After the proprietor had left them, MacDonald sat down on the cot. “What can you do by tomorrow?”
“Something, I hope. You’d better lie down and get as much rest as you can. If what I have in mind works, you’ll need all your energy. I’ll probably be away all afternoon. If I am, I’ll send Alison to keep you company. One way or another, I’ll see you tonight before he closes the store. Hopefully, you’ll be in Paris by tomorrow.”
* * *
When he arrived at his secretary’s office, Jordan found Gloria busily typing, preparing next month’s newsletter for the Venice Must Live Committee.
He greeted Gloria, then looked into Marisa’s office. It was empty.
“Where’s Marisa?”
“She just left for lunch.”
“Do you know where?”
“She didn’t say. She only said she’d be back by two o’clock.”
“Dammit. Well, I’ll just have to wait for her.”
He went into his own office to see if he could find the information he wanted from Marisa. He went through his personal address book, then through his desk drawers. No luck. Finally, there was nothing he could do but settle down and await Marisa’s return. He took out his pipe, packed it, and for more than an hour examined the one possibility for escape he had come upon. After that, he explored other options.
At ten minutes to two, his office door opened and Marisa filled it.
She came to him and kissed him on the lips.
“Gloria says you want to see me.”
He studied her briefly. Her eyes were tearful, her face drawn.
“What’s the matter?” he wanted to know.
“I wasn’t at lunch. I was at the hospital with my mother. She looks terrible. She’s in pain. The doctors are finishing their tests today. We will have a report soon.”
“I’m sorry.”
She pulled herself together, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and sat down on the other side of the desk.
“I’m all right,” she said. “Incidentally, thank you for not involving Bruno in your scheme to smuggle that courier friend of yours out of the country. He’s sore as hell at you for changing your mind, but I’m glad.”
“I appreciate all he tried to do, Marisa, and I’ll pay him for his time. But at the last minute I couldn’t go through with it. I didn’t trust his contact.”
“Anyway, I’m relieved.”
Jordan straightened in his swivel chair and became more businesslike. “Marisa, I was waiting for you because I wanted to get hold of the name of that fellow in town here who owns a helicopter and rents it for advertising and other things. You were the one who arranged for him—I think it was over a year ago—to do that photo survey of the Lido Channel for us. You recall? The crazy guy who once had his helicopter put down in the Piazza San Marco to win a bet.”
“Signor Folin,” she said. “He’s the one. What do you want with him?”
“I’ve got a notion for a fund-raiser that involves a helicopter. I want to talk it over with him. Do you know his address?”
“He has a desk at American Express. He works part time for them, to pay for his desk space, and he rents out his helicopter the rest of the time.”
“Good.” Jordan stood up. “Call him up and see if he’s going to be there a little while. Tell him I want to talk to him and I’ll be right over.”
* * *
Signor Folin had bulging eyes, a small mouth that held a cigar in its center, and ashes all over the broad expanse of his chest and stomach.
He was on his feet, beside his desk, pumping Jordan’s hand. “Yes, I remember your name,” he said. “I did business with you once through your assistant. It was agreeable. I hope we can do business again.”
“We can,” said Jordan.
“Well, here now, have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.”
Jordan glanced around the room. It was filled with clerks and customers, many of them within earshot.
“I’d rather speak to you privately. It’s a confidential matter. Can we just step outside and take a short stroll?”
This did not seem unusual to Signor Folin. Obviously, a man who owned a helicopter was ready for anything. “Whatever will please you, Mr. Jordan,” he said.
Outside, they strolled slowly, and Jordan lowered his voice as he spoke.
“You still have your helicopter?” asked Jordan.
Folin’s porcine face lit up. “I now have two,” he said proudly.
“Where do you have them? In Venice?”
“In Venice is impossible. I have my landing pad and hangar between Marghera and Mestre. Only minutes away.”
“Was that one of your helicopters flying over the city this morning?”
“But of course. I am the only one in the vicinity with a helicopter business. This morning, we were working for our Cinzano account, a handsome account.”
“So you had no problem flying over the city from the mainland, even though there is a ban on incoming traffic?”
“No, this problem does not apply to my business. What harm could I do them?”
“Why, you might fly someone in—or fly someone out.”
Folin laughed. “Impossible. Where would I land? In the Grand Canal?”
Jordan eyed him carefully as they walked along, and was silent for a few moments. Well, he decided, sooner or later, it had to be said. “For one thing, Signor Folin, you could land in the Piazza San Marco.”
Folin looked at Jordan to see if he was joking. “Who would expect me to do a thing like that?”
“Exactly,” said Jordan. “No one would expect it. But you could do it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Never more so.”
“It’s—it is unthinkable.”
“You thought about it once. I heard you once had your helicopter actually land in the middle of the Piazza.”
“Ah, five years ago.” Signor Folin chuckled. “That was different. That was to win a bet. It was an amusement. Even so, I was fined—a stiff fine. But it was worth it.”
Jordan halted, and Folin halted with him.
“What would it be worth to do it again?” Jordan asked.
Folin had become more serious. “You mean it?”
“Absolutely.”
“I could lose my license. Probably not. The mayor is my cousin. But certainly, I’d be fined heavily. It depends what you want a helicopter for.”
“To take a passenger out of Venice. To Marghera, where a rented car would be waiting.”
“That would be against the law, the emergency law, Mr. Jordan.”
“Who would know? At two in the morning, the Piazza San Marco is a desert. No one around. Certainly no police. No one would see you land or take the passenger on board. If some late person witnessed it, and reported it, you could claim he was drunk, you took no one on, you had engine trouble, landed where you could, then found you could take off again.”
“You make it sound possible.”
“I’m sure it’s possible,” said Jordan.
“Well, I suppose so, and safer if I rented a helicopter from one of my competitors in Padua.” Folin threw down his cigar stub and squashed it with his foot. “It would be expensive, Mr. Jordan.”
“I can offer you $10,000.”
“Not enough, Mr. Jordan. More like $20,000.”
Jordan thought about it. Gathering the financial resources that he and Alison had on hand, then writing checks on his New York bank and cashing them at the Danieli and two local banks he did business with, he could raise the sum this afternoon.
“Okay,” said Jordan. “You’ve got a deal.”
“Not so fast. Not yet. I must telephone one of my pilots on the mainland. He must agree to this.”
“How can you call? I thought all long-distance calls were monitored.”
Folin grinned. “My wife is a telephone operator in Venice. She always puts through my calls and no worry about being monitored. She goes to work at six o’clock. You come t
o see me at seven o’clock this evening, at American Express. I will be there alone.”
“Do you think it will work out?” Jordan asked worriedly.
Folin grinned again. “Bring half the sum when you come to see me. Be ready to pay the other half to the pilot when your man gets on board. See you at seven this evening, Mr. Jordan. Good day.”
* * *
When Jordan returned to the Hotel Danieli suite, Alison was waiting, filled with anxiety.
“I’ve been sitting next to the phone for hours, expecting to hear from you,” she said. “Did it work with Felice Huber? Is Davis on the mainland?”
Jordan shook his head. “No, it didn’t work with Felice. And we’ve been on the run ever since, so there’s been no chance to call you.”
“Where is Davis? Is he all right?”
“For the moment,” said Jordan. “I don’t know for how long. There’s that $150,000 reward on his head.”
Alison was stunned. “A hundred and fifty thousand?”
“I told you about it last night.”
“You didn’t mention the amount. Why, it’s a fortune.”
“That’s what went wrong this morning. They posted the reward. Felice saw it. She recognized MacDonald. She went for the police. MacDonald and I got out of there in a hurry. He’s in a safe place now. And I think I have another means of getting him out of here tonight.”
He then proceeded to bring her up to date. MacDonald was hidden in the glassware shop owned by Sembut Nurikhan. Alison remembered him from the San Lazzaro escapade. Jordan went on to tell her his latest inspiration. The idea of dropping a helicopter in the middle of the Piazza San Marco. She listened wide-eyed. He reported on his meeting with Signor Folin.
“You think hell come through?” Alison asked.
“For $20,000? I think so.”
“Can the—the getaway work?”
“I hope so. Now, about the $20,000. Obviously, we can’t cash the professor’s checks. But let’s cash all you have. Leave yourself a few hundred dollars. I’ll cash most of mine. Then I’ll write some personal checks against my New York account.”
“Is there anything else I can do?”
“Just cash those checks of yours downstairs. Then go over to Nurikhan’s shop, go to the office in the rear and keep your professor company. Do you know how to get there?”
“I’m not sure I remember.”
“It’s not far away. I’ll draw you a map.”
He drew her a map.
“Now I need a shower and a change of clothes.” He began to unbutton his shirt. “Then I’ve got to catch the banks, look in on my office, and meet with Signor Folin at seven o’clock. After that, I’ll come straight to Nurikhan’s, and well dig in there until it is helicopter time—if it is helicopter time. See you soon.”
* * *
By now, the route was familiar to Major Boris Kedrov. He strode briskly along the lagoon on the Riva degli Schiavoni, mounted and descended the bridge from which could be seen the Bridge of Sighs, passed the well-guarded Hotel Danieli, climbed and came down one more bridge, then turned into the short street that opened into what the Venetians called Campo San Zaccaria. Here, to the right, was his immediate destination, the unpretentious rust-colored building with the stone-arch entrance and the white plaque beside it reading, COMANDO GRUPPO CARABINIERI.
The building, barracks and headquarters of the local carabinieri, was the one place in this ridiculous carnival city where Major Kedrov felt most at home. Although he frowned on the fact that the carabinieri, who could marry after eight years of service or at the age of twenty-eight, were permitted to live with their wives and children in apartments inside the barracks—distracting, soft, unprofessional—still, Kedrov appreciated the place as a military outpost.
About to enter the headquarters, Kedrov hesitated, held back, and wandered farther into the quiet square, wishing briefly to collect his thoughts. He stopped before the solemn Church of San Zaccaria. He had not bothered to visit it, but had been told it was the relic of a 7th-century convent that ages ago had lodged the loose-living daughters of the wealthiest Venetian families. Venetians, he thought, were not the best allies in the task at hand. They were too easygoing, casual, unaggressive. Perhaps Colonel. Cutrone was a step above his colleagues, but even he did not measure up fully. Had this assignment and hunt taken place in Kiev or Odessa or Leningrad, Kedrov’s KGB agents would have captured Professor MacDonald in twenty-four hours. There would have been none of the laxity and lack of cooperation that existed here.
He had tried to explain the situation this morning in his daily telephone call to his superior in Moscow. He had tried to explain that these people were a different breed of Communists. They adhered to the party in principle, but there was no proper discipline, no dedication. As a result, their police forces were relatively inefficient. The best of them, the carabinieri, recruited from the poor families of southern Italy, looked upon their work as a job, not a cause. The KGB general in Moscow remained uncomprehending. “You are there, Kedrov. You are KGB. You must make them understand the importance of this assignment. You must inject yourself more fully into the action. I cannot tell you how vital this has become to the premier and the Politburo. They want MacDonald and his formula in Moscow under the protection of the party. They will not allow his discovery to fall into the hands of the capitalist pigs and be exploited by them. Kedrov, our leaders—they know your name now. They are aware of you. You cannot fail them or me. Once you succeed, there will be ample rewards. A promotion, certainly. A transfer to Moscow. A dacha for vacations with your wife and sons. Kedrov, the premier cannot believe that a fumbling old man can continue to elude you. Find him. Bring him back. I expect good news in your next report.”
This exhortation had inspired Major Kedrov to speak to Colonel Cutrone again. There was one pattern that had appeared and possibly deserved more thorough investigation. Cutrone himself had pointed it out. Three different persons, on different days, had come to the police with information on where MacDonald could be found. The American novelist had revealed to them that the fugitive MacDonald was being hidden in the palazzo of the Contessa De Marchi. When the police stormed the palazzo, MacDonald had not been there. Then the Italian actress Teresa Fantoni had promised them that their quarry would be found in the apartment of a musician named Oreste Memo. The apartment had been surrounded, searched, with no sign of MacDonald. Finally, this very day, a tourist guide, Felice Huber, had actually set eyes on MacDonald before the Bauer Grunwald hotel. Yet by the time the police had arrived and swarmed over the area, MacDonald had vanished.
There was too much smoke for no fire, Major Kedrov concluded. Their informants had not been fanciful publicity-seekers or crazy psychotics. They had been, as far as the evidence revealed, solid citizens. One thing was apparent. MacDonald had accomplices, and possibly a network of sympathetic persons who were taking turns hiding him. The problem was to penetrate this network—once. Toward this end, Major Kedrov had reviewed the transcript of the interrogations of the informants to date. The interrogations, by KGB standards, had been superficial, especially the recent one with Felice Huber, who had been questioned only a few minutes before her interrogators had rushed away to join the chase and permitted her to go off with her group of businessmen to Mestre.
And so, mindful of what Moscow was expecting, it was Major Kedrov who had suggested to Colonel Cutrone a second interrogation of the persons involved, the informants and the suspects. Colonel Cutrone had been insensitive to the implied criticism and had been surprisingly agreeable. He would order the persons involved to appear in his office for another round of questioning at five o’clock in the afternoon.
Now it was five o’clock.
Major Kedrov left the church square, went inside the cool and dark carabinieri headquarters. A guard opened the inner electric gate and directed the Russian to the capitano’s office, where the meeting was to be held. Passing through the red plaster corridor, decorated with engravings and photog
raphs of heroic moments in the history of the carabinieri, Kedrov reached the office and entered it.
The small office Colonel Cutrone had borrowed, unexpectedly plain and functional for a Venetian office—no Murano glass anywhere, the walls bare except for a photographic portrait of Cutrone and a photograph of marching carabinieri—seemed filled with people. Actually, by Kedrov’s count, there were six persons present. Colonel Cutrone was behind the desk, absorbed in a file of papers, with a uniformed carabinieri guard standing at attention nearby. Seated irregularly before the desk were four whom Kedrov vaguely recognized—a spindly old birch of a woman draped in a floral dress, the contessa; next to her the voluptuous actress, wearing a pout, Fantoni; then the large, effeminate writer in an ice cream-colored suit, Foster; and at the far end the aesthetic, blond musician, Memo.
With a curt nod at the group, Major Kedrov, feeling unmilitary and uncomfortable in his dark suit, proceeded to the desk.
Colonel Cutrone half-rose to welcome Kedrov and indicated a straight-backed chair in the corner behind him. “We’re just about ready,” he said. “Everyone’s here except Felice Huber. She went right out to guide another tour after returning from Mestre. Her office promised to send someone to locate and relieve her. She should be arriving any minute. Should we wait or just go ahead?”
“Go ahead,” Kedrov replied.
He settled in the straight-backed chair, tilted it against the wall in a corner of the room, and made ready to watch and listen.
Colonel Cutrone cleared his throat, surveyed the group unsmilingly, and began. “We have summoned you here to discuss again the matter of the fugitive we seek. We have advertised him as a man named MacGregor, a foreign spy. By some means or other, you all know his true identity, Professor Davis MacDonald, a British-American scientist. He has committed a grave crime against an ally of ours, made off with a scientific discovery that rightfully belongs to our ally, and is now in hiding somewhere in this city. As you know, he must be found, and he will be found, and brought to justice. We have sought the cooperation of every inhabitant of Venice, and, indeed, three of you—two now present and the woman who will arrive any moment—have cooperated. We need your cooperation once more. As to the two who had been accused of giving refuge to MacDonald and have denied it, we urge you to reconsider whether you have been wholly truthful in your first interrogation. If you now remember something that you had forgotten or overlooked in your first interrogation, we urge you to speak of it, and we guarantee it will not be held against you.”
The Pigeon Project Page 30
