The Gemini Contenders (42 page)

“Who the hell are you?”

The officer did not immediately reply. Instead, he stood immobile, his eyes angry. When he did speak there was a slight drawl in his cold voice.

“Yeah, you do look like him. Put on a uniform and straighten you up and you could
be
him. Now, all you have to do is tell me where he is.”

“How did you get in here? Who the hell let you in?”

“No question for a question. Mine comes first.”

“What comes first is that you’re trespassing.” Adrian walked rapidly to the telephone, crossing in front of the officer. “Unless you’ve got a warrant from a civilian court, you’re going to march into a civilian police station.”

The colonel undid one button on his tunic, reached inside, and took out a pistol. He snapped the safety catch and leveled the weapon.

Adrian held the telephone in his left hand, his right poised above the dial. Stunned, he stopped all movement; the expression on the officer’s face had not changed.

“You listen to me,” said the colonel softly. “I could shoot both your kneecaps off just for looking like him. Can you understand that? I’m a civilized man, a lawyer like you; but where Eye Corps’ Major Fontine is concerned, all the rules go out the window. I’ll do anything to get that son of a bitch. Do you read me?”

Adrian slowly put down the telephone. “You’re a maniac.”

“Minor compared to him. Now, you tell me where he is.”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Wait a minute!” In his shock, Adrian had not been sure of what he’d heard. Now he was. “What do you know about
Eye Corps?”

“A lot more than you paranoid bastards want me to know. Did you two really think you could pull it off?”

“You’re way off base! You’d know that if you knew anything about me! About Eye Corps we’re on the same side! Now, for God’s sake, what have you got on him?”

The officer replied slowly. “He killed two men. A captain named Barstow, and a legal officer named Tarkington. Both killings were made to look
kai-sai
—whore-and-booze oriented. They weren’t. In Tarkington’s case it was inconsistent. He didn’t drink.”

“Oh, Christ!”

“And a file was taken from Tarkington’s Saigon office. Which
was
consistent. What they didn’t know was that we had a complete copy.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“The Inspector General’s Office.” The colonel did not lower his pistol; his answers were delivered in a flat Southwestern drawl. “Now, I just gave you the benefit of a doubt. You know why I want him, so tell me where he is. My name’s Tarkington, too. I drink and I’m not mild-mannered and I want the son of a bitch who killed my brother.”

Adrian felt the breath leave his lungs. “I’m sorry—”

“Now you know why this gun is out and why I’ll use it. Where did he go? How did he go?”

It took Adrian a moment to focus. “Where? How? I didn’t know he
was
gone. Why are you sure he is?”

“Because he knows we’re after him. We know he got the word; we made the connection this morning. A captain named Greene in the Pentagon. In procurement. Needless to say, he’s gone, too. Probably halfway across the world by now.”

 … 
halfway across the world
 … the words penetrated, the realization began to surface.
Halfway across the world. To Italy. Campo di Fiori. A painting on the wall
and the memories of a half a century ago. The vault from Constantine!

“Did you check the airports?”

“He has a standard military passport. All military.…”

“Oh, Jesus!” Adrian started for the bedroom.

“Hold it!” The colonel grabbed his arm.

“Let me go!” Fontine shook off the officer’s hand and raced into the bedroom. To the bureau.

He pulled open the right-hand top drawer. From behind the colonel’s hand shot out and slammed it, trapping his wrist.

“You pull out anything I don’t like, you’re dead.” The colonel released the drawer.

Fontine could feel the pain and see the swelling on his wrist. He could not think about either. He opened a large leather case. His passport was gone. So, too, his international driver’s license and his Banque Genève checkbook with the coded numbers and photograph on the flap.

Adrian turned and walked across the room in silence. He dropped the leather pouch on the bed and continued to the window. The rain outside came down in torrents against the glass.

His brother had stalled him. Andrew had gone after the vault, leaving him behind, wanting no assistance at all, never having wanted it. The vault from Constantine was Andrew’s final weapon. In his hands a deadly thing.

The irony was, reflected Adrian, that the army officer behind him in that room could
help
. He could break down bureaucratic barriers, provide instant transportation;—but the army officer could be told nothing about the train from Salonika.

There are those who would trade off half the arsenals in this world for the information
. His father’s words.

He spoke quietly. “There’s your proof, colonel.”

“I guess so.”

Adrian turned and faced the officer. “Tell me, as one brother to another—how did you lock in on Eye Corps?”

The colonel put away the gun. “A man named Dakakos.”

“Dakakos?”

“Yes, he’s Greek. You know him?”

“No, I don’t.”

“The data came in slowly at first. Right into my department,
marked for me by name. When Barstow broke and gave his deposition in Saigon, there was Dakakos again. He sent word to my brother to get to Barstow. Eye Corps was covered both over here and over there—”

“By two brothers who could pick up a phone and keep it all together,” said Adrian, interrupting. “Without bureaucratic interference.”

“We figured that. We don’t know why, but this Dakakos was after Eye Corps.”

“He certainly was,” agreed Adrian, marveling at Dakakos’s clarity of method.

“Yesterday,
everything
came in. Dakakos had Fontine followed to Phan-thiet. To a warehouse. We’ve got Eye Corps’ records now, we’ve got the proof—”

The telephone rang, interrupting the army man. Adrian barely heard it, so total was his concentration on the colonel’s words.

It rang again.

“May I?” asked Adrian.

“You’d better.” Tarkington’s eyes became cold again. “I’ll be right next to you.”

It was Barbara, calling from Boston. “I’m in the archives. I’ve got the information on that church fire in forty-one that destroyed the Filioque—”

“Just a minute.” Adrian turned his head toward the officer, the phone between them. He wondered if he could sound natural. “You can get on a line in the other room, if you like. It’s just some research I asked for.”

The ruse worked. Tarkington shrugged and walked to the window.

“Go ahead,” he said into the phone.

Barbara spoke as an expert does, scanning a report whose form is familiar; her voice rose and fell as salient points were enumerated. “There was a gathering of elders on January 9, 1941, at eleven o’clock in the evening at the Mosque of Saint Sophia, Istanbul, a ceremony of deliverance. According to the witnesses a consigning of holy property to the heavens … sloppy work here; it’s all narrative. There should be direct quotes and literal translations. Anyway, it goes on to verify the act and list the laboratories in Istanbul and Athens where fragments of the ash were confirmed for age and materials. There you are, my doubting Thomas.”

“What about those witnesses? The narrative?”

“I’m being overly critical. I could be more so; the report should include authorizing credentials and graphic plate numbers, but that’s all academic lacework. The main thing is, it’s got the archival seal; you don’t buy that. You can’t play games with it. It means someone beyond reproach was at the scene and confirmed the burning. The Annaxas grant got what it paid for. The seal says it.”

“What grant?” he asked quietly.

“Annaxas. It’s the company that put up the money for the research.”

“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up. Tarkington was standing by the window, looking out at the rain. This was the man he had to get away from; he had to get to the vault!

Barbara was right in one respect. Dakakos-Annaxas got
exactly
what he paid for: a false report in the archives.

He knew where he had to go.

Campo di Fiori.

Dakakos
.

Dakakos, Dakakos,
Dakakos!

The name burned into Andrew’s brain as he watched the coast of Italy go by 30,000 feet below. Theodore Annaxas Dakakos had destroyed Eye Corps for the sole purpose of destroying
him
, eliminating
him
from the search for a vault buried in the mountains. What triggered his decision? How did he do it? It was vital to learn all he could about the man himself. The better one knew his enemy, the better he could fight. As things stood, Dakakos was the only barrier, the only contender.

There was a man in Rome who could help. He was a banker who showed up with increasing frequency in Saigon, a large-scale buyer who bought whole piers, shipped the contents back to Naples and sold the stolen goods throughout Italy. Eye Corps had nailed him and used him; he had provided names that went right back to Washington.

Such a man would know about Dakakos.

The announcement came over the Air Canada loudspeaker. They would begin their descent into Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport in fifteen minutes.

Fontine took out his passport. He had bought it in Quebec.
Adrian’s passport had gotten him through Canadian customs, but he knew it would be worthless after that. Washington would flash the name Fontine to every airport in the hemisphere.

Ironically, he made a connection with several army deserters at two in the morning in Montreal. The exiled moralists needed money; morality could not be proselytized without hard cash. A stringy-haired intellectual in a GI field jacket took him to an apartment that reeked of hash, and for $10,000 he got a passport within an hour.

Adrian was so far behind he’d never catch up.

 … He could dismiss Adrian. If Dakakos wanted to stop one of them, he obviously wanted to stop both. The Greek was no match for the soldier; he was more than a match for the lawyer. And if Dakakos didn’t stop Adrian, the lack of a passport would slow him down more than enough. His brother was out of the picture, no contender at all.

The plane touched ground. Andrew unbuckled his seat belt; he would be among the first out of the aircraft. He was in a hurry to get to a telephone.

The evening crowds on the Via Veneto were heavy, the sidewalk tables under the awnings of the Café de Paris nearly filled. The banker had secured one near the service door, where the traffic was concentrated. He was a gaunt, middle-aged, impeccably dressed man, and he was cautious. No listener could overhear anything said at that table.

Their greeting was perfunctory, the banker obviously anxious to have the meeting over with as quickly as possible.

“I won’t ask why you’re in Rome. No address, out of your celebrated uniform.” The Italian spoke rapidly in a monotone that gave no emphasis to any word and thus emphasis to all. “I honored your demand to make no inquiries. It wasn’t necessary. You’re a hunted man.”

“How do you know that?”

The slender Italian paused, his thin lips stretched into a slight smile. “You just told me.”

“I warn you—”

“Oh, stop it. A man flies in unannounced, says he’ll meet only in crowds. It’s enough to send me to Malta so I won’t
run into you. Besides, it’s all over your face. You’re uncomfortable.”

The banker was essentially right. He
was
uncomfortable. He would have to adjust better, be more relaxed. “You’re clever, but then we knew that in Saigon.”

“I never saw you before in my life,” replied the Italian, signaling a waiter.
“Due Campari, per favore.”

“I don’t drink Campari.…”

“Then don’t. Two Italians who order Campari on the Via Veneto are not conspicuous. Which is precisely what I intend to be. What did you wish to discuss?”

“A man named Dakakos. A Greek.”

The banker raised his eyebrows. “If by Dakakos you mean Theo Dakakos, he is indeed Greek.”

“You know him?”

“Who in the world of finance doesn’t? You have business with Dakakos?”

“Maybe. He’s a shipper, isn’t he?”

“Among many other interests. He’s also quite young and very powerful. Even the colonels in Athens think twice before issuing edicts unfavorable to him. His older competitors are wary of him. What he lacks in experience he makes up for in energy. He’s a bull.”

“What are his politics?”

The Italian’s eyebrows once more rose. “Himself.”

“What are his interests in Southeast Asia? Whom does he work for out of Saigon?”

“He doesn’t work
for
anyone.” The waiter returned with the drinks. “He ships middle-manned supplies to the A.I.D. in Vientiane. Into northern Laos and Cambodia. As you know, it’s all intelligence-operated. He pulled out, I understand.”

That was it, thought Fontine, pushing away the glass of Campari. Eye Corps had tagged the corruption in AID, and Dakakos had tagged
them
. “He went to a lot of trouble to interfere.”

“Did he succeed in interfering? … I see he did. Annaxas the Younger usually does succeed; he’s perverse and predictable in that department.” The Italian raised his glass delicately.

“What was that name?”

“Annaxas. Annaxas the Younger, son of Annaxas the Strong. Sounds Theban, does it not? The Greek bloodlines,
however insignificant, are always on the tips of their tongues. Pretentious, I think.”

“Does he use it a lot?”

“Not often for himself. His yacht is named
Annaxas
, several planes are
Annaxas—One, Two, Three
. He works the name into a few corporate titles. It’s an obsession with him. Theodore Annaxas Dakakos. The first son of a poor family raised by some religious order in the north. The circumstances are cloudy; he doesn’t encourage curiosity.” The Italian drained his glass.

“That’s interesting.”

“Have I told you something you didn’t know?”