The Gemini Contenders by Robert Ludlum Page A

green wind sock was limp, no breeze billowing its cloth. The pier was only half filled with boats; it seemed to extend farther out into the water than the others. The four of them walked down the steps, Apple and Pear in front, their hands in their pockets. The two Englishmen were obviously hesitant. It was apparent to Vittorio that they were concerned.
    Without warning or sound, men suddenly appeared on both sides of them, their weapons drawn. They were on the decks of the boats; five, no, six men dressed as fishermen.
    “Be you George the Fifth?” said the gruff voice of the man nearest the agents, standing on the deck of a small trawler.
    “Thank
God!”
said Pear in relief. “We’ve had a nasty time of it.”
    At the spoken English, weapons were replaced in belts and pockets. The men converged, a number talking at once.
    The language was Corsican.
    One man, obviously the leader, turned to Apple. “Go to the end of the pier. We’ve got one of the fastest trawlers in Bastia. We’ll take care of the Italian. They won’t find him for a month!”
    “No!” Fontini-Cristi stepped between the two men. He looked at Pear. “We gave our word. If he cooperated, he lived.”
    Apple replied, instead, his whispered voice drawn out inirritation. “Now, you see here. You’ve been a help, I’ll not deny it, but you’re not running this show. Get out to the bloody boat.”
    “Not until this man is back on the walkway. We gave our word!” He spoke to the corporal. “Go back. You won’t be harmed. Strike a match when you reach a passageway to the ocean road.”
    “And if I say
no?”
Apple continued to grip the soldier’s tunic.
    “Then I’ll remain here.”
    “Damn!”
Apple released the soldier.
    “Walk with him part way,” said Fontini-Cristi to the Corsican. “Make sure your men let him pass.”
    The Corsican spat on the pier.
    The corporal ran as fast as he could toward the base of the dock. Fontini-Cristi looked at the two Englishmen.
    “I am sorry,” he said simply. “There’s been enough killing.”
    “You’re a damn fool,” replied Apple.
    “Hurry,” said the Corsican leader. “I want to get started. The water’s rough beyond the rocks. And you people are crazy!”
    They walked out to the end of the long pier, one by one jumping over the gunwale onto the deck of the huge trawler. Two Corsicans remained on the dock by the pilings; they unwound the thick greasy ropes while the gruff captain started the engines.
    It happened without warning.
    A fusillade of gunfire from the walkway. Then the blinding shaft of a searchlight shot out of the darkness, accompanied by the shouts of soldiers at the base of the pier. The voice of the corporal could be heard.
    “Out
there!
At the end of the dock! The
fishing trawler!
Send out the alarms!”
    One of the Corsicans was hit; he plunged to the ground, at the last second freeing the rope from the piling.
    “The
light!
Shoot out the light!” screamed the Corsican from the open wheelhouse, revving the engines, heading for open water.
    Apple and Pear unscrewed their silencers for greater accuracy. Apple was the first to raise himself over the protection of the gunwale; he squeezed his trigger repeatedly, steadying his hand on the wooden rail. In the distance thesearchlight exploded. Simultaneously, fragments of wood burst around Apple; the agent reeled back, screaming in pain.
    His hand was shattered.
    But the Corsican had steered the fast-moving trawler out into the protective darkness of the sea. They were free of Celle Ligure.
    “Our price goes up, English!” shouted the man at the wheel. “You whoreson bastards! You’ll pay for this craziness!” He looked at Fontini-Cristi crouched beneath the starboard gunwale. Their eyes met; the Corsican spat furiously.
    Apple sat back sweating against a pile of ropes. In the night light reflecting the ocean’s spray, Vittorio saw that the Englishman was staring at the bloody mass of flesh that was his hand, holding