The Pigeon Project

by Irving Wallace

  “Teresa, my love…”

  “Oreste, dear,” she said caressingly, “where is he? Tell your Teresa where he is?”

  “What? Who?”

  “Professor MacDonald. You know what it means to me.”

  “I can’t, I really can’t.”

  He tried to separate her legs further, but she brought them together.

  “You can, my heart. You can tell your Teresa.”

  “I wish I could.” He reached for her knees. “Please, Teresa—”

  “No, no. If you cannot trust me when I give myself to you—”

  “I trust you, I trust you. Please, Teresa, I’ve got to go into you.”

  “You must tell me. I will repeat it to no one.”

  “He’s in hiding.” . “Where?”

  Inflamed, he pleaded with her. “Teresa, I’m dying, exploding, let me—”

  “Where? Just tell me where—”

  “Christ, he’s hiding—hiding in my apartment—”

  “You darling.”

  Her legs opened wide, her red vulva opened wide, and he went down low between her legs, sinking into her, going into her inch by inch, and then rising and falling, pulling and pushing, as she spread beneath him, eyes shut, fingers loosely on his shoulders.

  His movements had begun slowly, but gradually, they increased in speed. Several minutes had passed, and he was pumping steadily, steadily, steadily, faster and faster as she lubricated. Again and again he sank into her soft wetness—paradise—his penis seeming to grow to near eruption.

  He wanted it to go on forever, locked together like this in animal ecstasy, and then he glimpsed her placid face and once more realized with whom he was having intercourse—and the thought of it was too much. The love muscle between his legs, sliding inside her flesh, cleaving her, expanded once more, could contain itself no longer, and triggered a series of spasmic ejaculations spewing relief. He shuddered, cried out, letting go completely, and was encompassed by a red-hot aura that ever so slowly cooled.

  It was over. He was empty. He was weak.

  He lay atop hex for minutes, at last rolling over on his side.

  “You were a good boy,” she said drowsily. “A very good boy. Now let your Teresa sleep.”

  He left the bed, washed, and dressed.

  Before departing, he stooped over her on the bed. “Teresa, are you asleep?”

  “Ummm.”

  “Teresa, I shouldn’t have told you, but I did. I couldn’t help it. But it has got to be our secret, where the professor is.”

  “Our secret,” she murmured.

  “I’ll ask my friend if he can talk the professor into seeing you.”

  “Thanks, darling. Good night.”

  He let himself out of her suite, and when he was outside the Gritti, and starting toward the Piazza, he was surprised at his lack of joy over his momentous conquest. Walking along, he wondered why he was not more pleased. After all, he had just laid Teresa Fantoni, the one and only. Then he realized there were two reasons for his lack of excitement. First, the sex act with the goddess had been one-way. She had proved a receptacle, nothing more. The intercourse had come from him alone, with no cooperation from her. In bed, she had not kissed him, touched him in love, not once moved her hips. His Venus de Milo could have been marble. It had been a lousy lay. Its only value was that it could be a conversation piece. That was what she was, that piece—a conversation piece. The second dampener. He had bought it, and paid too much. He had given away MacDonald’s secret refuge, and if Teresa talked loosely tomorrow, there would be trouble.

  He was almost at the Piazza, but now he stopped. He must go back to her, awaken her, impress upon her absolutely that she must keep their secret a real secret. Spinning about, he hurriedly retraced his steps toward the Gritti Palace.

  As he reached the edge of the square, from which the Santa Maria del Giglio led past the hotel apartments to the hotel, he saw a lone figure emerge from the street.

  He stopped in his tracks, his mouth agape.

  She was wearing a brimmed hat, loose jacket, fashionable beige pants, and carrying an alligator bag. She was walking briskly.

  She was Teresa Fantoni.

  He fell back in the shadows, waiting to observe in which direction she would turn. When she turned toward the direction of the Rialto Bridge, he knew where she was going.

  * * *

  The meeting in the mayor’s office, on the first floor of the Palazzo Farsetti, the city hall, had been in progress for over an hour and was now winding down.

  There were four of them engaged in the fruitless conversation. Mayor Accardi, his sausage fingers drumming his desk top, looked from Colonel Cutrone, head of the carabinieri, to Questore Trevisan, superintendent of the Venice police, to Major Kedrov, the Russian KGB officer, and finally, he shrugged helplessly.

  “Incredible,” said the mayor, “that we’ve got no place in all this time. I still think MacDonald was taken to one permanent hideout, something obscure that has eluded our searchers, and he’s dug in there until we give up.”

  Colonel Cutrone shook his head. “No, that is unlikely. We know he has a confederate, the very one who pulled him off San Lazzaro. This person must know Venice, and if he knows Venice he must have friends here. While I cannot prove it, possess no evidence, I suggest that these friends—one, then another, perhaps—are sheltering our fugitive.”

  “What makes you believe this?” Trevisan _ asked Cutrone.

  “Mostly a gut feeling. Then something else. The lead that came to us at noon today. The American author—”

  “Cedric Foster,” the mayor prompted.

  “Yes, Foster. He claimed to know where MacDonald could be found, if we promised him a priority. He sent us charging off to the Palazzo De Marchi. Except for the contessa and a few houseguests, we found no one there.”

  “The contessa was an unlikely lead anyway,” said the mayor.

  Colonel Cutrone pursed his lips. “I’m not so sure. I see no reason for Foster to make up his story. Despite the fact that the contessa told us she had been teasing him, she did know about MacDonald, did know we were hunting for MacDonald and not a spy.”

  “She has the best connections,” said Trevisan. “Gossip travels quickly in Venice. One cannot keep a secret here.”

  “Nevertheless,” insisted Colonel Cutrone, “she may have actually been protecting MacDonald. When she became alarmed about Foster’s obvious hysteria, she may have arranged to have MacDonald moved to another friend.”

  “Do you want us to keep an eye on the contessa?” asked Trevisan.

  “No—too late. She’ll have nothing more to do with our quarry, I’m sure. But all of this brings me to one point, one possibility we’ve overlooked or neglected. Since I think we are dealing with a string of—an underground of—human beings—and if I am right—then we have a chance. Human beings are avaricious. A human being sold out the Saviour for money. One person, who might be helping MacDonald, might sell him out for money. Yes, gentlemen, I am suggesting a cash reward. It is something we should have done from the start. Our parsimony has hindered us. It is not too late for this. I feel the time has come to offer a substantial reward. I think that might smoke out our Professor MacDonald.”

  For seconds, silence lay on the room, as each of the others considered the proposal.

  The mayor spoke first. “How much?” he inquired of Cutrone. “What do you have in mind?”

  “A substantial sum.”

  “Eight million lire? Forty million lire? What?”

  “One moment.” Major Kedrov came around in his chair. “I don’t understand lire. You do not understand rubles. Let us speak in the language of the imperialist Americans, their language of money they have forced upon the world. Mayor, translate into dollars.”

  Mayor Accardi nodded. “I was asking Colonel Cutrone if he had a $10,000 reward in mind. Or $50,000.”

  “Nonsense,” barked the Russian. “We want someone loyal to our fugitive to give him up. We must
make the bait irresistible. I say offer $150,000 to anyone who leads us to him.”

  “One hundred fifty thousand dollars?” Mayor Accardi was aghast. “Major, we are not millionaires. We are a poor city—”

  “Never mind,” said Major Kedrov. “On behalf of the Soviet government, I guarantee you reimbursement for the sum. Yes, we will pay the reward. It is a mere pittance for what is at stake.”

  “If you really will—”

  “It is guaranteed.”

  The mayor glanced at his police officers. They each nodded assent. The mayor brought his fat hands together. “Very well. The reward is established. One hundred fifty thousand dollars. Almost 130,000,000 lire.”

  “To be announced at once,” said Major Kedrov.

  “At once,” the mayor agreed. He addressed Trevisan. “Questore, we must not waste time printing new posters. There is room on top of the old one—we have many extra copies in the print shop. Rouse someone and get him to the print shop immediately. Let him put in as bold lettering as possible, ‘Reward for a clue leading to his arrest, 130,000,000 lire.’ See that this is done in the next hour. Then have your people distribute the posters to the leading checkpoints. The rest we can distribute in the morning.” As Trevisan hastened out of the office, Mayor Accardi said, “Good. It is done. We have accomplished something.”

  Colonel Cutrone was pleased. “It will get results.”

  The buzzer on the mayor’s desk sounded, and he said, “I guess Mrs. Rinaldo hasn’t gone home yet.” He picked up the telephone. “Yes?” He listened. “Really? Really? Tell her to wait in the reception room. I’ll be right out. And you may go home now.”

  Hanging up, he said, “A nocturnal visitor outside. Wants to see someone in authority on an urgent matter. She’d called the police station and somehow got them to tell her we were all here. Excuse me, gentlemen, for a moment. Help yourself to some brandy on the table.”

  Mayor Accardi crossed his thickly carpeted office and went into the reception room. His secretary had already gone, and his visitor stood waiting in the middle of the room.

  As the mayor approached her, he saw how beautiful she was. Her face was familiar to him, but he could not place it at first. “I’m Mayor Accardi,” he said. “You were sent here, Miss—?”

  “Teresa Fantoni,” she said.

  Of course. “What an honor, Miss Fantoni!” the mayor exclaimed, beaming. “How good to meet you, to have you in Venice. Can I be of help? You have a problem?”

  “You have a problem,” said Teresa Fantoni. “I’m prepared to solve it.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve just learned you closed down the city because you wanted to capture—not some silly spy, but a man named Professor MacDonald, a man who has discovered the formula for prolonging youth and life.”

  Mayor Accardi was astonished. “How could you know? Who told you?”

  “Never mind. It’s not important. What is important is that you want him.”

  “We want him very much. We’ve just issued a reward of 130,000,000 lire to anyone who can lead us to him.”

  “I can lead you to him,” said Teresa Fantoni flatly.

  Mayor Accardi had not been prepared for this. “You can? You’re sure of it?”

  “I’m absolutely sure of it. But before I tell you where you can find Professor MacDonald, I want to know what’s in it for me.”

  “Why, of course, if it’s true, if we apprehend him, you shall have the 130,000,000-lire reward.”

  “I don’t want your damn reward,” said the actress irritably. “I want something more.”

  “More?”

  “Definitely more—to me. I want your pledge that after MacDonald is captured, before you send him to Russia—yes, I know all about that too—I will be the first, or one of the first, to receive a treatment of his youth formula. That is my price.”

  “I understand,” said the mayor. “You have my word.”

  “I don’t want your word. I want it in black and white, in writing.”

  “In writing? But—”

  “On paper signed by you. Just a simple sentence saying in return for handing MacDonald over to you I am guaranteed a treatment of the youth formula within a week after his capture.”

  “Well, I suppose I can give you such a guarantee. Very well. We will make the transaction now.” Taking his gold pen from his coat pocket, he tramped to the receptionist’s desk, found a scratch pad in a drawer, tore off a sheet. Placing the sheet on the desk, he wrote out the brief contract, then signed it.

  Teresa Fantoni, hovering over him, said, “Date it.”

  The mayor dated it.

  Straightening, about to hand her the sheet, he thought twice about it and held it back. “Sorry, Miss Fantoni. Now your half of the bargain.”

  “You’ll find Professor MacDonald this moment in the apartment of a musician named Oreste Memo, a resident of Venice. He is a violinist at Quadri’s café.”

  “Oreste Memo. I’m not sure I know him.”

  “I assure you, he’s very real, and he’s hiding Professor MacDonald.”

  “Oreste Memo, good. You have his address?”

  “I don’t have his address. My God, you mean that’s a problem?”

  “No, no, forgive me, Miss Fantoni. No problem at all. The police will have his address in a moment. We’ll have our man in an hour.”

  Teresa Fantoni smiled sweetly and removed the paper from the mayor’s hand.

  “Thank you, thank you,” said the mayor, following her to the door. “You have performed a wonderful service tonight.”

  Her smile held. “So have you, Your Honor, so have you.”

  Minutes later, she emerged from the city hall and paused on the walk running along the Grand Canal to fold elaborately the piece of paper she had just obtained and then stuff it into her purse. Satisfied, she started back to the Gritti Palace hotel.

  As she left, there was a movement in the shadowy recess of a building beside the city hall.

  Oreste Memo stepped out into the moonlight and stood quietly watching her receding figure with hatred, gradually supplanted by guilt and self-loathing.

  * * *

  The telephone in Oreste Memo’s bedroom kept ringing, and Tim Jordan was uncertain whether he should answer it. Except for the apartment’s owner, no one knew that he and Professor MacDonald were here. Not quite true, his memory quickly corrected him. Alison Edwards knew that they were here. He had slipped out in the afternoon to visit her at the Danieli, to tell her MacDonald was safe and to give her Oreste Memo’s telephone number in case she needed it. But then he had also told her, if she had to call him, to ring three times, hang up, and repeat the call, ring three times, hang up, and he would know it was Alison and get right back to her.

  But the insistent telephone beside Memo’s bed had already rung at least eight or nine times.

  If the call was for him, he decided, it could only be from Memo. If not, it could be for Memo from someone he knew, and Jordan could pretend it was the wrong number. Whoever was calling, it must be important. The telephone would not stop. Casting aside the newspaper he had been reading, glancing up at MacDonald, who had been taking off his shirt and getting ready for bed, Jordan reached for the telephone and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Tim? This is Oreste.” His voice was breathless. “Thank God you answered the phone.”

  “What is it?” asked Jordan, instantly on the alert.

  “Tim, get out of there this second. The police have been tipped off you and your friend are there. I can’t waste time explaining how or why. I accidentally told someone where you and MacDonald were—”

  “How did you know about MacDonald?” Jordan asked quickly.

  “Never mind. I’ll tell you when I see you. The main thing is for you to get MacDonald out of sight fast. The police are on their way to grab him. So get out of there.”

  With that, the phone clicked off.

  Electrified, Jordan jumped to his feet. “
Professor, the police know we’re here. I don’t know how, but they know, and they’re coming over to grab you. Put on your shirt, your jacket, don’t forget those notes, and let’s go.”

  “Where to, Tim?”

  There was no time to think. “To my office,” he said. “Now, hurry.”

  In less than a minute the professor was ready. Jordan surveyed the room. Then, satisfied nothing had been left behind, he hurried MacDonald to the door. As he opened the door to leave, he heard the telephone ring in the bedroom.

  It rang once, twice, three times. Silence.

  Then it rang again three times, and it was still.

  “Alison,” Jordan said beneath his breath.

  “It must be important or she wouldn’t—” MacDonald began.

  “Forget it,” said Jordan, hustling him through the hall. “There’s only one thing urgent now. To get you out of here.”

  They went hurriedly down the stairs and emerged into the street. Jordan directed MacDonald toward the Piazza San Marco, and they began going swiftly. Suddenly, at an intersection, Jordan heard a clatter, held MacDonald still, peered ahead past several tourists, and then he saw a company of uniformed police, six or eight or more, approaching on the double.

  Desperately, Jordan shoved MacDonald into the narrow side street, reached to hold him up as he almost fell, and forced him into the alcove of a shop entrance. He turned in time to see the police rushing past ten yards away. Gesturing for MacDonald to stay put, Jordan casually walked to the corner and looked off. The police had reached Oreste Memo’s apartment building and were pouring inside, some with their side arms in hand.

  Jordan watched until the last of them had disappeared into the building. He ran back to the storefront and signaled MacDonald to follow him.

  In the main thoroughfare again, they proceeded at a normal pace, unnoticed by the few window-shoppers and encountering no more police. As they reached the Piazza and turned into the arcade that led to Jordan’s office entrance, Jordan whispered, “Take out your handkerchief and pretend to be blowing your nose. Just to keep you covered in case there are some police. It’s a short walk. Come on, now.”

  They passed behind the Lavena café orchestra, which was playing to a half-full house, jostled past strollers, and continued rapidly to the middle of the arcade.