

The Savoy doorman interrupted. “Signor Fontini-Cristi, your car has arrived, sir.”

“Thank you,” he replied, his eyes on Jane Holcroft. “I’ll be right there.”

“Yes, sir.” The doorman nodded and walked away.

“May I pick you up this evening? Or send my car for you?”

“Petrol’s getting scarce. I’ll meet you here. Eight o’clock?”

“Eight o’clock.
Arrivederci.”

“Until then.”

He walked down the long corridor at the Admiralty, escorted by a Commander Neyland who had met him at the entrance desk. Neyland was middle-aged, properly military, and quite impressed with himself. Or perhaps he was not at all impressed with Italians. In spite of Vittorio’s fluency in English, Neyland insisted on using the simplest terms, and raising his voice as though addressing a retarded child. Fontini-Cristi was convinced that Neyland had not listened to his replies; a man did not hear of pursuit, death, and escape, and respond with such banalities as “You don’t say.” … “Odd, isn’t it?” … “The Genoa gulf can be choppy in December, can’t it?”

As they walked, Vittorio balanced his negative reaction to the commander with his gratitude for old Norcross on Savile Row.

Where the commander floundered, Norcross performed. The old tailor had clothed him in a matter of hours.

The little things; concentrate on the every
day
things.

Above all, maintain a control that bordered on ice during the conference with whatever, or whoever, comprised Intelligence Sector Five. There was so much to learn, to understand. So much that was beyond his comprehension. In the cold recital of the events that were the horror of Campo di Fiori, he could not let the agony cloud his perceptions; the recital, therefore,
would
be cold and understated.

“Through here, old man,” said Neyland, indicating a cathedral-arched doorway that was more reminiscent of some venerable men’s club than a military building. The
commander opened the heavy door, gleaming with brass hardware, and Vittorio walked in.

There was nothing about the large room that belied the concept of a subdued but richly appointed club. Two huge windows overlooked a courtyard; everything was heavy and ornate: the drapes, the furniture, the lamps, and to some degree the three men who sat at the thick mahogany table in the center. Two were in uniform—the insignia and breast decorations duly proclaiming advanced ranks unknown to Fontini-Cristi. The man in civilian clothes had an archly diplomatic look about him, complete with a waxed moustache. Such men had come and gone in Campo di Fiori. They spoke in soft voices, their words ambiguous; they were seekers of elastic. The civilian was at the head of the table, the officers seated at the sides. There was one empty chair, obviously for him.

“Gentlemen,” said Commander Neyland, as if he were announcing a petitioner at the Court of St. James, “Signor Savarone Fontini-Cristi of Milan.”

Vittorio stared at the fatuous Englishman; the man had not heard a word he said.

The three men at the table rose as one. The civilian spoke. “May I introduce myself, sir. I am Anthony Brevourt. For a number of years I was the crown’s ambassador of the Greek court of George the Second in Athens. On my left, Vice Admiral Hackett, Royal Navy; on my right, Brigadier Teague, Military Intelligence.”

At first there were formal nods of acknowledgment, then Teague broke the formality by coming around his chair, his hand held out for Vittorio.

“I’m glad you’re here, Fontini-Cristi. I received the preliminary reports. You’ve had a hell of a time of it.”

“Thank you,” said Vittorio, shaking the general’s hand.

“Do sit down,” said Brevourt, indicating the expected chair to Vittorio and returning to his own. The two officers took their seats—Hackett rather formally, even pompously; Teague quite casually. The general withdrew a cigarette case from his pocket and offered it to Fontini-Cristi.

“No, thank you,” said Vittorio. To smoke with these men would imply a casualness he neither felt nor wanted them to think he felt. A lesson from Savarone.

Brevourt quickly continued. “I think we’d better get on
with-it. I’m sure you know the subject of our anxieties. The Greek consignment.”