Free The Gemini Contenders by Robert Ludlum

sounds of the rushing traffic and racing motor. Vittorio stared, his emotions a mixture of awe and fear and, inexplicably, sorrow. He had entered a world of violence he did not understand.
    The partisan emerged from the guardhouse, pulling the narrow door shut behind him. He jumped into the truck, slammed the door panel, and nodded to Vittorio. Fontini-Cristi waited several moments for a break in the traffic, then let out the clutch. The old truck lurched forward.
    “There is a garage on the Via Monte that will hide the truck, paint it, and alter the license plates. It’s less than a mile from the Piazza San Giorno. We’ll walk there from the garage. I’ll tell you where to turn.”
    The partisan held out the pistol for Vittorio. “Thank you,” said Fontini-Cristi awkwardly, as he shoved the weapon into his jacket pocket. “You killed them?”
    “Of course,” was the simple reply.
    “I suppose you had to.”
    “Naturally. You’ll be in England,
signore
. I, in Italy. I could be identified.”
    “I see,” answered Vittorio, the hesitancy in his voice.
    “I don’t mean disrespect, Signor Fontini-Cristi, but I don’t think you
do
see. You people at Campo di Fiori, it’s all new to you. It’s not new to us. We’ve been at war for twenty years; I, myself, for ten.”
    “War?”
    “Yes. Who do you think trains your
partigiani?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I am a Communist,
signore
. The powerful, capitalist Fontini-Cristis are shown how to fight by Communists.”
    The truck was rushing forward; Vittorio held the wheel firmly, astonished but strangely unmoved by his companion’s words.
    “I didn’t know that,” he replied.
    “It’s peculiar, isn’t it?” said the partisan. “No one ever asked.”

4
DECEMBER 30, 1939
ALBA, ITALY
    The
espresso
bar was crowded, the tables full, the voices loud. Vittorio followed the partisan through the mass of gesturing hands and reluctantly parted bodies to the counter; they ordered coffee with Strega.
    “Over there,” said the partisan, indicating a table in the corner with three laborers seated around it, their soiled clothes and stubbled faces testifying to their status. There was one empty chair.
    “How do you know? I thought we were to meet two men, not three. And British. Besides, there’s not enough room; there’s only one chair.”
    “Look at the heavyset man on the right. The identification is on the shoes. There are splotches of orange paint, not much but visible.
He’s
the Corsican. The other two are English. Go over and say ‘Our trip was uneventful’; that’s all. The man with the shoes will get up; take his seat.”
    “What about you?”
    “I’ll join you in a minute. I must talk with the
Corso.”
    Vittorio did as he was told. The heavyset man with the drippings of paint on his shoes got up, heaving a sigh of discomfort; Fontini-Cristi sat down. The British across from him spoke. His Italian was grammatically proper but hesitant; he had learned the language but not the idiom.
    “Our sincerest regrets. Absolutely dreadful. We’ll get you out.”
    “Thank you. Would you prefer speaking English? I’m fluent.”
    “Good,” said the second man. “We weren’t sure. We’ve had precious little time to read up on you. We were flownout of Lakenheath this morning. The
Corsos
picked us up in Pietra Ligure.”
    “Everything’s happened so fast,” said Vittorio. “The shock hasn’t worn off.”
    “Don’t see how it could,” said the first man. “But we’re not clear yet You’ll have to keep your wits about you. Our orders are to make bloody sure we get you to London: not to come back without you, and that’s a fact.”
    Vittorio looked alternately at both men. “May I ask you why? Please understand, I’m grateful, but your concern seems to me extraordinary. I’m not humble, but neither am I a fool. Why am I so important to the British?”
    “Damned if we know,” replied the second agent. “But I can tell you, all hell broke