The Gemini Contenders (16 page)

Beyond a point, Fontine could not. He simply was not so inclined. He had shared the anguish of Campo di Fiori with Jane; there would be no one else. Occasionally he found it necessary to reprimand Petride Mikhailovic.

“You’re my friend. Not my priest.”

“Did you have a priest?”

“Actually, no. It was a figure of speech.”

“Your family was religious. It must have been.”

“Why?”

“Your real name. ‘Fontini-Cristi.’ It means fountains of Christ, doesn’t it?”

“In a language several centuries old. We’re not religious in the accepted sense; not for a long time.”

“I’m very,
very
religious.”

“It’s your right.”

The fifth week came and went and still there was no word from Teague. Fontine wondered if he’d been forgotten; whether MI6 had developed second thoughts over the concept of “mismanagement at all costs.” Regardless, life at Loch Torridon had taken his mind off his self-destructive memories; he actually felt quite strong and capable again.

The compound’s lieutenants had devised what they called a “long-pursuit” exercise for the day. The four barracks operated separately, each taking forty-five degrees of the compass within a ten-mile radius of Loch Torridon. Two men from each barracks were given a fifteen-minute head start before the remaining recruits took chase; the object being for the hunted to elude the hunters for as long as possible.

It was natural for the sergeants to choose the best two
from each barracks to begin the exercise. Victor and Petride were the first eluders in Barracks Three.

They raced down the rocky slope toward the Loch Torridon woods.

“Quickly now!” ordered Fontine as they entered the thick foliage of the forest. “We’ll go left. The
mud;
step into the mud! Break as many branches as you can.”

They ran no more than fifty yards, snapping limbs, stamping their feet into the moist corridor of soft earth that angled through the woods. Victor issued his second command.

“Stop! This is far enough. Now, carefully. We’ll make footprints up onto the dry ground.… That’s enough. All right, step backward, directly on the prints.
Across
the mud.… Good. Now, we’ll head back.”

“Head back?” asked the bewildered Petride. “Head back where?”

“To the edge of the woods. Where we entered. We’ve still got eight minutes. That’s enough time.”

“For what?” The Serbo-Croat looked at his older friend as if Fontine was amusingly mad.

“To climb a tree. Out of sight.”

Victor selected a tall Scotch pine in the center of a cluster of lower trees and started up, shinnying to the first level of branches. Petride followed, his boyish face elated. Both men reached the three-quarter height of the pine, bracing themselves on opposite sides of the trunk. They were obscured by the surrounding branches; the ground beneath, however, was visible to them.

“We’ve nearly two minutes to spare,” whispered Victor, looking at his watch. “Kick any loose limbs away. Rest your weight solidly.”

Two minutes and thirty second later, their pursuers passed far below them. Fontine leaned forward toward the young Serbo-Croat.

“We’ll give them thirty seconds and then climb down. We’ll head for the other side of the hill. A section of it fronts a ravine. It’s a good hiding place.”

“A stone’s throw from the starting line!” Petride grinned. “How did you think of it?”

“You never had brothers to play games with. Race-and-hide was a favorite.”

Mikhailovic’s smile disappeared. “I have many brothers,” he said enigmatically, and looked away.

There was no time to pursue Petride’s statement. Nor did Victor care to. During the past eight days or so, the young Serbo-Croat had behaved quite strangely. Morose one minute, antic the next; and incessantly asking questions that were beyond the bounds of a six-week friendship. Fontine looked at his watch. “I’ll start down first. If there’s no one in sight, I’ll yank the branches. That’s your signal to follow.”

On the ground, Victor and Petride crouched and ran east at the edge of the woods, the base of the starting hill. Three hundred yards, around the circle of the hill was a slope of jagged rock that overlooked a deep ravine. It was carved out of the hill by a crack of a glacier eons ago, a natural sanctuary. They made their way literally across the gorge. Breathing hard, Fontine lowered himself into a sitting position, his back against the stone cliff. He opened the pocket of his field jacket and took out a pack of cigarettes. Petride sat in front of him, his legs over the side of the ledge. Their isolated perch was no more than seven feet across, perhaps five in depth. Again, Victor looked at his watch. There was no need to whisper now.

“In half an hour, we’ll climb over the crest and surprise the lieutenants. Cigarette?”

“No, thank you,” replied Mikhailovic harshly, his back to Fontine.

The note of anger could not be overlooked. “What’s the matter? Did you hurt yourself?”

Petride turned. His eyes bore into Victor. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“I won’t try to follow that. You either hurt yourself or you didn’t. I’m not interested in manners of speech.” Fontine decided that if this was to be one of Mikhailovic’s periods of depression, they could do without conversation. He was beginning to think that beneath his wide-eyed innocence, Petride Mikhailovic was a disturbed young man.

“You
choose
what interests you, don’t you, Victor? You turn the world off at will. With a switch in your head, all is void. Nothing.” The Serbo-Croat stared at Fontine as he spoke.

“Be quiet. Look at the scenery, smoke a cigarette, leave me alone. You’re becoming a bore.”

Mikhailovic slowly pulled his legs over the ledge, his eyes still riveted on Victor. “You must not dismiss me. You cannot. I’ve shared my secrets with you. Openly, willingly. Now you must do the same.”

Fontine watched the Serbo-Croat, suddenly apprehensive. “I think you mistake our relationship. Or, perhaps, I’ve mistaken your preferences.”

“Don’t insult me.”

“Merely clarification—”

“My time has
run out!”
Petride raised his voice; his words formed a cry as his eyes remained wide, unblinking. “You’re not blind! You’re not deaf! Yet you pretend these things!”

“Get out of here,” ordered Victor quietly. “Go back to the starting line. To the sergeants. The exercise is over.”

“My name,” Mikhailovic whispered, one leg pulled up beneath his powerful, crouching body. “From the beginning you refused to acknowledge it!
Petride!”

“It is your name. I acknowledge it.”

“You’ve never heard it before? Is that what you’re saying?”

“If I have, it made no impression.”

“That’s a lie! It’s the name of a priest. And you
knew that priest!”
Again the words floated upward, a cry shouted in desperation.

“I’ve known a number of priests. None with that name—”

“A priest on a
train!
A man devoted to the glory of God! Who walked in the grace of His holy work! You cannot,
must
not deny him!”

“Mother of Christ!”
Fontine spoke inaudibly; the shock was overpowering. “Salonika. The freight from Salonika.”

“Yes! That most holy train; documents that are the blood, the
soul
of the
one incorruptible, immaculate
church! You’ve taken them from us!”

“You’re a priest of Xenope,” said Victor, incredulous at the realization. “My God, you’re a monk from Xenope!”

“With all my heart! With all my
mind
and
soul
and
body!”

“How did you get here? How did you penetrate Loch Torridon?”

Mikhailovic pulled his other leg up; he was fully crouched now, a mad animal prepared to spring. “It’s irrelevant.
I must know where that vault was taken, where it was hidden. You’ll tell me,
Vittorio Fontini-Cristi!
You’ve no choice!”

“I’ll tell you what I told the British. I know
nothing!
The English saved my life; why would I lie?”

“Because you gave your word. To another.”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

“No! He was killed before he could say the words! If you know anything, you know that!”

The priest of Xenope’s eyes became suddenly fixed. His stare was clouded, his lids wide, almost thyroid. He reached under his field jacket and withdrew a small, snub-nosed automatic. With his thumb he snapped up the safety. “You’re insignificant. We’re both insignificant,” he whispered. “We’re nothing.”

Victor held his breath. He pulled his knees up; the split second approached when he would have the one opportunity to save his life, when he would lash his feet out at the maniacal priest. One boot at the weapon, the other at Mikhailovic’s weighted leg, sending him over the precipice. It was all there was left—if he could do it.

Abruptly, the vocal intrusion startling, the priest spoke, his tone chantlike, transfixed. “You’re telling me the truth,” he said, closing his eyes. “You have told me the truth,” he repeated hypnotically.

“Yes.” Fontine took a deep, deep breath. As he exhaled, he knew he would plunge both legs out; the moment had come.

Petride stood up, his powerful chest expanding beneath the soldier’s clothes. But the weapon was no longer aimed at Victor. Instead, both Mikhailovic’s arms were extended in an attitude of crucifixion. The priest raised his head to the skies and shouted.

“I believe in one God, the Father Almighty! I will look into the eyes of the Lord and I shall not waver!”

The priest of Xenope bent his right arm and put the barrel of the automatic to his temple.

He fired.

“You got your first kill,” said Teague casually, sitting in a chair in front of Fontine’s desk in the small, enclosed cubicle.

“I did not kill him!”

“It doesn’t matter how it happens, or who pulls the bloody trigger. The result’s the same.”

“For the wrong reason! That
train
, that damned,
unholy train!
When will it stop? When will it
go away?”

“He was your enemy. That’s all I’m saying.”

“If he was, you should have known it, spotted it! You’re a fool, Alec.”

Teague shifted his legs in irritation. “That’s rather harsh language for a captain to employ with a brigadier.”

“Then I’d be delighted to purchase your command and set it right,” said Victor, returning to the papers in manila folders on his desk.

“One doesn’t do that in the military.”

“It’s the only reason for your continuity. You wouldn’t last a week as one of my executives.”

“I don’t believe this.” Teague spoke in astonishment. “I’m sitting here being cashiered by a ragtail guinea.”

Fontine laughed. “Don’t exaggerate. I’m only doing what you asked me to do.” He gestured at the manila folders on the desk. “Refine Loch Torridon. In that process, I’ve tried to learn how this priest of Xenope, this Mikhailovic, got in.”

“Have you?”

“I think so. It’s a basic weakness with every one of these dossiers. There are no clear financial appraisals; there are endless words, histories, judgments—but very few figures. It should be corrected wherever possible before we make our final personnel decisions.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Money. Men are proud of it; it’s the symbol of their productivity. It can be traced, confirmed in a dozen different ways. Records abound. Where possible, I want financial statements on every recruit in Loch Torridon. There was none on Petride Mikhailovic.”

“Financial
—”

“A financial statement,” completed Fontine, “is a most penetrating look into a man’s character. These are businessmen and professionals, by and large. They’ll be anxious to oblige. Those that are not we’ll question at length.”

Teague uncrossed his legs, his voice respectful. “We’ll get at it, there are forms for that sort of thing.”

“If not,” said Victor glancing up, “any bank or brokerage
house can supply them. The more complex, the better.”

“Yes, of course. And beyond this, how are things going?”

Fontine shrugged, waving his hand again over the pile of the folders on the desk. “Slowly. I’ve read all the dossiers several times, making notes, cataloging by professions and related professions. I’ve detailed geographical patterns, linguistic compatibilities. But where it’s all led me, I’m not sure. It’ll take time.”

“And a lot of work,” interrupted Teague. “Remember, I told you that.”

“Yes. You also said it would be worthwhile. I hope you’re right.”

Teague leaned forward. “I have one of the finest men in the service to work with you. He’ll be your communications man for the whole show. He’s a crackerjack; knows more codes and ciphers than any ten of our best cryptographers. He’s damned decisive, a shark at quick decisions. Which is what you’ll want, of course.”

“Not for a long time.”

“Before you know it.”

“When do I meet him? What’s his name?”

“Geoffrey Stone. I brought him up with me.”

“He’s in Loch Torridon?”

“Yes. No doubt checking the cryp’s quarters. I want him in at the beginning.”

Victor was not sure why but Teague’s information disturbed him. He wanted to work alone, without distraction. “All right. I imagine we’ll see him at the dinner mess.”

Teague smiled again and looked at his watch.

“Well, I’m not sure you’ll want to dine at the Torridon mess.”

“One never
dines
at the mess, Alec. He eats.”

“Yes, well, the cuisine notwithstanding. I’ve a bit of news for you. A friend of yours is in the sector.”

“Sector? Is Loch Torridon a sector?”

“For air warning-relays.”

“Good Lord!
Jane
is here?”

“I found out the night before last. She’s on tour for the Air Ministry. Of course, she had no idea you were in this area, until I reached her yesterday. She was in Moray Firth, on the coast.”

“You’re a terrible manipulator!” Fontine laughed. “And so obvious. Where the devil
is
she?”

“I swear to you,” said Teague with convincing innocence, “I knew nothing. Ask her yourself. There’s an inn on the outskirts of town. She’ll be there at five thirty.”