The Gemini Contenders: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  Now, move on it!

  But he could not do that. His brother’s name was at the top of that list. To serve the subpoena was to charge his brother with murder. There was no other conclusion. Andrew was his brother, his twin, and he was not prepared to call him killer.

  Adrian walked out of the phone booth and down the block toward his hotel. Andrew was on his way back from Saigon. He had left the country last Monday; it didn’t take a great deal of imagination to know why. His brother wasn’t stupid; Andrew was building his defense at the source of his crimes; crimes that included conspiracy, suppression of evidence, and obstruction of justice. Motives: complex and not without fundamental substance, but still crimes.

  But no murder at night in a Washington street.

  Oh, Christ! Even now he lied to himself! Or to be charitable, he refused to face the possible. Come on! Say it, think it!

  The probable.

  There was an eighth member of Eye Corps in Washington. Whoever that man was, he was Nevins’s killer. And Nevins’s killer could not have acted without the knowledge given by brother to brother in a boathouse on Long Island’s North Shore.

  When Andrew’s plane landed, he would learn that the subpoena had not been served. Eye Corps was intact for a while longer, free to maneuver and manipulate.

  There was one thing that would stop it, though. Stop it instantly and recharge a group of frightened lawyers who wondered if what happened to Nevins could happen to them; they were attorneys, not commandos.

  Adrian would look into his brother’s eyes, and if he saw Jim Nevins’s death in them, he would avenge it. If the soldier had given the order of execution, then the soldier would be destroyed.

  Or was he lying to himself again? Could he call his brother killer? Could he really?

  What the hell did his father want? What difference did it make?

  24

  The two chairs were placed on opposite sides of the bed. It was proper this way. It could divide his attention between his sons; they were different people, their reactions would be different. Jane preferred to stand. He had asked a terrible thing of her: to tell his sons the story of Salonika. Everything, leaving out nothing. They had to be made to understand that powerful men, institutions, even governments could be moved by the vault from Constantine. As they had been moved three decades before.

  He could not tell the story himself. He was dying; his mind was clear enough to know that. He had to have the simple energy to answer their questions; he had to have the strength to give his charge to his sons. For theirs was now the responsibility of the Fontini-Cristis.

  They walked into the room with their mother. So tall, so alike, yet so different. One in uniform, the other in a nondescript tweed jacket and flannel trousers. Blond-haired Andrew was angry. It was in his face, the continuous tensing of his jaw muscles, the firm set of his mouth, the neutral, clouded gaze of his eyes.

  Adrian, on the other hand, seemed unsure of himself. His blue eyes were questioning, his mouth slack, the lips parted. He drew his hand through his dark hair as he stared down, his expression equal parts of compassion and astonishment.

  Victor indicated the chairs. The brothers looked at each other briefly; it was impossible to define the communication. Whatever had happened to alienate them had to be erased. Their responsibility demanded it. They sat down, the Xeroxed pages of his recollections of July 14, 1920, in their hands. He had instructed Jane to give them each a copy; they were to read them through before seeing him. No moments were to be lost on explanations that could be covered beforehand. He hadn’t the strength.

  “We won’t waste words on sentiment. You’ve heard your mother; you’ve read what I’ve written. You’ll have questions.”

  Andrew spoke. “Assuming this vault can be found—and we’ll get to that—what then?”

  “I’ll prepare a list of names. Five or six men, no more; they are not easily arrived at. You’ll bring the vault to them.”

  “What’ll they do?” pressed Andrew.

  “That will depend on what the vault contains, specifically. Release it, destroy it, rebury it.”

  Adrian interrupted quietly. The lawyer was suddenly disturbed. “Is there a choice? I don’t think so. It doesn’t belong to us; it should be public knowledge.”

  “With public chaos? The consequences have to be weighed.”

  “Does anyone else have the key?” asked the soldier. “The location of this trip on July 14, 1920?”

  “No. It would be meaningless. There are only a few left who knew of the train, knew what was really on it. Old men from the Patriarchate; one remains in Campo di Fiori and cannot have much time.”

  “And we’re to say nothing to anyone,” continued the major. “No one but ourselves is to know.”

  “No one. There are those who would trade off half the arsenals in this world for the information.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Then you wouldn’t be thinking. I’m sure your mother explained. Besides the Filioque denials, including the Aramaic scroll, in that vault there is a parchment on which is written a confession that could alter religious history. If you think governments, whole nations, are disinterested bystanders, you are grossly mistaken.”

  Andrew fell silent. Adrian looked at him and then at Victor.

  “How long do you figure it’ll take? To find this … this vault?” he asked.

  “I’d estimate a month. You’ll need equipment, Alpine guides, a week of instruction—no more, I should think.”

  Adrian raised the Xeroxed pages several inches. “Can you estimate how large an area there is to cover?”

  “It’s difficult to day; much will depend on what you find, what has changed. But if my memory serves, no more than five to eight square miles.”

  “Five to eight! That’s out of the question,” said Andrew emphatically, but without raising his voice. “I’m sorry, but it’s crazy. It could take years. You’re talking about the Alps. One hole in the ground, a box no larger than a coffin, anywhere in a dozen mountains.”

  “The most logical recesses are limited; they are reduced to one of perhaps three or four passes, high above, I suspect, where we were never allowed to climb.”

  “I’ve mapped terrain in half a hundred field situations,” said the soldier slowly, so courteously his words bordered on condescension. “You’re minimizing an unbelievably difficult problem.”

  “I don’t think so. I meant what I just said to Adrian. Much will depend on what you find. Your grandfather was nothing if not meticulous. He considered all aspects of a situation, and most eventualities.” Victor stopped and shifted his position on the pillows. “Savarone was an old man; there was a war going on and no one knew it better than he did. He would leave nothing that was recognizable to anyone in Camp di Fiori, but I can’t believe he would not leave something within the area itself. A sign, a message—something. He was like that.”

  “Where would we look?” asked Adrian, his eyes straying for an instant to his brother in the leather chair opposite him. The major was staring at the pages in his hand.

  “I’ve written down the possibilities,” said Victor. “There was a family of guides in the village of Champoluc. The Goldonis. They were used by my father, his father before him. And there was an inn north of the village. Run for generations by a family named Capomonti. We never traveled to the Champoluc without staying there. These were the people closest to Savarone. If he spoke with anyone, it would be to them.”

  “That’s over fifty years ago,” protested Adrian softly.

  “Families in the mountains are closely knit. Two generations isn’t a particularly wide gap. If Savarone left word it would be passed on from father to eldest child. Remember that: child. Son or daughter.” He smiled weakly at them. “What else occurs to you? Questions may trigger further memories.”

  The questions began but they triggered nothing. Victor had traced and retraced all he could. Whatever else remained was beyond memory.

 
; Until Jane caught something. And as he listened to her words, Victor smiled. His blue-eyed, English Jane was remarkable for details.

  “You wrote that the tracks of the railroad wound through the mountains south of Zermatt and descended into Champoluc, past flagging stops. Clearings between stations for the convenience of climbers and skiers.”

  “Yes. Before the war. Nowadays, vehicles are more flexible in the snow.”

  “It seems logical that a train carrying a vault, described to you as heavy and awkward, would find it necessary to stop at one of those clearings. For it to be transferred to another vehicle.”

  “Agreed. What’s your point?”

  “Well, there are, or were, only so many stops between Zermatt and Champoluc. How many would you say?”

  “Quite a few. At least nine or ten.”

  “That’s not much help. I’m sorry.”

  “North of Champoluc, the first clearing was called Eagle’s Peak, I believe. Then Crow’s Lookout, and Condor’s—” Victor stopped. Birds. The names of birds. A memory had been triggered, but it was not a memory that reached back three decades. It was barely days ago. In Campo di Fiori. “The painting,” he said softly.

  “What painting?” asked Adrian.

  “Beneath the Madonna. In my father’s study. A hunting scene, with birds.”

  “And each clearing on the tracks,” said Andrew swiftly, sitting forward in the chair, “is—or was—described in part with the name of a bird. What were the birds in the painting?”

  “I don’t remember. The light was dim and I was trying to find a few moments to think. I didn’t concentrate on that painting.”

  “Was it your father’s?” asked Adrian.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Can you call?” said the major, his question less a request than an order.

  “No. Campo di Fiori is a tomb without lines of communication. Only a postal box in Milan, and that under the name of Baricours, Père et Fils.”

  “Mother told us an old priest lives there. How does he exist?” The soldier was not satisfied.

  “I never thought to ask,” replied the father. “There was a man, a driver who picked me up in Milan. I assumed he was the monk’s contact with the outside. The old priest and I talked most of the night, but my concerns were limited. He was still my enemy. He understood that.”

  Andrew looked over at his brother. “We stop at Campo di Fiori,” said the soldier curtly.

  Adrian nodded and turned back to Victor. “There’s no way I can convince you to turn this over to the others? To responsible scholars?”

  “No,” answered Victor simply. “The scholars will come later. Before then, nothing. Bear in mind what you’re dealing with. The contents of that vault are as staggering to the civilized world as anything in history. The confession on that parchment is a devastating weapon, make no mistake about it. No committee can be asked to assume the responsibility at this stage. The dangers are too great.”

  “I see,” said Adrian, sitting back in his chair, looking at the pages. “You mention the name Annaxas, but you’re not clear about it. You say the ‘father of Annaxas was the engineer on the train,’ killed by the priest of Xenope? Who is Annaxas?”

  “In the event those papers fell into hands other than yours, I wanted no connections made. Annaxas is Theodore Dakakos.”

  There was a snap. The soldier was holding a wooden pencil in his hand. He had broken it in half. Father and brother looked at him. Andrew said one word.

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ve heard the name,” continued Adrian. “I’m not sure where.”

  “He’s Greek. A very successful shipper. The priest on that train was his father’s brother, his uncle. Brother killed brother. It was ordered by Xenope, the location of the vault buried with them.”

  “Dakakos knows this?” asked the soldier quietly.

  “Yes. Where he precisely fits in, I don’t know. I know only that he’s looking for answers. And for the vault.”

  “Can you trust him?” asked the lawyer.

  “No. I trust no one where Salonika is concerned.” Victor inhaled deeply. It was difficult to talk now; his breath was shorter, his strength going.

  “Are you all right?” Jane crossed quickly in front of Adrian to her husband. She leaned over and placed her hand on his cheek.

  “Yes,” he answered, smiling up at her. And then he looked at Andrew and Adrian, holding each with his eyes.

  “I don’t ask what I ask of you lightly. You have your own lives, your interests are your own. You have money.” Victor raised a hand quickly. “I hasten to add that this, too, was your right. I was given no less, nor should you be. In this respect we are a privileged family. But this privilege extracts responsibilities from those who enjoy it. There must inevitably come periods when you’re asked to suspend your own pursuits for an unexpected urgency. I submit to you that such an urgency now exists.

  “You’ve separated. Opponents, I suspect, philosophically and politically. There’s nothing wrong with that, but these differences are insignificant compared to what faces you now. You’re brothers, the grandsons of Savarone Fontini-Cristi, and you must now do what his son can’t do. There’s no appeal from privilege. Don’t look for it.”

  He was finished. It was all he could say; each breath was painful.

  “All these years, you never said—” Adrian’s eyes were questioning once again; there was awe and sadness in them. “My God, how you must have felt.”

  “I had two choices,” replied Victor, barely audible. “To be productive or die a neuter. It was not a difficult choice.”

  “You should have killed them,” said the soldier quietly.

  They stood outside in the drive in front of the North Shore house. Andrew leaned against the hood of his rented Lincoln Continental, his arms folded across his pressed uniform, the afternoon sun bouncing off the brass buttons and the insignia.

  “He’s going,” he said.

  “I know,” answered Adrian. “He knows it, too.”

  “And here we are.”

  “Here we are,” agreed the lawyer.

  “What he wants is easier for me than it is for you.” Andrew looked up at the windows of the front bedroom on the second floor.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m practical. You’re not. We’ll do better working together than apart.”

  “I’m surprised you concede I might help. It must hurt your vanity.”

  “There’s no ego in field decisions. It’s the objective that counts.” Andrew spoke casually. “We can cut the time in half if we divide the possibilities. His recollections are disjointed, he wanders all over the place. His terrain-recall is confused; I’ve had some experience in that.” Andrew straightened up, away from the car. “I think we’ll have to go back, Adrian. Seven years ago. Before San Francisco. Can you do that?”

  Adrian stared at his brother. “You’re the only one who can answer that. And please don’t lie; you were never any good at lying. Not with me.”

  “Nor you with me.”

  Their eyes locked; neither wavered.

  “A man was killed Wednesday night. In Washington.”

  “I was in Saigon. You know that. Who was he?”

  “A Black lawyer from Justice. A man named—”

  “Nevins,” completed Andrew, interrupting his brother.

  “My God! You knew!”

  “About him, yes. About his being killed, no. Why would I?”

  “Eye Corps! He took a deposition on Eye Corps! It was with him! It was taken from his car!”

  “Are you out of your goddamned mind?” The soldier spoke slowly, without urgency. “You may not like us, but we’re not stupid. A target like that man, even remotely linked to us, would bring on the I.G. investigators by the hundreds. There are better ways. Killing’s an instrument; you don’t use it against yourself.”

  Adrian continued to look at his brother, searching his eyes. Finally, he spoke. Softly, barely above a
whisper. “I think that’s the most cold-blooded thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “What is?”

  “ ‘Killing’s an instrument.’ You mean it, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. It’s the truth. Have I answered your question?”

  “Yes,” said Adrian quietly. “We’ll go back … before San Francisco. For a while; you have to know that. Only until this is over.”

  “Good.… You’ve got things to straighten up before we leave, and so do I. Let’s say a week from tomorrow.”

  “All right. A week from tomorrow.”

  “I’m catching the six o’clock plane to Washington. Want to come along?”

  “No, I’m meeting someone in town. I’ll use one of the cars here.”

  “It’s funny,” said Andrew, shaking his head slowly, as if what he was about to say wasn’t funny at all. “I’ve never asked for your telephone number, or where you lived.”

  “It’s the District Towers. On Nebraska.”

  “The District Towers. All right. A week from tomorrow. I’ll make the plane reservations. Straight through to Milan. Is your passport current?”

  “I think so. It’s at the hotel. I’ll check.”

  “Good. I’ll call you. A week from tomorrow.” Andrew reached for the door handle. “Incidentally, what happened to that subpoena?”

  “You know what happened. It wasn’t served.”

  The soldier smiled as he climbed into the car. “It wouldn’t have worked anyway.”

  They sat at a corner table in the St. Moritz sidewalk café on Central Park South. They were partial to such places; they would select pedestrians and invent instant biographies.

  They invented none now. Instead, Adrian decided that his father’s instructions to tell no one about the train from Salonika would not include Barbara. His decision was based on his belief that were their roles reversed, she would tell him. He wasn’t going to leave the country for five to ten weeks without saying why. She deserved better than that.