Free The Gemini Contenders by Robert Ludlum Page A

loose last night.
All night
. We spent from midnight till four in the morning at the Air Ministry. All the radio dials in every operations room were beaming like mad. We’re working with the Corsicans, you know.”
    “Yes, I was told.”
    The partisan walked through the crowds to the table. He pulled out the empty chair and sat down, a glass of Strega in his hand. The conversation was continued in Italian.
    “We had trouble on the Canelli road. A checkpoint. Two guards had to be taken out.”
    “What’s the A-span?” asked the agent on Fontini-Cristi’s right. He was a slender man, somewhat more intense than his partner. He saw the puzzled expression on Vittorio’s face and clarified. “How long does he think we have before the alarm goes out?”
    “Midnight. When the twelve o’clock shift arrives. No one bothers with unanswered telephones. The equipment breaks down all the time.”
    “Well done,” said the agent across the table. He was rounder in the face than his fellow Englishman; he spoke more slowly, as if constantly choosing his words. “You’re a Bolshevik, I imagine.”
    “I am,” replied the partisan, his hostility near the surface.
    “No, no, please,” added the agent. “I like working with you chaps. You’re very thorough.”
    “M.I.-
Sei
is polite.”
    “By the way,” said the Britisher on Vittorio’s right, “I’m Apple; he’s Pear.”
    “We know who you are,” said Pear to Fontini-Cristi.
    “And my name’s not important,” said the partisan with a slight laugh. “I’ll not be going with you.”
    “Let’s run through that, shall we?” Apple was anxious, but controlled to the point of being reserved. “The going. Also, London wants to set up firmer communications.”
    “We knew London would.”
    The three men fell into a professional conversation that Vittorio found extraordinary. They spoke of routes and codes and radio frequencies as though they were discussing prices on the stock exchange. They touched on the necessity of
taking-out, eliminating
various people in specific positions—not men, not human beings, but
factors
that had to be killed.
    What kind of men were these three? “Apple,” “Pear,” a Bolshevik with no name, only a false identification card. Men who killed without anger, without remorse.
    He thought of Campo di Fiori. Of blinding white flood-lights, and gunfire and death.
He
could kill now. Viciously, savagely—but he could not speak of death as these men spoke of it.
    “… get us to a trawler known to the coastal patrols. Do you understand?” Apple was speaking to him, but he had not been listening.
    “I’m sorry,” said Vittorio. “My mind was elsewhere.”
    “We’ve a long way to go,” said Pear. “Over fifty miles to the coast, then a minimum of three hours on the water. A lot can happen.”
    “I’ll try to be more attentive.”
    “Do better than try,” replied Apple, his tone one of controlled irritation. “I don’t know what you’ve done to the Foreign Office, but you happen to be a high-priority subject. It’s our asses if we don’t bring you out. So
listen!
The Corsicans will take us to the coast. There will be four changes of vehicles—”
    “Wait!” The partisan reached over the table and gripped Apple’s arm. “The man who was seated with you, the paint-spattered shoes. Where did you pick him up?
Quickly.”
    “Here in Alba. About twenty minutes ago.”
    “Who made contact first?”
    Both Englishmen looked at each other. Briefly, with instant concern. “He did,” said Apple.
    “Get out of here! Now! Use the kitchen!”
    “What?” Pear was looking over at the
espresso
counter. “He’s leaving,” said the partisan. “He was to wait for me.”
    The heavyset man was making his way through the crowds toward the door. He was doing so as unobtrusively as possible; a drinker going to the men’s room, perhaps.
    “What do you think?” asked Apple.
    “I think that there are a great many men throughout Alba