That afternoon, while driving from the high school to his house, Michael Jordan had suffered a blackout, his car had gone out of control, and he had hit a tree. He would recover, but not as the same person. The doctor’s diagnosis had been a hitherto undetected hardening of the arteries of the brain, with total senility perhaps a year off.
Soon his father had to give up his teaching post, and never again did he put pen to paper. Jordan had no heart to read his manuscript at that time. The old man languished briefly in a sanitarium, a vegetable, and then, aged seventy-four, he died in his sleep.
After the funeral, Jordan stayed on a week in the bleak and empty house, consoling his sister and his aunt, studying artifacts of his past, and one day he steeled himself, removed the unfinished manuscript from the old man’s desk, and lay down on the porch hammock to read it.
By nightfall he had read all there was to read of it, mesmerized for hours by its scholarship, wit, movement, innovation, this blueprint for a new way of life, and then abruptly, it was over in mid-sentence. Jordan had lain back, stunned. A towering work, one that could have changed the world—and here only a fragment of manuscript, one-fourth done, never to be finished, with no brain in the world capable of continuing what had been in his father’s mind. The loss was as traumatic for Jordan as the loss of his father, although he knew these two losses were one and the same. The ache in his heart had begun.
Had his father not suffered senility at seventy-two, had there been the means of prolonging his life as a healthy and productive person, how the world might have changed for the better.
In the same way, Jordan could see, Professor MacDonald’s own work might change the world for the better. Indeed, it would prolong the lives of thousands, even millions, of Michael Jordans who might be on the verge of enriching humanity.
And he himself—he was still an extension of his father. Not yet senile, not yet dead, except as he willed these conditions prematurely upon himself. Given a new life, a prolonged life, he might find a way to live his Claire-less life to its destined end. With time, he might become a great writer, as his father had almost been, and he might find another woman and even have the child he had wanted by Claire.
The moment had come for decision, and the choice had been simplified.
To go back to the young woman in the hotel, to Dr. Alison Edwards, and tell her that he was in no position to get involved further. To tell her nicely, reluctantly, that she was on her own. To advise her to do the only sensible thing that could be done—namely, take the professor’s note to the police, the carabinieri, and assume that they were decent and honest and would help her save MacDonald. But he knew, instinctively, that this would mean that the professor’s discovery would not be for the world.
Or to go back to Alison and tell her that he was ready to help her as far as was humanly possible and then hope for the best.
An outside chance to save the Fountain of Youth.
Timothy Jordan stood up, paid his bill and left the Gran’ Caffé Chioggia to return to the Hotel Danieli—and commitment.
* * *
They sat in the sitting room talking it out, discussing every possibility on earth no matter how farfetched, and they were still there weighing their options.
By now, she had calmed down, regained her composure and poise, and was being very sensible. By now, they had had two Bellinis apiece from room service, and the blend of champagne and peach juice had helped settle them. And by now he was comfortably Tim, and she was Alison.
She was deep in the sofa and he in the armchair across from her. She was saying, “Poor man, look what you got yourself involved in, an innocent bystander who liked pigeons.”
“At least, it’s a challenge,” he said. He did not mention his father. “Maybe that is what I’ve been needing.”
“Nobody needs anything like this,” she said. “It is just too much.”
He kept his eyes on her, without speaking. He knew next to nothing about her personally, yet the past hour had made him feel profoundly close to this beautiful stranger.
Alison had straightened on the sofa, and she looked Dr. Edwardsish—competent, intelligent, together.
“I’ve got my head on,” she said, “and I think we’ve done enough exploring of possibilities. I am ready to make a choice and a decision. If we discard all romantic ideas, our talk really narrows down to two possible logical actions. Don’t you think so?”
“Spell them out, Alison. Let’s see if we’re on the same wavelength.”
“Very well,” she said matter-of-factly. “Either we go to the authorities, the Venice police, and hope they are no part of this plot and will be on our side. Or we go to the monks on San Lazzaro and confront them with the professor’s note. One or the other might net results. Which do you suggest?”
“Neither,” said Jordan.
“Neither?”
“To me, the direct approach seems hopeless. As hopeless as calling in an outside organization like Interpol. We agreed that if you called Interpol or anyone else, they couldn’t just come here and barge into San Lazzaro. An outsider would contact the Soviets or Italians, who would deny the kidnapping while whisking MacDonald away, and then they would invite the foreign investigators to look for themselves. Well, it would be the same if we went to the police or to the Armenian monks. No one could abduct someone like MacDonald right here in Venice, keep him a prisoner, without both police complicity and the voluntary or involuntary cooperation of the monks. So if we go to either of them with the note, they will say it is a crazy forgery, say they have no knowledge of MacDonald’s whereabouts, move him off San Lazzaro, and invite us to see for ourselves. At best, the police might pretend to look into the matter, investigate, and then tell us they had found no trace of a Professor MacDonald, imprisoned or otherwise. No, Alison, the direct approach won’t do.”
“But we’ve got to do something,” Alison said desperately. “We’re running out of time.”
Jordan was lost in thought. Gradually, he began to speak his mind. “It’s no use going to the police. Let’s forget them. That leaves the monks on San Lazzaro. I know all about them. They’re a decent lot, goodhearted, charitable. I’ve been over there sightseeing and have visited with some of them. Besides, one of my best friends here in Venice—an Armenian who owns a glass shop)—has a nephew who is a member of the order on San Lazzaro, and he’s always telling…” Abruptly, in mid sentence, Jordan stopped speaking. He sat up, staring at Alison. “By God,” he said, “maybe that’s the way. Sembut. Sembut Nurikhan.”
Alison showed her bewilderment. “What are you saying?”
“Listen,” said Jordan excitedly, almost coming off the chair, “I have an Armenian friend here, a good friend, named Sembut Nurikhan. He has an older brother in Mestre—that’s the nearest mainland city—who has been very ill. The brother’s youngest son became a member of the Mechitarist Congregation on San Lazzaro. For his brother’s sake, and because he likes the boy, Sembut keeps in close touch with his nephew, helps him with money and in other ways. Don’t you see, Alison? This gives us a contact on San Lazzaro.” Jordan stood up. “I know Sembut telephones his nephew at least once a week, to report to the boy on his father’s condition and to find out how the boy is doing. That means it is possible to get a phone call through to San Lazzaro. I’ll go to Sembut and explain the situation honestly. Tell him what’s happened.”
“Can you trust him?” Alison interrupted. “After all—”
“Completely,” said Jordan. “I’ll get Sembut to call his nephew. Try to find out for us what’s going on—and if there is some way his nephew can help us, or get someone to help us…”
Alison was still worried. “Will he be able to talk on the phone?”
“We can only find out.”
“When?”
He took her by the arm. “Right now.”
* * *
Night was beginning to fall when they hurried up the alley called Ramo San Zulian and into the Campo San Zulian. The stor
e windows in the small square were lighting up for the evening’s business, but as far as Jordan could see, Nurikhan’s Glass Shop was darkened. That instant, Sembut Nurikhan stepped out of the store into the thoroughfare and began to draw down the metal shutters that protected his front entrance.
Holding Alison’s arm, Jordan hailed his friend and accelerated his pace.
The Armenian proprietor halted what he was doing, adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses to make out who had called his name, and then broke into a smile. “Ah, Tim, it is you. I was closing the shop early to go to Mestre to visit my brother. He is confined to bed, I am sorry to say. He appreciates company. You came to see me?”
“Yes. I must speak to you, Sembut. I’m sorry to delay you, but I need your help. This is an urgent matter.”
“Of course…” His magnified eyes strayed to Alison.
“Sembut,” said Jordan, “I want you to meet a dear friend of mine from New York, Miss—Dr. Alison Edwards.”
“My pleasure,” said the shopkeeper gallantly, shaking her hand. “Well, come inside where we can talk.”
“Thank you,” said Jordan.
He and Alison waited for the Armenian to unlock the front door, and then they followed him into the glass shop. Nurikhan locked the door from the inside. He apologized for the lack of lighting. “I do not want customers to disturb us. Do you want to sit down?”
“Not necessary, Sembut. Let me get right into it.”
“Please.”
“Something bizarre happened to me today at Quadri’s, after I finished breakfast…”
As briefly as possible, Jordan recounted the events of the day from the time that he had found Professor MacDonald’s note tied to the dead pigeon’s leg to the time that Dr. Alison Edwards had arrived from Paris and authenticated the note.
As he listened, the Armenian proprietor’s face, usually phlegmatic, plainly reflected his astonishment.
“And so,” Jordan concluded, “the Mechitarist monks have Professor MacDonald a prisoner on San Lazzaro, and they are sending him back to the Soviet Union the day after tomorrow. Now you know the situation.”
The proprietor searched Jordan’s face. “You are, as you Americans say, pulling my leg, are you not?”
“Why would I, Sembut? No, every word I have told you is true. They’ve kidnapped and are holding this man.”
The proprietor’s skepticism was evident. “I cannot believe this. There must be some mistake. I am at San Lazzaro often to see my brother’s boy, Pashal, and I know all of the monks. They are gentle human beings, recluses, concerned only with the Lord. They would kidnap no one on earth. They would not imprison another soul.”
“Wait, Sembut,” Jordan interrupted. “I’m not saying the monks had anything to do with this. I suspect it was all done by the local Communists, who control the police, as a favor to their comrades in Russia. Dr. Edwards and I don’t know exactly what happened, but we strongly suspect the Communists here wanted a place to hide Professor MacDonald until he could be sent back, and they selected San Lazzaro because it is isolated, not often visited, and they forced the abbot and the few resident monks to cooperate. You know how dependent the abbot is on the city administration.”
“That part is true,” agreed the shopkeeper. Most of his initial skepticism had vanished. “But why on earth would anyone want to arrest and hold a man you call an eminent British-American scientist?”
In relating the story, Jordan had purposely not uttered a word about Professor MacDonald’s specialty and his momentous discovery. He hesitated. Instinct told him not to speak of it now or ever, unless he had to do so. He glanced at Alison and thought she knew what he was thinking and agreed with it. Jordan decided to answer his friend’s question as ambiguously as possible. “They are holding Professor MacDonald because he has made some secret discovery in the field of biology. The Russians want the professor because they want his finding exclusively for themselves.”
Sembut Nurikhan appeared satisfied. “And me? Where do I fit in this story?”
“Someone has to free the professor. We can’t go to the carabinieri. They are probably working hand in hand with the KGB as comrades. We can’t ask for outside intervention, because the moment the Communists learned of it, they would remove the professor from San Lazzaro to God knows where. Our only hope is to get some friendly monks on the island—or one monk—to act mercifully and help the prisoner escape. I know none of the monks well enough. Then I thought of you…”
“You want my nephew Pashal to help. That is it?”
“Yes, that is it.”
The shopkeeper tugged nervously at his bow tie. “You want me to telephone San Lazzaro and—what? Ask to speak to my nephew? Ask him if anything unusual is happening?”
Jordan nodded. “Something like that. If he can talk, find out if MacDonald is actually being confined there. If your nephew knows about this or confirms it, find out if he has access to the prisoner or if he knows anyone on the island who has access to him. From then on, we can play it by ear.” Jordan briefly placed an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “This would be an important favor, Sembut. We know it’s a long shot. But we can’t think of anything else. And—well—you never can tell.”
Alison edged forward. “Mr. Nurikhan, we’d be most grateful.”
The Armenian shopkeeper made a motion of surrender. “I will try. You both come with me.”
He led them between tables crowded with glassware to the rear of the shop and into the cubicle that served as his office. He flicked on a lamp, settled gingerly behind a rolltop desk, and drew the telephone toward him. Jordan and Alison hovered close by.
The shopkeeper raised his head, his eyes meeting Jordan’s. “If what you have told me, Tim, is true, this will be difficult.” He shrugged. “Let us find out.”
He lifted the receiver off the telephone, and with care he dialed a number.
He listened. “It is ringing,” he said. He waited.
He was alert. Someone had answered the phone.
“Hello,” he said in English. “This is Sembut Nurikhan in Venice. I—” He paused, listened. “Ah, yes. It is good to speak to you too, Vartan. I am calling to have a word with my nephew, with Padre Pashal, if I may. I want to discuss his father with him… Thank you. I will hold.”
The shopkeeper cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and addressed Jordan. “That was a friend of Pashal’s. He has gone to the refectory to fetch Pashal. At least, they are answering the phone.”
He now held the receiver tightly, pressing it to his ear.
Suddenly, the shopkeeper sat up. “Ah, it is you, Pashal. How are you?”
As his nephew, on the other end, answered, Nurikhan signaled Jordan to listen with him. He held the receiver back a few inches from his ear, took Jordan by the sleeve, and pulled him down behind him, so that Jordan’s own ear was near the receiver and within hearing of the voice.
“As long as you are well, Pashal,” the shopkeeper was saying. “I’ll tell you why I call. I have been discussing your father with Dr. Scarpa. A new cardiac treatment has been recommended. I thought I would come over to San Lazzaro tomorrow so that we can talk about it.”
Jordan could hear the young voice on the other end—tinny, anxious. “Impossible, Uncle Sembut. The abbot is allowing no visitors tomorrow or the following day. When it is possible to visit, I will call you.”
“No visitors tomorrow,” repeated Nurikhan. “I have never heard of such a thing before. Why is this?”
The distant voice dropped. “I cannot talk about it now.”
Nurikhan cast a sidelong glance at Jordan, who nodded. The shopkeeper nodded back and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Perhaps I can talk about it. You need only confirm if I am right or tell me if I am wrong. I have heard—from someone—you are holding a prisoner on San Lazzaro.”
There was a silence on the other end. Then Pashal uttered one word. “Yes,” he said.
“A British professor?”
“Yes.”
“Do the police know about this?”
“Yes.”
“You mean they are part of it?”
Pashal’s voice was reluctant. “Yes.”
“A moment, Pashal,” said Nurikhan. “Do not go away.” He covered the mouthpiece with his free hand, and looked up at Jordan. “You heard, Tim. It is as you guessed. What do I say next?”
Jordan was ready. “Ask—ask your nephew if the prisoner is accessible to him or to one of his brothers.”
The shopkeeper removed his hand from the phone and spoke into it. “Is the prisoner accessible to you, Pashal?”
A long pause. “Sometimes.” Another pause. “To two of us.”
Jordan whispered, “Will the prisoner be accessible to your nephew tonight?”
The shopkeeper repeated the question into the phone.
Jordan heard Pashal’s answer. “No. I have different duties tonight.”
“Tomorrow night?” Jordan whispered to Nurikhan, who immediately repeated the question into the phone.
“Yes,” Pashal answered.
Jordan gripped his friend’s shoulder. “Ask your nephew if I came quietly tomorrow night, could he turn the professor over to me outside the front door or on the pier?”
Nurikhan held back, troubled. At last, he directed himself to the phone. “Pashal,” he said softly, “if someone came discreetly to San Lazzaro tomorrow night, could you turn the professor over to him?”
Jordan looked at Alison. She was holding her breath. He bent closer to the receiver, then heard Pashal’s voice distinctly. “No. I cannot. Too dangerous.”
Jordan wanted to yank the telephone from his friend’s grasp and plead with the young man, let the monk know the secret MacDonald carried, what it meant to civilization, what it could mean to Pashal himself and to his father. To his father. Jordan had his friend’s shoulder again, drawing him partially nearer. “Listen to me, Sembut. Neither you nor your nephew know what is at stake. I had better tell you. You worry about your brother, his father, because he is gravely ill. What would you give to save him? You can. This is your chance. You can give your brother many more years of health and life.” He looked at Alison desperately, floundering.
The Pigeon Project Page 8
