The Gemini Contenders: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “Now you know why this gun is out and why I’ll use it. Where did he go? How did he go?”

  It took Adrian a moment to focus. “Where? How? I didn’t know he was gone. Why are you sure he is?”

  “Because he knows we’re after him. We know he got the word; we made the connection this morning. A captain named Greene in the Pentagon. In procurement. Needless to say, he’s gone, too. Probably halfway across the world by now.”

  … halfway across the world … the words penetrated, the realization began to surface. Halfway across the world. To Italy. Campo di Fiori. A painting on the wall and the memories of a half a century ago. The vault from Constantine!

  “Did you check the airports?”

  “He has a standard military passport. All military.…”

  “Oh, Jesus!” Adrian started for the bedroom.

  “Hold it!” The colonel grabbed his arm.

  “Let me go!” Fontine shook off the officer’s hand and raced into the bedroom. To the bureau.

  He pulled open the right-hand top drawer. From behind the colonel’s hand shot out and slammed it, trapping his wrist.

  “You pull out anything I don’t like, you’re dead.” The colonel released the drawer.

  Fontine could feel the pain and see the swelling on his wrist. He could not think about either. He opened a large leather case. His passport was gone. So, too, his international driver’s license and his Banque Genève checkbook with the coded numbers and photograph on the flap.

  Adrian turned and walked across the room in silence. He dropped the leather pouch on the bed and continued to the window. The rain outside came down in torrents against the glass.

  His brother had stalled him. Andrew had gone after the vault, leaving him behind, wanting no assistance at all, never having wanted it. The vault from Constantine was Andrew’s final weapon. In his hands a deadly thing.

  The irony was, reflected Adrian, that the army officer behind him in that room could help. He could break down bureaucratic barriers, provide instant transportation;—but the army officer could be told nothing about the train from Salonika.

  There are those who would trade off half the arsenals in this world for the information. His father’s words.

  He spoke quietly. “There’s your proof, colonel.”

  “I guess so.”

  Adrian turned and faced the officer. “Tell me, as one brother to another—how did you lock in on Eye Corps?”

  The colonel put away the gun. “A man named Dakakos.”

  “Dakakos?”

  “Yes, he’s Greek. You know him?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “The data came in slowly at first. Right into my department, marked for me by name. When Barstow broke and gave his deposition in Saigon, there was Dakakos again. He sent word to my brother to get to Barstow. Eye Corps was covered both over here and over there—”

  “By two brothers who could pick up a phone and keep it all together,” said Adrian, interrupting. “Without bureaucratic interference.”

  “We figured that. We don’t know why, but this Dakakos was after Eye Corps.”

  “He certainly was,” agreed Adrian, marveling at Dakakos’s clarity of method.

  “Yesterday, everything came in. Dakakos had Fontine followed to Phan-thiet. To a warehouse. We’ve got Eye Corps’ records now, we’ve got the proof—”

  The telephone rang, interrupting the army man. Adrian barely heard it, so total was his concentration on the colonel’s words.

  It rang again.

  “May I?” asked Adrian.

  “You’d better.” Tarkington’s eyes became cold again. “I’ll be right next to you.”

  It was Barbara, calling from Boston. “I’m in the archives. I’ve got the information on that church fire in forty-one that destroyed the Filioque—”

  “Just a minute.” Adrian turned his head toward the officer, the phone between them. He wondered if he could sound natural. “You can get on a line in the other room, if you like. It’s just some research I asked for.”

  The ruse worked. Tarkington shrugged and walked to the window.

  “Go ahead,” he said into the phone.

  Barbara spoke as an expert does, scanning a report whose form is familiar; her voice rose and fell as salient points were enumerated. “There was a gathering of elders on January 9, 1941, at eleven o’clock in the evening at the Mosque of Saint Sophia, Istanbul, a ceremony of deliverance. According to the witnesses a consigning of holy property to the heavens … sloppy work here; it’s all narrative. There should be direct quotes and literal translations. Anyway, it goes on to verify the act and list the laboratories in Istanbul and Athens where fragments of the ash were confirmed for age and materials. There you are, my doubting Thomas.”

  “What about those witnesses? The narrative?”

  “I’m being overly critical. I could be more so; the report should include authorizing credentials and graphic plate numbers, but that’s all academic lacework. The main thing is, it’s got the archival seal; you don’t buy that. You can’t play games with it. It means someone beyond reproach was at the scene and confirmed the burning. The Annaxas grant got what it paid for. The seal says it.”

  “What grant?” he asked quietly.

  “Annaxas. It’s the company that put up the money for the research.”

  “Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up. Tarkington was standing by the window, looking out at the rain. This was the man he had to get away from; he had to get to the vault!

  Barbara was right in one respect. Dakakos-Annaxas got exactly what he paid for: a false report in the archives.

  He knew where he had to go.

  Campo di Fiori.

  Dakakos.

  Dakakos, Dakakos, Dakakos!

  The name burned into Andrew’s brain as he watched the coast of Italy go by 30,000 feet below. Theodore Annaxas Dakakos had destroyed Eye Corps for the sole purpose of destroying him, eliminating him from the search for a vault buried in the mountains. What triggered his decision? How did he do it? It was vital to learn all he could about the man himself. The better one knew his enemy, the better he could fight. As things stood, Dakakos was the only barrier, the only contender.

  There was a man in Rome who could help. He was a banker who showed up with increasing frequency in Saigon, a large-scale buyer who bought whole piers, shipped the contents back to Naples and sold the stolen goods throughout Italy. Eye Corps had nailed him and used him; he had provided names that went right back to Washington.

  Such a man would know about Dakakos.

  The announcement came over the Air Canada loudspeaker. They would begin their descent into Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport in fifteen minutes.

  Fontine took out his passport. He had bought it in Quebec. Adrian’s passport had gotten him through Canadian customs, but he knew it would be worthless after that. Washington would flash the name Fontine to every airport in the hemisphere.

  Ironically, he made a connection with several army deserters at two in the morning in Montreal. The exiled moralists needed money; morality could not be proselytized without hard cash. A stringy-haired intellectual in a GI field jacket took him to an apartment that reeked of hash, and for $10,000 he got a passport within an hour.

  Adrian was so far behind he’d never catch up.

  … He could dismiss Adrian. If Dakakos wanted to stop one of them, he obviously wanted to stop both. The Greek was no match for the soldier; he was more than a match for the lawyer. And if Dakakos didn’t stop Adrian, the lack of a passport would slow him down more than enough. His brother was out of the picture, no contender at all.

  The plane touched ground. Andrew unbuckled his seat belt; he would be among the first out of the aircraft. He was in a hurry to get to a telephone.

  The evening crowds on the Via Veneto were heavy, the sidewalk tables under the awnings of the Café de Paris nearly filled. The banker had secured one near the service door, where the traffic was concentrate
d. He was a gaunt, middle-aged, impeccably dressed man, and he was cautious. No listener could overhear anything said at that table.

  Their greeting was perfunctory, the banker obviously anxious to have the meeting over with as quickly as possible.

  “I won’t ask why you’re in Rome. No address, out of your celebrated uniform.” The Italian spoke rapidly in a monotone that gave no emphasis to any word and thus emphasis to all. “I honored your demand to make no inquiries. It wasn’t necessary. You’re a hunted man.”

  “How do you know that?”

  The slender Italian paused, his thin lips stretched into a slight smile. “You just told me.”

  “I warn you—”

  “Oh, stop it. A man flies in unannounced, says he’ll meet only in crowds. It’s enough to send me to Malta so I won’t run into you. Besides, it’s all over your face. You’re uncomfortable.”

  The banker was essentially right. He was uncomfortable. He would have to adjust better, be more relaxed. “You’re clever, but then we knew that in Saigon.”

  “I never saw you before in my life,” replied the Italian, signaling a waiter. “Due Campari, per favore.”

  “I don’t drink Campari.…”

  “Then don’t. Two Italians who order Campari on the Via Veneto are not conspicuous. Which is precisely what I intend to be. What did you wish to discuss?”

  “A man named Dakakos. A Greek.”

  The banker raised his eyebrows. “If by Dakakos you mean Theo Dakakos, he is indeed Greek.”

  “You know him?”

  “Who in the world of finance doesn’t? You have business with Dakakos?”

  “Maybe. He’s a shipper, isn’t he?”

  “Among many other interests. He’s also quite young and very powerful. Even the colonels in Athens think twice before issuing edicts unfavorable to him. His older competitors are wary of him. What he lacks in experience he makes up for in energy. He’s a bull.”

  “What are his politics?”

  The Italian’s eyebrows once more rose. “Himself.”

  “What are his interests in Southeast Asia? Whom does he work for out of Saigon?”

  “He doesn’t work for anyone.” The waiter returned with the drinks. “He ships middle-manned supplies to the A.I.D. in Vientiane. Into northern Laos and Cambodia. As you know, it’s all intelligence-operated. He pulled out, I understand.”

  That was it, thought Fontine, pushing away the glass of Campari. Eye Corps had tagged the corruption in AID, and Dakakos had tagged them. “He went to a lot of trouble to interfere.”

  “Did he succeed in interfering? … I see he did. Annaxas the Younger usually does succeed; he’s perverse and predictable in that department.” The Italian raised his glass delicately.

  “What was that name?”

  “Annaxas. Annaxas the Younger, son of Annaxas the Strong. Sounds Theban, does it not? The Greek bloodlines, however insignificant, are always on the tips of their tongues. Pretentious, I think.”

  “Does he use it a lot?”

  “Not often for himself. His yacht is named Annaxas, several planes are Annaxas—One, Two, Three. He works the name into a few corporate titles. It’s an obsession with him. Theodore Annaxas Dakakos. The first son of a poor family raised by some religious order in the north. The circumstances are cloudy; he doesn’t encourage curiosity.” The Italian drained his glass.

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Have I told you something you didn’t know?”

  “Maybe,” said Fontine casually. “It’s not important.”

  “By which you mean it is.” The Italian smiled his thin, bloodless smile. “Dakakos is in Italy, you know.”

  Fontine concealed his surprise. “Is he really?”

  “So you do have business with him. Is there anything else?”

  “No.”

  The banker rose and walked rapidly into the crowds of the Via Veneto.

  Andrew remained at the table. So Dakakos was in Italy. Andrew wondered where they would meet. He wanted that meeting very much; almost as much as he wanted to find the vault from Salonika.

  He wanted to kill Theodore Annaxas Dakakos. The man who had destroyed Eye Corps did not deserve to live.

  Andrew got up from the table. He could feel the bulge of papers in his jacket pocket. His father’s recollections of half a century ago.

  26

  Adrian shifted the soft leather suitcase into his left hand and fell behind the surge of passengers in the wide corridor of London’s Heathrow Airport. He did not wish to be among the first in the passport line. He wanted to be in the middle group, even the last section; he would have more time to look around, be less conspicuous doing so. He wondered who among the scores of people in the terminal had him in their sights.

  Colonel Tarkington was no fool; he’d know within minutes of the application that one Adrian Fontine was at the emigration offices in Rockefeller Center waiting for the issuance of a substitute passport. It was entirely possible that an IG agent had picked him up before he’d left the building. If no one had, he knew it was only a question of time. And because of that certainty, Adrian had flown to London, not Rome.

  Tomorrow he would begin the chase, an amateur against professionals. His first step was to disappear, but he wasn’t sure how. On the one hand it seemed simple: a single human being among millions; how difficult could it be? Then came second thoughts: one had to travel across national borders—that meant clearly one had to have identification; one had to sleep and eat—that meant shelter and purchases, places that could be watched, alerted.

  It wasn’t simple at all; not if the single human being in question had no experience. He had no contacts in the underworld; he wouldn’t know how to behave if he met them. He doubted that he could approach someone and say the words “I’ll pay for a false passport,” … or “Get me to Italy illegally,” … or even “I won’t tell you my name but I’ll give money for certain services.” Such boldness belonged in fiction. Normal men and women did not do such things; their awkwardness would be laughed at. But professionals—the sort he was up against—were not normal. They did such things quite easily.

  He saw the passport lines. There were six in all; he chose the longest. Yet as he walked over to it, he realized that the decision was amateurish. True, he had more time to look around, but conversely, so did others.

  “Occupation, sir?” asked the immigration officer.

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  “Here on business?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Also pleasure.”

  “Anticipated length of stay?”

  “I’m not sure. No more than a week.”

  “Do you have hotel accommodations?”

  “I didn’t make reservations. Probably the Savoy.”

  The official glanced up; it was difficult to tell whether he was impressed or whether he resented Adrian’s tone. Or whether the name Fontine, A. was on a concealed list somewhere in the drawer of his lectern, and he wanted to look at the face.

  Regardless, he smiled mechanically, stamped the pages of the newly issued passport, and handed it to Adrian. “Have a pleasant stay in Great Britain, Mr. Fontine.”

  “Thank you.”

  The Savoy found him a room above the court, offering to switch him to a suite on the Thames side as soon as one became available. He accepted the offer, saying he expected to remain in England for the better part of the month. He would be traveling around—away from London for much of the time—but would like a suite available during the period of his stay.

  What astonished him was the ease with which he lied. It all flowed casually, with a certain businesslike assurance. It wasn’t an important maneuver, but the fact that he was able to do it so well gave him a sense of confidence. He had seized an advantage when it was presented; that was the important thing. He had spotted an opportunity and acted on it.

  He sat on the bed, airline schedules scattered over the spread. He found what he wanted. An SAS flight from Paris to
Stockholm at 10:30 A.M. And an Air Afrique from Paris to Rome. Time: 10:15 A.M. The SAS left from the de Gaulle field, the Air Afrique from Orly.

  Fifteen minutes between flights, departure before arrival, from adjacent airfields. He wondered—almost academically now—if he was capable of conceiving a deception, organizing the facts and executing the manipulation from beginning to end.

  Odd things would have to be considered. Items that were part of the … “dressing,” that was the word. Part of the ruse that would draw the proper attention in a crowded, bustling airport. He picked up a Savoy note pad and wrote:

  Three suitcases—unusual.

  Overcoat—conspicuous.

  Glasses.

  Hat—wide-brimmed.

  Small paste-on beard.

  The last item—the beard—caused him to smile uncomfortably, embarrassed at his own imagination. Was he crazy? Who did he think he was? What did he think he was doing? He moved the pencil instinctively to the left of the line, prepared to cross it out. Then he stopped. He wasn’t crazy. It was part of the boldness he had to absorb, the unnatural with which he had to be comfortable. He took the pencil away and without thinking wrote the name: “Andrew.”

  Where was he now? Had his brother reached Italy? Had he traveled halfway around the world without being found? Would he be waiting for him at Campo di Fiori?

  And if he was waiting, what would they say to each other? He hadn’t thought about that; he hadn’t wanted to think about it. Like a difficult summation in front of a hostile jury, he could not rehearse the words. He could only marshal the facts in his head and trust his thought processes when the moment came. But what did one say to a twin who was the killer of Eye Corps? What was there to say?

  … Bear in mind, the contents of that vault are as staggering to the civilized world as anything in history.…

  His brother had to be stopped. It was as simple as that.

  He looked at his watch. It was one in the morning. He was thankful that he had gotten little sleep during the past several days. It would make sleeping possible now. He had to rest; he had a great deal to do tomorrow. Paris.

  He walked up to the desk clerk in the Hôtel Pont Royale and handed him the room key. He hadn’t been to the Louvre in five years; it would be a cultural sin to avoid it since it was so close by. The clerk agreed politely, but Adrian saw the shaded curiosity in the man’s eyes. It was further confirmation of what Adrian suspected: he was being followed; questions were being asked.