Free The Gemini Contenders by Robert Ludlum Page B

with paint on their shoes. They wait for strangers whose eyes stray to the floor.” The Communist rose from the table. “The contact code was broken. It happens. The Corsicans will have to change it. Now,
go!”
    The two Englishmen got out of their chairs, but not with any overt sense of urgency. Vittorio took his cue and stood up. He reached out and touched the partisan’s sleeve. The Communist was startled; his eyes were on the heavyset man; he was about to plunge into the crowds.
    “I want to thank you.”
    The partisan stared for an instant. “You’re wasting time,” he said.
    The two Britishers knew exactly where the kitchen was, and therefore the exit
from
that kitchen. The alley outside was filthy; garbage cans were lined against the dirty stucco walls, refuse overflowing. The alley was a link between the Piazza San Giorno and the street behind, but so dimly lit and strewn with trash it was not a popular shortcut.
    “This way,” said Apple, turning left, away from the piazza. “Quickly now.”
    The three men ran out of the alley. The street was sufficiently filled with pedestrians and shopkeepers to provide them with cover. Apple and Pear fell into a casual walk; Vittorio followed suit. He realized that the two agents had maneuvered him between them.
    “I’m not sure the Bolshie was right,” said Pear. “Our
Corso
might simply have spotted a friend. He was damned convincing.”
    “The Corsicans have their own language,” interjected Vittorio, excusing himself as he nearly collided with an oncoming stroller.
    “Couldn’t he tell by talking to him?”
    “Don’t do that,” said Apple incisively.
    “What?”
    “Don’t be so damned polite. It hardly goes with the clothes. To answer your question, the Corsicans employ regional contacts everywhere. We all do. They’re minor level, just messengers.”
    “I see.” Fontini-Cristi looked at the man who called himself Apple. He was walking casually, but his eyes kept shifting about in the night-cloaked street. Vittorio turned his head and looked at Pear. He was doing precisely what his countryman was doing: observing the faces in the crowds, the vehicles, the recesses in the buildings on both sides of the street.
    “Where are we going?” asked Fontini-Cristi.
    “To within a block of where our Corsican told us to be,” replied Apple.
    “But I thought you suspected him.”
    Pear spoke. “They won’t see us because they don’t know what to look for. The Bolshevik will catch the
Corso
in the piazza. If everything’s on the up-and-up, they’ll arrive together. If not, and if your friend is competent, he’ll be the only one.”
    The shopping area curved to the left, into the south entrance of the Piazza San Giorno. The entrance was marked by a fountain, the circular pool at its base littered with discarded papers and bottles. Men and women sat on the ledge dipping their hands in the dirty water; children shouted and ran on the cobblestones under their parents’ watchful eyes.
    “The road beyond,” said Apple, lighting a cigarette, gesturing toward the wide pavement seen through the spray of the fountain, “is the Via Ligata. It leads to the coastal highway. Two hundred yards down is a side street where the
Corso
said a taxi would be waiting.”
    “Would the side street, by any chance, be a dead end?” Pear asked the question with a degree of disdain. He did not really expect an answer.
    “Isn’t that a coincidence? I was wondering the same thing. Do let’s find out. You,” said Apple to Vittorio, “stay with my partner and do
exactly
as he says.” The agent threw the match to the ground, inhaled deeply on his cigarette, and walked rapidly over the cobblestones toward the fountain. When he was within several feet of the pool, he slowed down, and then, to Vittorio’s astonishment, he disappeared, lost entirely in the crowds.
    “He does that rather in top form, doesn’t he?” said Pear.
    “I can’t make him out. I don’t see