The Gemini Contenders

by Robert Ludlum

  “What is it?”

  “I have come from Rome, signora. I bring a letter for the padrone. You will see that he gets it, please?” The priest held out the envelope.

  Andrew watched his brother at the bar with the longhaired students, dressed in their uniforms of denim and suede, medallions around their necks. Adrian would never learn; his audience was useless. They were fakes. It was not simply the profusion of unkempt hair and the offbeat clothes that bothered the soldier; those were only symptoms. It was the pretense that went with these shallow expressions of nonconformity. By and large they were insufferable; antagonistic people with unkempt minds.

  They spoke so intensely, so knowingly, of “movements” and “countermovements” as though they were participants, shifters of political thought. This world … the third world. And that was the biggest joke of all, because not one in ten thousand would know how to act as a revolutionary. They had neither the commitment nor the guts nor the savvy.

  They were misfits who threw plastic bags of shit when no one paid attention to their ravings. They were … freaks, and, Christ, he couldn’t stand the freaks. But Adrian did not understand; his brother looked for values where there weren’t any. Adrian was a fool; but then he learned that seven years ago. Seven years ago he had discovered just how big a fool his brother was. Adrian was a misfit in the worst sense: He had every reason not to be.

  Adrian glanced up at him from the bar; he turned away. His brother was a bore, and the sight of him proselytizing to that particular audience was distasteful.

  The soldier hadn’t always felt this way. Ten years ago when he’d gotten out of The Point he hadn’t hated with the vehemence he felt now. He didn’t think much of Adrian and his collection of misfits, but there was no hatred. The way the Johnson crowd began handling Southeast Asia, there was something to be said for the dissenters’ attitude. Get out.

  Translated: Obliterate Hanoi. Or get out.

  He had explained his position time and again. To the freaks. To Adrian. But no one wanted to hear it from a soldier. “Soldierboy,” that’s what they called him. And “shell-head,” and “missile-fingers,” and “blast-ass.”

  But it wasn’t the names. Anyone who’d gone through West Point and Saigon could handle that. Ultimately, it was their stupidity. They didn’t simply turn off the people who mattered, they antagonized them, infuriated them, and finally embarrassed them. And that was the final stupidity. They drove even those who agreed with them into opposing positions.

  Seven years ago in San Francisco, Andrew tried to make his brother see that, tried to make him understand that what he was doing was wrong and stupid—and very dangerous to the brother who was a soldier.

  He’d gotten back from two and a half years in the Mekong Delta with one of the finest record sheets in the army. His company had the highest body count in the battalion; he’d been decorated twice, his first lieutenancy lasting a month before he was given his captain’s bars. He was that rare commodity in armed forces: a young, brilliant military strategist from an immensely wealthy, influential family. He was on his way up to the top—where he belonged. He was being flown back for reassignment, which was another way of the Pentagon’s saying: That’s our man. Keep your eye on him. Rich, solid, future Joint Chiefs material. A few more combat tours—in selected areas, a few short years—and it’s the War College.

  It never hurt the Pentagon to favor a man like him, especially when it was justified. The army needed men from powerful families, they had precious few.

  But regardless of what the Pentagon favored or the army needed, G2 agents had shown up when he got off that plane in California seven years ago. They’d taken him to an office and given him a two-month-old newspaper. On the second page was a story about an insurrection at the Army’s Presidio in San Francisco. Accompanying the article were photographs of the riot, one showing a group of civilians marching in support of the mutineering enlisted men. A face had been circled in a red pencil.

  It was Adrian. It seemed impossible, but there he was! He wasn’t supposed to be there; he was in his last year at law school. In Boston. But he was not in Boston, he was in San Francisco harboring three convicted deserters who had escaped; that’s what the G2 men said. His twin brother was working for the enemy! Goddamn it, that’s what they were and that’s what he was doing! The Pentagon wouldn’t look upon that with a whole lot of laughs. Jesus! His brother! His twin!

  So G2 flew him up north and, out of uniform, he had wandered the streets of Haight-Ashbury until he’d found Adrian.

  “These aren’t men, they’re confused kids,” his brother said in a quiet bar. “They were never even told what their legal alternatives were; they’ve been railroaded.”

  “They took oaths like everybody else. You can’t make exceptions,” Andrew had replied.

  “Oh, come on. Two of them didn’t know what that oath meant, and the other one genuinely changed his mind. But nobody wants to listen. The judge advocates want examples, and the defense attorneys don’t want to make waves.”

  “Sometimes examples have to be made,” the soldier had insisted.

  “And the law says they’re entitled to competent counsel. Not barracks drinking buddies who want to look good—”

  “Get with it, Adrian!” he interrupted. “There’s a war out there! The firepower’s real! Bastards like these cost lives.”

  “Not if they’re over here.”

  “Yes, they do! Because others will begin to wonder why they’re over there.”

  “Maybe they should.”

  “For Christ’s sake, you’re talking about rights, aren’t you?” asked the soldier.

  “You better believe it.”

  “Well, doesn’t the poor son of a bitch on patrol in a rice paddy have any? Maybe he didn’t know what he was getting into; he just went along because the law said he had to. Maybe he changed his mind. But he doesn’t have time to think about it; he’s trying to stay alive. He gets confused, he gets sloppy, he gets killed!”

  “We can’t reach everybody; it’s one of the law’s oversights, an abuse built into the system. But we do what we can.”

  Adrian would not give him any information seven years ago. He refused to tell him where the deserters were hidden. So the soldier said good-bye in the quiet bar and waited in a San Francisco alley until his brother came out. He followed Adrian for three hours through the acid streets. The soldier was an expert in tracking stray patrols in jungles; San Francisco was just another jungle.

  His brother made contact with one of the deserters five blocks from the waterfront. The boy was a Black, with a growth of beard on his face. He was tall and thin and matched the photograph in Andrew’s pocket. His twin gave the deserter money; it was a simple matter to follow the Black down to the waterfront, to a filthy tenement that was as good a hiding place as any in the area.

  The phone call was made to the military police. Ten minutes later three convicted deserters were dragged out of the filthy tenement, to spend eight years in the stockades.

  The misfit network went to work; the crowds gathered screeching their epithets, swaying to their adolescent, useless chants. And throwing their plastic bags of feces.

  His brother came up to him in the crowds that night and for several moments just stared at him. Finally he said, “You’ve driven me back. Thanks.”

  Then Adrian had walked swiftly away to the barricades of would-be revolutionaries.

  Andrew’s reflections were interrupted by Al Winston, nee Weinstein, an engineer with an aerospace company. Winston had called out his name and was making his way over. Al Winston was heavy into air force contracts, and lived in the Hamptons. Andrew didn’t like Winston-Weinstein. Whenever he ran into him he thought of another Jew—and compared them. The Jew he thought of was stationed at the Pentagon after four years under heavy fire in the worst sections of the Delta. Captain Martin Greene was a tough son of a bitch, a great soldier—not a flabby Winston-Weinstein from the Hamptons. And Greene didn’t gou
ge profits from cost overruns; instead he watched them, catalogued them. Marty Greene was one of them. One of Eye Corps.

  “Many happy returns, major,” said Winston, raising his glass.

  “Thanks, Al. How are you?”

  “Be a lot better if I could sell you boys something. I get no support from the ground troops.” Winston grinned.

  “You do pretty well off the ground. I read where you’re in on the Grumman contract.”

  “Nickels and dimes. I’ve got a laser honing device that can be adapted to heavy artillery. But I can’t get to first base.”

  Andrew toyed with the idea of sending Winston-Weinstein to Martin Greene. By the time Greene got finished with him, Al Winston would wish he’d never heard of the Pentagon. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m not in procurement—”

  “They listen to you, Andy.”

  “You never stop-working, Al.”

  “Big house, big bills, rotten kids.” Winston grinned again, then stopped smiling long enough to get across his point. “Put in a word for me. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “With what?” asked Andrew, his eyes straying toward the boathouse and the Chris-Craft and the sailboats moored in the water. “Money?”

  Winston’s grin returned, now nervous, awkward. “No offense,” said the engineer softly.

  Andrew looked at the Jew, thinking again of Captain Martin Greene and the difference between the two men. “No offense,” he said, walking away.

  Christ! Next to the freaks, he despised the corrupters. No, that wasn’t true. Next to the corrupters, he despised those who allowed themselves to be corrupted. They were everywhere. Sitting in boardrooms, playing the golf courses in Georgia and Palm Springs, lapping up the sauce in the country clubs of Evanston and Grosse Pointe. They’d sold their ranks!

  Colonels, generals, commanders, admirals. The whole goddamned military establishment was riddled with a new brand of thieves. Men who winked and smiled and put their signatures on committee recommendations, on procurements approvals, on contracts, on overruns. Because there were understandings made. Today’s brigadier was tomorrow’s “consultant” or “Washington representative.”

  Christ, it was easy to hate! The misfits, the corrupters, the corrupted.…

  It was why Eye Corps was formed. A very small, select group of officers who were sick to death of the apathy and corruption and venality that pervaded every branch of the armed forces. Eye Corps was the answer, the medicine that would cure the sickness. For Eye Corps was compiling records from Saigon to Washington. The men of Eye Corps were putting it all together: names, dates, connections, illegal profits.

  To hell with the so-called proper channels: up the chain of command. To the inspector general. To the secretary of the army. Who vouched for command? Who for the IG? Who in his right mind would vouch for the civilians?

  No one they trusted. So they would do it themselves. Every general—every brigadier and admiral—anyone who tolerated any form of deviation would be smoked out and confronted with his crimes.

  Eye Corps. That’s what it was all about. A handful of the best young officers in the field. And one day they’d walk into the Pentagon and take over. None would dare stand in their way. The Eye Corps indictments would hang like grenades over the heads of the high brass. The grenades would explode if the brass didn’t move out, leaving their chairs for men of the Eye Corps. The Pentagon belonged to them. They would give it meaning again. Strength. Their strength.

  Adrian Fontine leaned on the bar and listened to the intense young students arguing, aware that his brother was staring at them. He looked up at Andrew; the soldier’s cold eyes held their usual veiled contempt and then glanced away as Al Winston approached, raising his glass to the major.

  Andrew was beginning to wear his contempt too openly, thought Adrian. His brother had lost some of his well-known cool; things aggravated the soldier too quickly these days.

  God, how they’d veered from each other! They’d been so close once. The Geminis … brothers, twins, friends. The Geminis were the best! And somewhere along the line—in their teens, in prep school—it all started to change. Andrew began to think he was better than best, and Adrian became less than convinced he was adequate. Andrew never questioned his abilities; Adrian wasn’t sure he had very many.

  He was sure now. The terrible years of indecision were over; he’d passed through uncertainty and found his own way. Thanks in large measure to his very positive brother, the soldier.

  And today, on their birthday, he had to confront his brother and ask some very disturbing questions. Questions that went to the core of Andrew’s strength.

  Core? It was appropriate; the sound was right, the spelling wrong.

  Eye Corps was the name they’d uncovered. His brother was on the list. Eight self-deluded elitists who concealed evidence for their own purposes. A small band of officers who had convinced themselves they should run the Pentagon through what amounted to sheer blackmail. The situation might have been comic except that the evidence was there, and Eye Corps had it. The Pentagon was not above being manipulated by fear. Eye Corps was dangerous; it had to be ripped out.

  They’d settle for that. They’d hand over a blanket subpoena to the army lawyers and let them handle it quietly. As long as the army lawyers did handle it and did not cover up. Perhaps it wasn’t the time for demoralizing trials and long prison sentences. The guilt was so widespread and the motives so complex. But there was one irreducible condition. Get the elitists out of uniform; clean your military house.

  Jesus, the irony of it! In San Francisco, Andrew had blown a crude whistle in the name of military law. Now, seven years later, he, Adrian, was blowing the whistle. Less crudely, he hoped, but the law was no less specific. The charge was obstruction of justice.

  So much had changed. Nine months ago he was an assistant prosecutor in Boston, happy doing what he was doing, building a reputation that could lead to just about anywhere. Building it himself. Not having it given to him because he was Adrian Fontine, son of Victor Fontine, Limited; brother of West Point’s celebrated Major Andrew Fontine, immaculate warrior.

  Then a man had called him in early October, asking him to have drinks at the Copely bar late in the afternoon. The man’s name was James Nevins and he was Black; he was also an attorney, and he worked for the Justice Department in Washington.

  Nevins was the spokesman for a small contingent of harassed, disaffected government lawyers who burned under the tactics of the most politicized Justice Department in memory. The phrase “White House calling” simply meant another manipulation was taking place. The lawyers were worried, genuinely worried. Those manipulations were taking the country too close to the specter of a police state.

  The lawyers needed help. From the outside. Someone to whom they could funnel their information. Someone who could organize and evaluate, who could set up and pay for a command center where they could meet privately and discuss their progress.

  Someone, frankly, who could not be harassed. For reasons more obvious than not, one Adrian Fontine fit the bill. Would he accept?

  Adrian hadn’t wanted to leave Boston. He had his work; he had his girl. A slightly mad, brilliant girl he adored. Barbara Pierson, B.A., M.A., Ph.D. Associate Professor, Anthropology Laboratories, Harvard University. She of the quick deep laugh, the light-brown hair and the dark-brown eyes. They’d been living together for a year and a half; it wasn’t easy to leave. But Barbara had packed for him and sent him on his way because she knew he had to go.

  Just as he had to go seven, eight years ago. He had to leave Boston then, too. A depression had swept over him. He was the wealthy son of a powerful father; the twin brother of a man the army paraded in dispatches as one of the brightest young lights in the military.

  What was left? For him? Who was he?

  So he fled the trappings of a lifetime to see what he could find for himself. That was his. It was his own personal crisis; he couldn’t explain it to anyone. And he ended up in
San Francisco where there was a fight, a struggle he could understand. Where he could help. Until the immaculate warrior came along and ripped the scene apart.

  Adrian smiled, remembering the morning after the terrible night in San Francisco. He’d gotten roaring drunk and woke up in the house of a legal aid lawyer in Cape Mendocino sick and vomiting.

  “If you’re who you say you are, you can do more than any of us,” said the lawyer in Cape Mendocino that morning. “Hell, my old man was a janitor at the May Company.”

  In the seven intervening years Adrian had tried. But he knew he had only just begun.

  “It’s a constitutional ambiguity! Isn’t that right, Adrian?”

  “What? Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.” The students at the bar had been arguing among themselves; now all eyes were on him.

  “Free press versus pretrial bias,” said an intense young girl, stumbling over the words.

  “It’s a gray area, I think,” replied Adrian. “Each case is judged by itself.”

  The youngsters wanted more than he gave them, so they went back to yelling at each other.

  Gray area. Saigon’s Eye Corps had been a gray area only weeks ago. Rumors had filtered back to Washington that a small cadre of young senior officers were regularly harassing enlisted personnel on the docks and in the warehouses, insisting on copies of shipment manifests and destinations schedules. Shortly after, in one of the numerous, halfheartedly pursued antitrust cases at Justice, there was a plaintiff’s allegation that records had been stolen from the corporation’s Saigon offices, thus constituting illegally obtained evidence. The case would be dropped.

  The lawyers at Justice wondered whether there was a connection between the strange group of officers who scoured the shipment manifests and corporations under contract to the Pentagon. Had the military gone that far? The conjecture was enough to send Jim Nevins to Saigon.

  The Black attorney found what he was looking for. In a warehouse in the Tan Son Nhut cargo area. An officer was in the process of illegally transcribing security-related information on armaments supplies. Threatened with charges, the officer broke, and Eye Corps was revealed for everything it was. There were eight officers; the man caught knew the names of seven. The eighth was in Washington, that’s all he knew.