The Pigeon Project

by Irving Wallace

  Mayor Accardi, a portly man of fifty-five with a double chin, had a face as smooth and round as an infant’s bottom. His thinning hair was plastered straight back, and by habit he always smiled even when he did not feel like smiling. He sat down in the high-backed swivel chair behind his overpolished, uncluttered 19th-century desk, waiting for the others to be seated in a semicircle before him. Momentarily distracted, Deputy Mayor Santin, almost all nose, almost chinless, adjusted the giant map of Venice and environs, tacked to a plywood board, propped on a sturdy easel to his left. Finished, Deputy Mayor Santin picked up his pointer and went back to his red upholstered chair.

  Everyone was assembled. Mayor Accardi surveyed the cast of characters, reading from left to right. There was his secretary, Mrs. Rinaldo, a nondescript widow, her gray hair mercilessly drawn tight into a bun, her pencil poised over her shorthand pad. The next chair was occupied by Deputy Mayor Santin. Beside him sat , Colonel Cutrone, commandante of the carabinieri, the federal police force in the area. He was an impressive man—full head of hair, darkly attractive, resembling a young opera bass in the role of a military officer. At his left, fidgeting, was Questore Trevisan, superintendent of the local Venice police force—short, bandy-legged, his most striking feature two poached-egg eyes set in a vacant face. Next, chain-smoking, Ragazzi, unofficial leader of the Communist party in Venice—square countenance, intense, brooding, with muscles like bands of steel. Then came the two foreigners, the Russians: Aleksandr Veksler, his close-set eyes fixed on the map of Venice, and the newly arrived Major Boris Kedrov, who appeared curiously uncomfortable in an ill-fitting navy blue suit.

  Mayor Accardi pushed his desk lamp aside, took in the group once more, and addressed them in a conversational tone.

  “Gentlemen, you all know why we are gathered here at this ungodly hour. We are here to review what has happened in the case of Professor Davis MacDonald, to discuss the actions already taken, and to decide what further actions we should take. Normally, this meeting would be conducted by Prefetto Gasparini, but he is on a visit to America, attending an international law-enforcement convention in Chicago, and in his absence the home secretary in Rome has invested me with the authority to organize our effort.

  “Very well. As best I could, I have collected the relevant facts in the case, and now I shall briefly review these facts. As those of you in this room know, from my preliminary phone calls last night, Professor MacDonald, a naturalized American citizen, was a guest of the Soviet Union when he made a startling and earth-shaking discovery—the means of prolonging human life, increasing the human lifespan from the average seventy years to the probability of 150 years.”

  “A discovery made,” Major Kedrov interrupted, “because of the cooperation of the scientists of the Soviet Union.”

  “Exactly,” Mayor Accardi quickly agreed. “However, instead of sharing his find with the Soviet Union, this Professor MacDonald slipped out of Russia, intent on taking the discovery of his American masters, to do with it as they pleased. Our Soviet comrades”—he nodded amiably at Veksler and Kedrov—“were quite understandably upset by and concerned about Professor MacDonald’s unfair and hostile behavior. They knew MacDonald had taken a special Soviet flight with Venice its destination. They called upon us, as allies and friends, to detain MacDonald for them upon his arrival. We were only too happy to cooperate with our comrades, and I requested that Colonel Cutrone apprehend MacDonald and keep him in protective custody until our allies could return him to the Soviet Union and convince him that the U.S.S.R. was a partner in the discovery and deserved to share it.

  “Colonel Cutrone did his job well. MacDonald was apprehended and detained under guard on San Lazzaro until he could be returned to the Soviet Union. Then, by some means or other—precisely what means we have not yet learned, although there was some mention of a carrier pigeon, which sounds unlikely—MacDonald was able to inform some persons on the outside of his situation and arrange for them to attempt to remove him from San Lazzaro. This attempt to help him escape was carried out six hours ago. Mr. Veksler was in charge at the monastery when the escape was undertaken.” The mayor nodded at the Russian. “Perhaps you can fill us in on the firsthand details, Mr. Veksler.”

  The Russian twisted in his chair to speak to the others. “We had arranged with the Armenian abbot to give us two of his young monks to look after Professor MacDonald—this aside from the company of armed guards Colonel Cutrone so kindly provided. We were given the most trustworthy and obedient monks to take care of the professor, to serve him, to walk him, to take him to a bathroom down the hall when he needed use of it. Last night, at approximately nine-fifty, the professor rang for his monk and asked to be accompanied to the bathroom. The carabinieri guard outside the door saw MacDonald and his monk go down the hall and around the corner, toward the spot where the bathroom is located. As far as I can reconstruct what happened next, when MacDonald and his monk, Pashal, emerged from the bathroom, a masked figure stepped out of the shadows and poked a gun into the monk’s ribs. He commanded the monk to lead them out of the building by some route in which they would be unobserved by the guards. When the monk, Pashal, objected, the masked intruder said he would kill him. Afraid for his life, the monk led the two out the front door to the pier, where a motorboat was waiting. Meanwhile, the carabinieri guard posted outside MacDonald’s room became worried. The rule was that MacDonald was to be back in his room in five minutes. The guard realized that more than ten minutes had passed. He decided to investigate and find out what was delaying MacDonald and his monk. He could not find them in the bathroom or anywhere on the floor.

  He went downstairs, saw the front door ajar.” The Russian paused, craned his neck toward the commandante of the carabinieri. “I believe you have his report, Colonel Cutrone, on what followed.”

  “Si,” said Colonel Cutrone. He spoke in a measured tone. “Our man, Antonio, the guard, he went to the door and looked outside. He saw, at the pier, the monk, Pashal, with another man. Professor MacDonald was nowhere in sight. Antonio called out to the two he saw. Neither replied. Instead, the other man, the stranger, pistol-whipped Pashal, knocking him down. Antonio pulled his rifle off his shoulder and began to run toward them. The stranger immediately fled across the pier and into a waiting motorboat. By the time Antonio reached the edge of the pier, the motorboat had turned away toward Venice—”

  Major Kedrov interrupted. “There can be no mistake that the boat was going to Venice?”

  “No mistake at all,” said Colonel Cutrone. “Antonio had his rifle up and fired three shots before the boat was lost in the dark and out of his sight.”

  “Did he hit either of them?” asked Major Kedrov.

  “He could not tell. Actually, there were three in the boat—three men, he thought. They all ducked down very low as the boat pulled away. One he definitely identified as Professor MacDonald, being familiar with him.”

  “And the other two?” asked Major Kedrov.

  “Very little to go by. No identification from the guard. It all happened too swiftly. There was darkness, and the lighting was poor. The boat went away fast, throwing up spray. However, the monk Pashal—when he recovered consciousness, he gave a vague description of the one with the gun. He had been too frightened to take a good look until they reached the pier. He said the stranger had a crooked nose and thick lips and spoke with some kind of accent, possibly German.”

  “Was he tall or short?” Major Kedrov asked impatiently.

  “He was shorter than Pashal. It is not much, but it is something.”

  “I do not trust your monk’s description,” said Major Kedrov. “It would be a waste of time to hunt for the abductor. The one to hunt for is Professor MacDonald. We know exactly what he looks like.” He tapped a portfolio on the floor leaning against the chair. “I have the professor’s photograph from our files.”

  “We can use that immediately!” Trevisan, the Venice police superintendent, exclaimed.

  “You shall have it,�
�� said Major Kedrov. He addressed Colonel Cutrone again. “I want to hear the rest of what happened last night. After the guard fired his shots, what happened next?”

  ”Everyone acted with dispatch,” said Colonel Cutrone calmly. “Antonio did not even bother with the injured monk. He rushed back into the monastery and awakened Mr. Veksler, who telephoned me at my apartment in Venice. I saw the gravity of the situation at once. These were dangerous minutes when MacDonald might slip away. The vital thing was to contain him in Venice. I quickly contacted our stazioni—our branch buildings and carabinieri—at Mestre, the Lido, Cannaregio, Castello—all of them, everywhere. I alerted our barracks at San Zaccaria. Within fifteen minutes, maybe less, we had thrown a net around Venice. By ten-thirty, every exit had been stopped—the fugitive could not go by auto from Piazzale Roma, by train from the depot, by air from Marco Polo, by sea from the Lido and the other outlets. Our water patrols were almost everywhere, instantly. Gentlemen, we have our professor trapped in this city.”

  “Now we must catch him,” said Major Kedrov.

  “We shall,” said Colonel Cutrone. “That is why I called our mayor and suggested this emergency meeting. To plan a concerted action that will flush out our—our fugitive.”

  Major Kedrov came to his feet. He looked at the others. “All of you, you understand the importance of the secret Professor MacDonald is carrying?”

  Mayor Accardi pulled his swivel chair to his desk. “Yes, Major. Mr. Veksler, through Colonel Cutrone, has apprised each of us of the facts about the discovery.”

  “MacDonald has really discovered how to eliminate the leading fatal diseases,” Major Kedrov went on compulsively, “and how to slow down the aging cells with shots that inject a formula he calls C-98. There has never been anything like it in the world. Imagine how it will be if you can live to the age of 150.”

  “We know how it will be with you,” Mayor Accardi said shrewdly. “You want MacDonald and his formula for yourselves. It will make you happy.” He made a broad gesture. “But what about us?” Then he added quickly, “Of course, we cooperate with you willingly, because we are political allies, comrades. But for this show of friendship, I wonder what will happen to us?”

  The question hung in the air a moment. All eyes were on Major Kedrov. He considered Accardi, then moved closer to the desk. “You,” he said, “you will be taken care of. Everyone in this room will have a special priority. Once our scientists have the formula from MacDonald, and after our leaders—the premier, Politburo, Lenin Prize winners—are given their shots, you will be next. When we say this discovery belongs to the Soviet Union, we also mean the allies and friends of the Soviet Union. Have no concern. I give you my pledge.”

  “It is understood and accepted,” said the mayor. Major Kedrov turned to the others. “The real business at hand, I repeat, is that we must go about catching MacDonald. How do you propose to do it?”

  “I will answer you,” said Colonel Cutrone, rising. He took the pointer from the deputy mayor and walked to the map. “The first thing to be done is to see that Venice is airtight. Last night, working against time, I stopped up every obvious exit. But we must be aware of two facts. The first, that Venice has many less obvious exits. See”—his darting pointer touched numerous spots on the map—“here and here and here. We have our net, but there are still holes in it. The second fact to know is that we are dealing with a daring and cunning enemy. The ones who staged the rescue last night were clever. We cannot underestimate them. So, if there are holes in our net, you can be sure they will discover them soon.” He looked at the Russian major. “Therefore, our immediate primary job is to see that MacDonald does not get away. To make certain, I am taking action as soon as it is daylight. I will call the home secretary in Rome and I will request and obtain additional carabinieri from all nearby cities—Padua, Milan, so forth. By noon today, or a few hours later, every obscure exit involving land, sea, air will be closed. It will be impossible for MacDonald to escape.”

  Colonel Cutrone left the map, tossed the pointer to Deputy Mayor Santin, then went to the desk.

  “Your Honor,” he said, “to contain MacDonald, but far more important, to contain his secret—to see that he does not send it to the outside world by some other means—will require, I am afraid, a certain amount of sacrifice from you, your town councillors, and the city’s merchants.” He paused. “All traffic into and out of Venice must cease at the crack of dawn.”

  Mayor Accardi appeared startled. “What are you saying? That cannot be!”

  “It must be,” said Colonel Cutrone emphatically. “No one in Venice at this moment will be allowed to leave. We can watch for MacDonald at every exit, but we cannot watch for some unknown person carrying his formula out of here. No one leaves for five or six days—we should flush out MacDonald in that time, if lucky earlier—but no one leaves. That means tourists wanting to go home, that means laborers who commute to the factories at Mestre—everyone is stuck until we let them go.”

  “There’ll be riots.”

  “Let there be riots. We may give special dispensation to a person or two we know, who would have to get direct permission, written permission, from you personally. But basically, no person may set foot outside of Venice until our matter is settled. But that is not all. No one must be allowed to come in—”

  Mayor Accardi jumped out of his chair. “That is madness, Cutrone! You go too far. This is the height of our tourist season. Our economy is based on the tourists who pour in now. Keep them out and you ruin us!”

  “It will not ruin you. Five or six days won’t hurt you at all.”

  “But why is this necessary? Not let people out, that I understand. But not let them in—?”

  “There are many reasons. One is that some of MacDonald’s important friends might get in, and we’d have no way to keep them from helping him or announcing his discovery to the world. Another is, once thousands more people enter our city, we cannot let them out for the duration of this hunt, and it will give us too many people to deal with, to screen. Your Honor, it has to be done my way or it cannot be done at all.”

  Mayor Accardi sank back into his chair, dragged out a handkerchief, wiped his damp brow. “All right. It will be done.” He sighed. “This is reaching 150 the hard way.”

  “Cutrone,” someone called from the semicircle. It was Ragazzi, the local Communist leader. “How do you explain this to the people—to our 100,000 Venetians, to our 50,000 or more tourists suddenly confined here? You can’t tell them you are looking for a scientist who has found the secret of longevity. The capitalist world would fall on us, force us to free him. What will you tell them? You must have a reasonable explanation for what will seem to most an unreasonable quarantine. What will be your explanation?”

  Colonel Cutrone nodded. “Si, I have already thought of that. I ransacked my mind for a plausible cover story. At first, I thought we might say we are searching for a desperado who has stolen one of our priceless Venetian masterpieces, a Titian perhaps, and we must catch him before he gets away. Then I decided that most people would not think such a robbery justified our drastic action. Rejecting that story led me to a cover story I feel will hold up.” He surveyed the others. “An American spy, working against our Communist government, has stolen our plans for a secret weapon, defensive weapon, an anti-guided-missile device. He—”

  “One moment,” Kedrov interrupted. “I don’t like calling him an American spy. That might bring inquiries from the United States government and press.”

  “The United States won’t know about it.”

  “Are you suggesting a news blackout?” said the Russian.

  “An entire communications blackout. No private telegrams or letters are to leave Venice this week. No wire-service stories. I think we can all agree on that.”

  “But afterward,” Kedrov persisted. “We must look ahead. When we’ve caught our—our so-called spy—and lifted the travel and news bans, word would get out that our spy was American. It might ma
ke the United States Department of State, the Pentagon curious. No, I don’t like that.”

  “Very well,” said Colonel Cutrone. “Let’s make our fugitive a foreign spy, nationality unknown, a foreign spy who posed as an American scientist.”

  “Better,” said Kedrov.

  “So this foreign spy has stolen the plans for Italy’s big secret weapon,” Colonel Cutrone resumed. “He had flown into Venice to await his contact. Meanwhile, we learned what had taken place, we surrounded the spy in Venice, and now we have him trapped here. We ask the forbearance and cooperation of the entire population and all visitors until we catch him. How does that sound?”

  “I like it,” Major Kedrov rasped. “I believe it.”

  “Yes,” said Mayor Accardi. “Security of the nation. Very good.” His fat face clouded for an instant. “Only one thing bothers me. With the city closed down, with communication ended, what will the outside world think? We’ve got to tell them—the world press, other businesses, governments—we’ve got to tell them something.”

  “I was coming to that,” said Colonel Cutrone. “We want to say as little as possible, but—yes, we must say something. There will be a brief, a terse announcement given to the wire services after daybreak today, minutes before we impose the communications blackout. We will have Mayor Accardi announce to the world that an emergency measure has just gone into effect—no traffic into or out of Venice the next few days—no further communications—until a foreign spy trapped in the city, a spy known to have stolen Italian military defense plans, is caught. As soon as he is arrested, Venice will be opened up again. That should satisfy almost everyone.”

  “Not everyone,” said Mayor Accardi. “Not the press on the outside—”

  “To hell with the press,” said Colonel Cutrone. “They are not our concern right now.”