The Pigeon Project

by Irving Wallace

  “Seventy more years of life,” said Alison quickly. “That was Professor MacDonald’s goal. He wrote of doubling the human lifespan.”

  “You heard her,” said Jordan to Nurikhan. “She is Professor MacDonald’s associate. The professor is one of the world’s leading gerontologists. Why do you think the Communists are holding him a prisoner on San Lazzaro? Because Professor MacDonald has just found the means of prolonging human life. The Communists want the secret for themselves. The professor wants it for every human on earth, including your brother, the boy’s father. The professor could save him.”

  Ignoring the telephone, Nurikhan stared at Jordan. “This is possible?” he said with incredulity.

  “It is the truth,” said Jordan. “A fact. If your nephew will help us, I guarantee that his father will be one of the first to be treated by Professor MacDonald.”

  Nurikhan continued to stare at Jordan. “You would guarantee it?”

  “You have my word,” said Jordan fervently.

  Nurikhan sat blinking, taking in both Jordan and Alison and, finally, the open phone. He spoke into the phone. “Pashal,” he said quietly, “you heard? My friend is a truthful and honorable man.”

  The shopkeeper was listening to his nephew on the other end. When he spoke into the phone once more, it was in Armenian. Then, for an interval, he listened, nodding at the telephone. One more word in Armenian, and he slowly hung up.

  He turned in his chair and faced Jordan. “He will risk it. Be at San Lazzaro pier tomorrow night at exactly ten o’clock.”

  * * *

  All through the following day, Jordan had tried to block the evening’s rescue attempt from his mind. He was not a man of action, of adventure. He was, as a creative engineer turned creative writer and public relations person, essentially a dreamer and passive creature. To dwell on the rescue he had so mindlessly agreed to undertake in the evening would have thrown him into a fit of anxiety.

  But now—carrying Alison’s overnighter, as he followed her through the revolving front door of the Hotel Danieli and started toward the waiting motorboat his gondolier friend, Luigi Cipolate, had rented for him—Jordan was assailed by the reality of the situation, and he was taut with apprehension.

  He saw the gondolier standing beside the motorboat. He glanced at his watch. “Nine forty-five,” he said to Alison. “Right on schedule. But we can’t waste a moment.”

  They reached the gondolier. Jordan greeted him, then considered the motorboat. It was a low-slung arrow of a craft, capable of carrying six passengers.

  “You like it?” asked the gondolier. “The fastest small one I could find.”

  “Strigheta, old pal, thank you.”

  The gondolier assisted Alison into the boat and next took Jordan’s arm to assist him. “You can still change your mind, Timothy.” he said. “To take your lady out for a pleasure ride in a motorboat, it is unromantic. Come. I take you in my gondola “

  Jordan smiled. “Next time, pal.” He saw that Alison was safely seated, and he positioned himself at the wheel. He started the engine as Cipolate untied the rope from the piling and dropped it into the boat. “I’ll see you in an hour or less,” Jordan promised, and he backed the boat off between the pilings and into the open lagoon.

  Quickly, they were pointed toward San Lazzaro and under way. After slowing once for a vaporetto that plowed across his prow, Jordan cut loose, and the boat’s nose lifted out of the water and it skimmed across the lagoon like a water bug.

  Although the night retained the warmth of the day, the spray refreshed Jordan, and all his senses were awakened.

  He saw Alison out of the corner of his eye, and her poise and lack of anxiety continued to amaze him. A basic scientist’s personality, he thought—low-keyed and cool. She was wearing a blue velvet cap, a striped gondolier’s shirt, and new jeans, all purchased during her first wanderings through Venice that afternoon, when he had left her to do what had to be done. Jordan had not wanted her along on this rescue attempt but as he had developed the escape plan, he had seen that her presence was necessary.

  He had gone over the plan with her two or three times. Origin all v. because no planes to Paris were available at this hour, he had hoped to put Alison and Professor MacDonald on a late train to Paris. But it had not worked out. The last train for Paris departed earlier. That left only one other means for a safe and hasty departure—a rented Fiat It had turned out that Alison had her own car in the States and drove all the time. Actually, Jordan had realized, a rented car would be the only way to cap the escape successfully. Had there been a train, they might have been overtaken by the police in their wagon-lit compartment.

  The plan bad been simple, and its completion depended entirely on a matter of timing. Assuming that Pashal delivered the professor to the San Lazzaro pier as promised, assuming that there were no unexpected interferences or delays, there would be just time enough to get the pair to the rented Fiat before the police could block them. Jordan had tried to anticipate what would happen from the moment that he had Professor MacDonald in his motorboat and sped past Venice toward the Piazzale Roma, where they would find the car that would take them over the causeway to the mainland city of Mestre. Calculation of time had been difficult, because Jordan had possessed no knowledge of how closely MacDonald was being guarded. If no one checked on him during the night, his disappearance would not be known until morning, when he would be safely in France. If someone checked his room or cell during the night, his disappearance might be discovered in a half hour or an hour or several hours, yet allow a sufficient head start to get him to Mestre before the swift motor launches of the Guardia di Finanza had been alerted and could intercept Jordan and his own boat.

  Throughout the day, Jordan had occupied himself with preparations.

  The first thing this morning, he had telephoned the office and told Marisa that he was tied up and would not be in today, but he had assured her that he would be at his desk tomorrow. Then, after giving Alison instructions on where to shop for herself, he had caught a vaporetto to the Piazzale Roma and had made arrangements for the rented Fiat to be ready by ten-thirty this evening.

  Returning to his hotel, he had called room service for a cheese sandwich and while eating lunch had skimmed yesterday’s edition of the International Herald Tribune. When the motoscafo ferry service between the Danieli and the Hotel Excelsior at the Lido resumed, he had caught the first launch for the short crossing. Midway, the launch had passed the clump of land that was the island of San Lazzaro. Standing on the narrow open deck of the boat, between the pilot and the rear awning, Jordan had examined San Lazzaro with greater care than he had in the past year. There was the two-story ancient monastery with its red tile roof, squatting in silence, no sign of life anywhere in the front. The monastery entrance sat back about fifty feet—maybe more—from the wooden pier, with its stairs leading down to a platform above the water-line.

  An hour later, when he had returned from the Excelsior to the Danieli, again passing close to San Lazzaro, he had studied the scene once more, and by the time it had receded from view he felt that he had his night’s destination clearly mapped in his mind.

  Back in the Danieli, there had been one more thing that niggled at him. The idea of it, the melodrama of it, embarrassed him, yet he felt it was necessary. He had gone to the concierge’s desk and waited for his longtime friend and sometime confidant Carlo Fabris, the head concierge, to get off the phone.

  The concierge had finally finished with the phone. “Yes, Mr. Jordan?”

  Jordan had lowered his voice so that other tourists along the counter would not overhear him. “Mr. Fabris, I want to borrow or rent a gun—something small, compact, an automatic, with a full clip of ammunition. Is it possible to have it before six o’clock?”

  Mr. Fabris’ good-natured, beefy, sunburned countenance had expressed neither surprise nor curiosity. “Do you have any preference as to make?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Then no
problem. It shall be delivered to your suite by six o’clock.”

  Although Fabris, perfect concierge, never questioned unusual requests made by hotel guests, Jordan had felt that this most uncharacteristic request did deserve some kind of explanation. “The gun—it’s for a contest. Some friends at Mestre are having a sharpshooting contest with targets.”

  Fabris had tendered a benign smile. “I hope you win.”

  The gun had been discreetly delivered in a brown paper bag to Jordan’s suite at a quarter to six.

  That had been four hours ago.

  Now, at the wheel of the motorboat speeding toward San Lazzaro, adhering to the illuminated deep-channel lagoon route, he dropped one hand down to his jacket pocket and felt the secure bulge of the revolver. He could not imagine using it, and then he could. In minutes, he would be entering the guarded lair of Communist agents who were holding a genius of the free world in captivity. If all went smoothly, as he prayed it would, the gun would be as useless as pabulum. But if something went wrong, well, he was armed with a defensive weapon.

  He met Alison’s eyes briefly. He smiled, and she smiled back, but both smiles, he knew, were more like nervous twitches.

  Off to his left, beyond the yellow illumination of the lagoon’s traffic lane, he saw the hulk of a building loom up and enlarge.

  “San Servolo,” he said to Alison. “The island just before San Lazzaro. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  He remembered that San Servolo was the site of a mental institution and that any boats he had ever taken past it always slowed down. He presumed that was a Venetian law, and he quickly reduced his craft’s power.

  Leaving San Servolo, he saw San Lazzaro before him, and he wheeled his motorboat toward it and kept the speed down. He glimpsed his watch. The time was six minutes to ten o’clock.

  He made out the wooden pier jutting into the water.

  “We’re here,” he said quietly to Alison.

  He shut off the engine and let the boat glide forward, stepping sideways to catch a piling and hold the craft from bumping. He pulled at die piling, dragging the boat forward against the lower platform.

  “Okay,” he said to Alison.

  She was already on her feet behind him, preparing to perform what they had worked out earlier in the evening. She took up the rope, ran it around the piling, and knotted it loosely.

  In the dim light shining down from a lamp above the pier he made out the time once more.

  “Three minutes,” he said, his heart going harder. “Wait here at the rope. The second MacDonald and I are back down here, untie the rope and pull it free. I’ll do the rest.”

  He was wearing sneakers, and he stepped off the motorboat onto the platform without a sound. He went gingerly up the slippery first steps, more solidly up the rest. At the second step from the top, he halted. He held up his wristwatch again. Two minutes. Less.

  Would Pashal emerge with Professor MacDonald?

  How would he manage it?

  Would anyone else be alerted?

  He held his breath and concentrated on the front door of the monastery. Except for crickets, a bird, the night was still. He stood frozen, expectant.

  Suddenly a sliver of light, then a beam pierced the semidarkness from the monastery front. The door was opening. One figure slipped out, followed by another, as the door was partially closed.

  Jordan came up the remaining steps, attaining the top of the pier, and hastened across it toward the forecourt. At the end of the pier, they met him.

  The tall, thin young monk came first, his Adam’s apple continuously jumping.

  “Pashal?” Jordan whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “You have him?”

  “Here is a Professor MacDonald.” He backed aside, revealing a much shorter elderly man, white hair, wire-framed spectacles, white moustache, his face a mixture of confusion and fear.

  Jordan grabbed the professor by the arm, drawing him toward the wharf. “Go to the end of the pier, down the steps—carefully, they’re wet. Get into the motorboat. Dr. Edwards is waiting. I’ll be right behind you.” He turned quickly back to the monk. “Pashal, we don’t know how to thank you. I’ll never know how you did it, but what you’ve done will have God’s blessings forever. Good-bye.”

  As he wheeled to leave, the young monk’s strong hand clamped on his shoulder.

  “Wait,” Pashal Nurikhan whispered. “What is it?”

  “I must have some explanation,” the monk said urgently. “I had to take him to the bathroom, that is how I got him past Antonio, his carabinieri guard outside his room. When I return without the professor—I have concocted a story to protect me—you must help—”

  “Tell me, but hurry.”

  “I will say a stranger came with a gun as we left the bathroom, forced me out here. I tried to overcome him. He knocked me down and fled in a motorboat. So, please, now. Knock me down, so it looks real—now…”

  Jordan recoiled. “Just hit you? I can’t—”

  “You must,” Pashal whispered fiercely, “to protect me. Then I will stumble back and shout what has happened and collapse.”

  “Hey, hold it,” said Jordan. “If you alert the whole damn monastery, I’ll have no time to get them to the Piazzale Roma and out of the country. The second you yell out, the Venice boat patrols will be called—”

  “It is not my business what happens after you go. We have made a deal. MacDonald will save my father if I save MacDonald by bringing him to you. I have done my part.”

  “Yes, Pashal, but don’t you see, getting him out of Venice was also…”

  That instant, the illumination from the front door of the monastery widened, engulfed them like a searchlight. Terrified, they both spun toward the monastery.

  In the doorway, filling it, was a bulky uniformed man, rifle slung over his shoulder. His hand had gone up to his mouth. “What’s going on out there?” he bellowed.

  Frantically, the monk had Jordan by the lapels. “Hit me,” he implored.

  On reflex, Jordan’s hand snaked to his pocket, yanked out the pistol, and he slammed the butt flat against Pashal’s head. The monk cried out in pain, clutched at his bleeding temple, and went down to his knees, groaning.

  For a split second, Jordan looked up. The uniformed guard had shouted, “Who is it?” He was pulling the rifle off his shoulder as he came out of the doorway on the run.

  Jordan whirled toward the empty pier, tucking his pistol into his pocket. He rushed across the pier, stepped down, gripped the rail as he maneuvered his descent of the slippery steps. The motorboat was there, rocking in the water, with Alison at the rope and MacDonald in a seat.

  “Let’s go!” yelled Jordan, leaping into the motorboat, staggering behind the wheel, as Alison freed the rope.

  Jordan had the engine coughing, coughing, and at last it started with a roar. He reversed the boat, pulled the wheel around sharply, arcing the craft away from the pier. He pointed the boat for the lights of Venice and opened up the throttle.

  As the boat practically leaped out of the water, Jordan turned his head, saw the guard silhouetted on the pier, his rifle up to his shoulder.

  “Get down, get down!” he shouted at Alison and MacDonald.

  The other two dropped to the boat bottom, and Jordan fell to a knee as the first shot whistled overhead. Then came a second shot and a third, like handclaps, past his ear.

  They were hurtling toward Venice, and his last glimpse of San Lazzaro was that of lights going on everywhere in the monastery. In seconds, the island had disappeared from sight.

  Jordan rose to his feet behind the wheel, signaling the others to get up.

  “We got you free of there,” he said breathlessly to the professor, “but I haven’t the faintest idea what’s going to happen to you next.”

  III

  The city hall of Venice, located on the Grand Canal—one passed it en route to the humpbacked Rialto Bridge—consisted of two palaces, the Palazzo Loredan, built in the 1
2th century, and the Palazzo Farsetti, built in the 13th century by Doge Enrico Dandolo and later, the residence of the aristocratic Farsetti family. The buildings were connected by a covered passageway over the Calle Loredan, which otherwise separated them.

  In the more than a century since these palaces had been converted into the municipio, or city hall, they had been the scene of many historic occasions. But none, perhaps, exceeded in importance the emergency meeting that had been called by Sindaco Accardi—Mayor Accardi—so recently elected headman of this city of 100,000 inhabitants by Venice’s sixty councillors, of whom forty-one were members of the local Communist party and who in their turn had been elected by the people in the last municipal election.

  It was predawn, four o’clock in the morning, and the brightest lights that partially illuminated the darkened Grand Canal came from the mayor’s office on the first floor, above the ground floor of the Palazzo Farsetti. In this spacious office, six men and one woman, several of them just roused from their beds, had assembled. The last to arrive had been Aleksandr Veksler, the Soviet Union’s cultural attaché, accompanied by a forbidding bull of a man with a Mongolian face named Major Boris Kedrov, who less than a hour ago, had landed at Marco Polo Air Terminal in a special Soviet military aircraft assigned to him by the premier himself.

  Mayor Accardi’s office seemed ill suited for an emergency meeting. The office was exquisite and graceful, as if designed for easy small talk and long, pointless anecdotes. On the felt-covered walls with their floral patterns hung three framed pictures: a portrait of Cato by Molinari, a portrait of Antony and Cleopatra by Molinari, a portrait of Podesta Angelo Corner by Maganza.