The Pigeon Project

by Irving Wallace

  “At the last minute, it did, godammit,” said Jordan. “It was perfect, and then it blew up. We had it all arranged. Then the captain unwrapped some new posters—wanted posters of you—he’d just received. They’re offering a reward now for you. It’s splashed all over the poster.”

  “A reward for me?”

  “A hundred and thirty million lire. A whopper. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Oh, my God—”

  “The captain kept saying how much he’d like to lay his eyes on you—with your picture right in front of him—how much he’d like to get that 130,000,000-lire reward instead of the paltry 4,000,000 we had offered him. The minute he started talking like that, I knew our plan was cooked. Can’t you see it? Me driving up to the checkpoint with you, and his coming alongside, looking in, and seeing you, the very face on the poster he was slobbering over a minute ago? He’d grab you, arrest you in a second. So I just told Bruno no soap—didn’t tell him why—just took off as fast as I could. I’m sorry, Professor.”

  MacDonald tried to put up a brave front. “At least, now I know what I’m worth.”

  “A bad, bad break. We were almost there, almost had you sprung free.”

  “I hate to say this for what seems the hundredth time, Tim, but—what next?”

  “There’s one more chance. In the morning—”

  “You mean—?”

  “Yes. I’ve just got to find some place to put you tonight.” He stared at the canal waters moving past them, then rested his sight on Luigi’s thick shoulders up front. “Excuse me, Professor.”

  Jordan made his way through the boat until he was next to Luigi.

  He hesitated, and then he spoke. “Luigi, can I ask you one more favor?”

  “Anything that is possible.”

  “My friend in the back, he will be leaving Venice in the morning. I need some place to keep him until morning. I can’t take him to the hotel. It must be a private place. Could you put him up for tonight? Just the next seven hours, then I’ll pick him up. Am I asking too much?”

  Luigi shrugged and offered a broad smile. “If he does not mind to sleep on the couch, he can stay.”

  * * *

  Later, in his Hotel Danieli suite once more, ignoring the questions from Alison for the moment, he went directly to the telephone and dialed.

  The phone rang interminably and then a sleepy voice answered. Felice Huber was on the line.

  “Felice, it’s Tim Jordan. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, to have wakened you.”

  “Forgiven. What is it?”

  “About the tour of industrialists you’re guiding to Mestre this morning.”

  “You want me to add one more name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it that important to you?”

  “Extremely important.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “David Pearson.”

  “Have him in the lobby of the Bauer Grunwald at eight o’clock in the morning.” And with that she hung up.

  VIII

  The Bauer Grunwald hotel faced a small square, the Campo San Moise, only a short walk from the Piazza San Marco. As one approached it across the square, one saw the aged Church of San Moise on the left and to the right a narrow canal with a stone bridge rising over it, always dense with foot traffic.

  This early morning, Tim Jordan, after picking up a weary Professor MacDonald at Luigi’s cramped apartment, came to the corner of the square cautiously. The distance he and the professor had covered from the point where Luigi had let them off had been relatively short, but at this time there would be more people in the square and possibly police. Now that the new poster had been issued, with its $150,000 reward for MacDonald, Jordan knew the chance that his charge would escape recognition was minimal. They were truly living on borrowed time, and detection of MacDonald seemed inevitable. An escape had to be achieved almost at once, or MacDonald would be lost to the enemy forever.

  At the Campo San Moise, Jordan had stopped, held the professor back momentarily as he scanned the area ahead. There was a hawker, at his portable stand, selling picture postcards of Venice. There were a few well-dressed people going into the hotel and merging from it. There were shoppers traversing the bridge, and a family on top of it taking photographs.

  There were no police in sight.

  “Coast’s clear,” said Jordan. He inspected Professor MacDonald quickly. His only disguise was a pair of oversized blue sunglasses that Alison had acquired for him. Otherwise, the face was the face on the posters, except for the missing moustache. His general look was somewhat disheveled, his trousers badly needed pressing, and he did not quite appear to be a wealthy industrialist about to make a tour of a petrochemical factory in Mestre. But there was no turning back. Felice Huber’s tour was definitely the only hope available. “All right, Professor,” Jordan said. “Are you ready?”

  “I can’t see too well without my prescription glasses.”

  “Can you see where you’re going?”

  “I think so.”

  “Better stick to those sunglasses. They mask at least a portion of your face. Once you get to Mestre, and after you drift off from the tour and get away from the guards, you can put on your regular glasses. Remember, now, get out of sight of the guards. Find someone who will direct you to the railroad station. Do you think you can make it?”

  “I can try.” But the professor’s voice carried no conviction.

  “Okay. We’ll walk into the hotel. Felice’s industrialist party should be convening in the front lobby right now. You mingle with them. Be unobtrusive. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Remember, you own textile factories in the South. Your headquarters are in New York. When Felice checks you out, your name is Pearson.”

  MacDonald nodded. “Pearson.”

  “You’ll go by boat and bus. When you get to Mestre and start the tour, hang back, as far from the police guards as possible. At the first opportunity, slip away.”

  MacDonald nodded again.

  “Now to the Bauer Grunwald. I’m going to walk fast. Keep up with me.”

  They went into the square together, past the church, walking diagonally toward the extremely modern hotel front with its glass doors. Jordan opened a door, ushered MacDonald inside, and followed close behind him. In the lobby, the industrialists were easy to identify. They were loosely clustered—elderly, prosperous, richly dressed men—some chatting together, some smoking cigars.

  Jordan saw the columnist, Schuyler Moore, at the farthest side of the group and fell behind MacDonald, not wanting to be recognized by Moore.

  “Join the fringe of the group,” ordered Jordan in an undertone. “I’ll leave you now. I’ll hang around outside until you’ve gone. God keep you, Professor, and good luck.”

  Leaving the hotel, Jordan stood uncertainly in the blaze of sunlight. High above, a helicopter was buzzing across the city, the long banner trailing behind it reading CINZANO. Emergency or no emergency, Jordan thought, it was business as usual. He cast about for a vantage point from which he might see the group’s departure, yet remain unseen himself. Directly across from the Bauer Grunwald were several shops, including the ticket office of Alitalia, the Italian airline. There was a green awning, already rolled down to shade the broad front windows.

  Jordan strode out of the sun and under the awning, opened the door, and let himself into the office. Little activity existed inside Alitalia. Since all travel out of Venice was immobilized, the airlines of the city had few visitors. At a counter to his left, a young couple was making inquiries of a clerk. Several other employees about the room were absorbed in their routine work. Jordan sidled over to one of the front windows looking out at the square, stood beside a large model of an Alitalia airplane, and gave his full attention to the Bauer Grunwald entrance.

  Six persons, one after another, entered the hotel. No one came out.

  Then a familiar female figure came in sight from the canal side, walking in loping steps from the brid
ge to the hotel entrance It was Felice Huber, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, a peasant blouse, blue pants, carrying a purse the size of a briefcase. She hurried into the hotel.

  While nervously waiting for the Mestre party to emerge and get on its way, Jordan absently observed the tourists and city dwellers passing to and fro before him. A middle-aged workman with a handlebar moustache appeared pushing a cart, which held a short ladder. Idly, Jordan watched him bring his cart up alongside the church, pull out his ladder, and set it up before a wall of the church partially covered with torn posters advertising operas at the Fenice and art exhibitions at the Accademia delle Belle Arti.

  Now there was movement at the Bauer Grunwald entrance. Glass doors were swinging open, and Felice emerged into the square with a small clipboard in hand, and behind her the businessmen destined for Mestre streamed out and gathered together in the sun. Jordan stretched to locate Professor MacDonald and finally saw him, among the last to exit the hotel. So far, so good. Jordan wondered where the carabinieri guards were and then realized that they would be on the launch that would take the party to the mainland.

  While waiting for her tour to assemble fully, Felice appeared to be distracted by something going on at the church. Jordan looked around to see what had caught her eye, and he realized she was holding on the workman, who was halfway up his ladder, unfurling a poster he was about to glue to the wall.

  Suddenly, Jordan’s jaw fell open. The poster being laid out against the wall was clearly visible, and it was the poster featuring Professor MacDonald’s portrait with a heading above it in bold type offering a 130,000,000-lire reward to anyone who told the police the whereabouts of this spy.

  Jordan’s lungs felt dry. His gaze returned to Felice. She was drifting away from her group, wandering closer to the church, until she stood behind the workman, staring up at the poster. She stood frozen in this attitude for long seconds, gave her head a shake, and turned back to join her party.

  She began herding her businessmen into a semicircle in the square, and then, starting from the left, going right, she confronted each one, obviously requesting his name, and checked it off on a sheet attached to her clipboard. In this way, she moved slowly around the gathering of men. Professor MacDonald was standing the second from the far right. Felice was drawing nearer and nearer to MacDonald.

  Jordan’s eyes riveted upon her as she came directly in front of Professor MacDonald. She looked down at her clipboard, said something, and automatically looked up at him. MacDonald’s lips moved. He was giving his name. He was giving the name Pearson. Felice nodded, started to check her sheet, when unexpectedly, her head lifted and she gave MacDonald a long double take.

  Jordan’s heart was in his mouth.

  Everything depended on what happened next.

  Felice backed up, not bothering to check the last man in the semicircle. Jordan saw her casually glance over her shoulder at the poster once more. Then slowly, her head turned and held on Professor MacDonald again.

  She retreated further, and held up her hand, addressing herself to the group. Jordan could not hear what she was saying, but he could guess. She was telling them to wait a moment. She had something to do, and she would be right back.

  With that, she did what Jordan was afraid she would do. She spung away, and striding fast, she went to the bridge and began taking the steps two at a time.

  Jordan suspected he knew where she was going, but he had to make sure.

  He hastened out the door of Alitalia and went on the run for the bridge as he saw Felice disappear over the top of it. He too bounded up the stairs two at a time, and at the summit of the bridge he halted, winded, and watched Felice.

  He saw where she was headed, and he saw her get there. Twenty yards away, on the other side of the bridge, right in the street, was a green metal stand, a public emergency telephone, with one big word painted on the top of it, and the word was polizia.

  For Jordan, the scenario was verified. Felice, always desperate for money, desperate to make enough money to get her out of tourism and into art school at Grenoble, had at last found the means of becoming rich and free overnight. She had recognized Professor MacDonald as the fugitive MacGregor in the police poster. She was informing on him. To hell with her friendship with Jordan. To hell with anything like that. Tonight, she would be $150,000 richer and she would have her dream, and the police and the Communists would have their life-prolonging scientist.

  Jordan waited only seconds more. Felice, at the green stand marked polizia, was reaching for the telephone receiver which would carry her excited voice directly to the local police station.

  There was no time to waste, not even an instant. Jordan wheeled, went down the stone steps even faster than he had come up them, dashed into the square, slowed to a fast walk so as not to draw attention, and came up behind MacDonald. He looped his arm under MacDonald’s and gently drew him out of the group.

  Putting pressure on the bewildered MacDonald’s arm, he slowly began to walk him, then with more haste hurry him, in the opposite direction, away from the square, away from the bridge, away from the informing Felice Huber.

  “You were recognized,” Jordan said under his breath. “She spotted you and is calling the police. She wants the reward, and we want out of here. The place will be swarming with uniforms in a few minutes. This is going to be close. Keep moving. Let’s hit the side streets. We’ve got to find a place to hide you again. Any place nearby.”

  * * *

  During the next fifteen minutes, the local police and the carabinieri had been pouring into the San Marco area from every direction, and throughout that time Jordan, with Professor MacDonald close to him, had been adroitly evading them, weaving into and out of the small streets and back alleys he knew so well. He had been moving them behind the Piazza, behind his office building, toward the Mercerie, with no plan or destination in mind.

  All the while he had been racking his brain, taking rapid inventory of his remaining store of Venetian friends, acquaintances, contacts, groping for one more dependable person who might help the professor out of this jam. He needed just one more place to keep the professor in seclusion and to allow himself time to organize some new escape plan. No person came to mind, and he knew that soon, by the laws of chance, they would be seen and the pursuit would be ended.

  Once during the flight, he had been frightened by the ominous buzz of a helicopter low overhead. Fearing it might be a police helicopter, he had shoved the professor back against a wall. But as the helicopter passed by, he saw it was not one that belonged to the police but the ridiculous one flying the Cinzano banner.

  A short block from the Mercerie, as he realized where he was, an available refuge came to mind. It meant using somebody twice, but the somebody had once been a person of goodwill and might prove cooperative a second time.

  Heartened, Jordan led MacDonald across the main shopping street and into a dark alley that opened into the small square called the Campo San Zulian.

  As they approached the square, Jordan spoke to the wearying MacDonald. “Professor, remember after we pulled you off the isle of San Lazzaro in the beginning, I told you there was a man who had made it possible. The one whose nephew was the monk taking care of you in the monastery.”

  “I remember.”

  “That’s where we’re going. I can think of no one else. His name is Sembut Nurikhan. He owns a shop in the Campo San Zulian—a glassware shop with an office in the back—and I’m going to ask him to keep you for a day.”

  “For a day?”

  “Yes. I have an idea how to get you out of here tonight or tomorrow night.”

  The idea had struck him a few minutes ago. At first inspiration, it had seemed a ridiculous idea, but in the intervening minutes it had matured in his head and now seemed feasible. Before he could investigate it, he must safely deposit the professor somewhere.

  The Campo San Zulian was like most other squares in Venice, only much smaller, as if miniaturized, with the inevitable old
church dominating it on one side. Jordan went into the square first, to scout it. He stood under a sign reading ESTADOS UNIDOS MEXICANOS CONSULADO and took in the activity. There was almost none, a few window-shoppers, no police yet.

  He beckoned MacDonald, marched him to the glass shop with its aluminum-trimmed display windows, and brought him out of the hot day into the air-conditioned interior. Their entrance had caused a bell to tinkle, but there was no one in the shop. Then Sembut Nurikhan appeared from his rear cubicle to meet his customers, and his sallow merchant’s face cracked into a slight smile as he saw Jordan.

  “Tim,” he said, “I wondered what happened to you.”

  “Sembut, I need your help again. Can we talk in your office?”

  The proprietor squinted at MacDonald through his gold-rimmed glasses, patted his bow tie, then said, “Come.”

  It was hardly an office: a cramped room illuminated by two fluorescent lights with a rolltop desk, file cabinet, cot, and two chairs.

  “Not very comfortable here,” said Nurikhan apologetically, “but there is privacy.”

  “Sembut, I want to introduce you to Professor Davis MacDonald, the gerontologist who made the great discovery. The man you helped me rescue from San Lazzaro.”

  “I’ve been wanting to thank you,” said MacDonald, extending his hand.

  Nurikhan gingerly shook hands. “I am honored.”

  “Sembut, I require a place to keep the professor, keep him out of sight, until I can get him out of the city, possibly by tomorrow. If you could let him stay here in the back, let him rest—”

  Nurikhan’s expression was worried. “I-I don’t know. It could mean trouble.”

  “No one would know. And as I promised you, the professor will help your brother.”

  “My brother—” the proprietor began to say, when he heard the doorbell tinkle. He looked off. “Customers. I must attend to the customers.”

  “Please, Sembut.”

  Nurikhan sighed heavily. “Very well,” he said to Professor MacDonald. “You may stay—for a while.”