“Well, perhaps…” said the proprietor doubtfully.
Jordan went to him, put a hand on his shoulder. “Sembut, it’ll work. The element of surprise is on our side. The only problem is seeing that the professor is safe between now and the time he gets to the Piazza.” He hesitated. “How long can you keep him here?”
“Normally, I close the shop at nine. But out of consideration for you, I would keep it open until ten o’clock tonight.”
“Sembut, we need a hideout until one-thirty in the morning. Can’t you keep open until midnight, then let us stay on back here until the time we have to leave? I can close up the shop for you and return the keys tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry, Tim, I cannot do it. This shop is my life. I cannot let anyone, even a friend like you, have the keys overnight. As to staying open later, it would not do. It might endanger you. I have a night watchman—all the shopkeepers in the area do—who checks out the place late at night. I have never been open past ten. If he saw that I was, he might become concerned, suspicious, and come inside to investigate. He might see you, would certainly recognize the professor, and all would be lost for you. I’m sorry. I’ve done as much as I can. You must leave at ten.”
“I appreciate everything you’ve done,” said Jordan.
The doorbell sounded, and Nurikhan disappeared into his shop.
“What’ll we do, Tim, during the three and a half hours between ten and the time we leave to meet the helicopter?” Alison wanted to know.
“Good question,” said Jordan, furrowing his brow. He was lost in thought for long seconds. His face brightened. “I have it,” he said. “We’ll eat. I know just the place.” He reached for the telephone. “I’ll make the arrangements now.”
* * *
At ten o’clock exactly, Sembut Nurikhan saw Dr. Edwards, Professor MacDonald, and Tim Jordan to the front of the shop, opened his door, wished them well, and watched them slip out into the foggy darkened square and make off.
Closing the door, Nurikhan circled through his shop, turning down the lights in the main showroom. This done, he retreated to his office to pack up for the night He set his attaché case on his desk, lifted the lid, and began to lay two weeks’ worth of due bills inside it. These he would examine tonight, at home, while enjoying a late snack.
As an afterthought, he sought today’s edition of Il Gazzettino. He had not had a chance to glance at the newspaper during working hours. Fortunately, even without the intrusion of Jordan and his friends, it had been an extremely busy and profitable workday. But ritually, he kept abreast of the news, local and world events, and now he would take the newspaper home and read it before going to bed.
He found it folded on the table beside the cot, and bringing it back to his attaché case, he unfolded it to see what had been worthy of the main headline.
What he saw made him stop abruptly, stand stock still.
He stared at the large headline.
130,000,000-LIRE REWARD
His eyes went down to the blown-up photograph of Professor MacDonald beneath it.
He continued slowly to his desk, set his attaché case on the floor, and spread the newspaper page out before him.
He lowered himself into his chair and began to read.
When he had finished, his eyes held on the headline once more. One hundred thirty million lire. His gaze shifted to the telephone on his desk. Then he returned to the headline.
He eased back in his swivel chair, looking absently at the ceiling, trying to think.
* * *
Do Forni—Two Ovens—a restaurant little known to tourists, was one of the favorites of well-off native Venetians and acclimated Venetians like Tim Jordan.
After many detours in the blissful fog that had blanketed the city, walking twice as far in order to keep off main thoroughfares, Jordan, Alison, and MacDonald had arrived at the restaurant undetected at twenty minutes after ten in the evening. Jordan had chosen this public place as their temporary limbo because he had been unable to conjure up a single private place in which to take refuge. If it had to be a public place, Do Forni was a better bet than most. It was easily accessible, its entrance off what amounted to a street no more than an alley hidden in the maze of Venice’s central San Marco district. Further, Jordan knew the maitre d’ well, had always been generous to him. For an improvised waiting depot, there could have been worse choices.
Now, in wicker chairs at a wooden table, in a darkened corner of the restaurant, Jordan sat across from Alison, with the professor placed between them at the end of the table so that his back was to the main dining room. Inspecting the room, with its dimly lighted globe fixtures set between high pebbled-glass windows, Jordan congratulated himself on his selection of this place. It was ten-thirty, and the main room had been emptied of most guests. Only two other couples lingered over desserts and coffee at the far side of the room, near the tall serving table over which a brass bucket hung from a hoop.
Jordan had done his preliminary work well. On the telephone, he had requested this particular obscure table. Upon arriving, with MacDonald constantly blowing his nose in his handkerchief to hide his face, Jordan had taken the maitre d! aside and inquired how late they would be open tonight. The maitre d’ had said that they would be closing at one o’clock. Jordan had pressed 15,000 lire into the man’s hand and said it would be most useful if they could remain at their table until one-thirty in the morning. The maitre d’ had been pleased to tell him this was possible and would be permitted.
As MacDonald took his place, Jordan had whispered to him to make constant use of his napkin. When the maitre d’ came for the order, or whenever the white-jacketed waiter appeared, MacDonald must bring his napkin to his mouth. MacDonald had obeyed, covering the lower half of his face at least four times since they had been seated.
When the menus came, Alison and MacDonald had protested that they were not hungry. Their stomachs were knotted. Eating was not conceivable.
“We’re going to be here three hours,” Jordan had pointed out. “We’ve got to order full meals. We don’t have to eat them. We only have to push and poke and pretend to eat. But we’ve got to spend money and be busy. You want me to order for all of us?”
He had ordered a seven-course meal for each of them. And both red and white wines.
As the. food was served during the next two hours, it had smelled so good that they all ate, although MacDonald ate lightly.
In hushed tones, speaking to one another when no waiter hovered, they had reviewed the steps between the restaurant and the Piazza and the arrival of the helicopter. They had gone over it three times.
After that, Jordan had tried to distract MacDonald by making him discuss his discovery, how he would announce it, whom he would see after that, how the formula would be prepared, and how it would be distributed. There was even discussion, once more, on how C-98 would affect the world, for better, for worse, and the problems it would create and how they would be solved.
The only bad moment came at twelve twenty-five.
Professor MacDonald had been speculating on the probability of the helicopter escape’s working out.
“It’s a complete secret,” Jordan assured him. “It should work out. No one knows about it except Folin and the helicopter pilot.”
“And one more,” MacDonald said. “Sembut Nurikhan knows about it.”
“True,” admitted Jordan, “but Sembut’s no security risk. He’s entirely on our side, as he has been from the beginning. He has to be. His brother is seriously ill. We’ve promised your formula on a priority basis for his brother. He won’t betray us for that reason alone. He wants to keep his brother alive.”
MacDonald stared at Jordan a long time. “Tim,” he said, “don’t you know? His brother is dead.”
Jordan’s features hardened. “What?”
“The brother died three days ago.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me. We were sitting and talking before I took my nap. I wan
ted him to know how grateful I was that he talked his nephew into helping me get off San Lazzaro and for hiding me today. I said I would not forget our promise. Soon after I got to Paris, and the formula began to be prepared, he would get one of the first shipments to turn over to his brother’s doctor. He said to me simply, ‘I’m afraid it is too late. My brother passed away three days ago.’”
“My God,” breathed Jordan.
“Does that change anything?”
“I don’t know,” said Jordan. “It could. It might. We have nothing to hold over him. He doesn’t need us now. But I think he will protect us out of decency and friendship as he has done till now.”
“Unless,” said Alison, “he hears about the $150,000.”
“Yes,” said Jordan slowly. “That could give him second thoughts. In fact, it’s given me a few more right now.”
* * *
It was a quarter to two in the morning, and Venice was asleep.
They were wending their way, by a circuitous route, toward the bell-tower entrance to the Piazza San Marco. Tim Jordan, acting as guide and lookout, preceded MacDonald and Alison by ten yards. So far there had been no difficulties. The light fog was in their favor. Patches of it, like gossamer curtains, hung over every street. They had encountered no other human beings in fifteen minutes.
As Jordan strode along, his mind was on Sembut Nurikhan. He was worried. He had not expressed his concern again to the others, but Nurikhan’s reliability troubled him. The glass-shop owner had been a good friend. He had even been a tested friend, put himself on the line with his call to his nephew on San Lazzaro. But at that time he had had a stake in MacDonald’s escape. It had been an opportunity to save his brother’s life. Now the brother was gone. Now he might have a stake in MacDonald’s capture. If he knew about the $150,000 reward, and if he was tempted by it. Maybe, maybe. There had been no evidence to prove he might be untrustworthy. Still…
Jordan stiffened. Up ahead, materializing out of the fog, a person could be seen, a man, head down, shuffling toward them. At first, Jordan thought him a beggar, and then as he passed the man he recognized him. It was Gino, one of the news vendors at the daytime stand in the Piazza, and obviously, he had been at some bar the entire evening and by now was inebriated and heading for home and sleep.
Jordan watched him go past, half-turned to watch him pass MacDonald and Alison, and then Jordan was struck by a similarity. Gino was almost the same height and build as MacDonald. Not quite, but almost.
A thought came to Jordan, a means of protecting MacDonald against any perfidy on Nurikhan’s part.
Coming around, Jordan ordered the other two to wait for him, and he chased after the wobbling news vendor.
“Gino,” Jordan called out softly as he caught up with him.
The news vendor halted, considered Jordan with bleary eyes. Then his unshaven features broke into a look of recognition. “Mr. Jordan,” he mumbled thickly. “You’re out late.”
“Gino, how’d you like to make yourself some easy money?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“It may sound crazy, what I’m about to tell you, but believe me, it is true. In ten minutes, a helicopter is going to land in the middle of the Piazza San Marco to pick up a passenger, a friend of mine back there.”
In his condition, Gino did not appear a bit surprised. A pigeon or a helicopter in the Piazza, one made as much sense as the other.
“Soon as the helicopter lands,” said Jordan, “I want you to run over to it and tell the pilot that his passenger is on his way. Think you can do that? Here—” Jordan took out his wallet, removed 15,000 lire, and stuffed it into Gino’s hand. “For your trouble,” Jordan added.
With the feel of the money, Gino’s eyes seemed to clear and become more alert.
“What do I have to do?” he asked.
Jordan carefully repeated his instructions.
That’s all?” said Gino.
“That’s all,” said Jordan. “The second the helicopter lands, I’ll give you a little push, and you run to the middle of the Piazza and tell the helicopter pilot his passenger is coming. How’s that?”
“Happy to do it, Mr. Jordan,” said Gino, pocketing the bills.
“Okay, come along with us. We’re all going to the bell tower to wait for the helicopter. It should be here in seven or eight minutes.”
Jordan, with Gino stumbling after him, joined the others, and they continued toward the Piazza.
“Just a precaution,” explained Jordan in an undertone. “From a distance, our companion might be mistaken for you, Professor. The moment the helicopter lands, I’m sending him to it first, a sort of decoy. If our friend Nurikhan sold out, the police should come into the open and spring on Gino. If nothing happens, then it’ll be safe for you to follow and climb aboard.”
They were nearing the Piazza now, and they automatically slowed and proceeded warily.
They were almost there, a dozen feet away, and Jordan gestured to hold them back. He moved quickly ahead, alone, darting behind the first column of the arcade at the opening of the Mercerie.
His gaze swept the Piazza, only thinly obscured by fingers of fog. The Piazza was empty. Desolate. Still. Not a soul in sight.
So far, safe.
From a distance, high up, Jordan could hear the sounds of a helicopter.
He leaned against the murky column, immobile, listening.
The faint rotor sounds were becoming more distinct, louder, yet louder, dinning toward him. He squinted his eyes toward the farthest end of the Piazza, and suddenly from out of a bank of fog above the Napoleonic wing of buildings the small helicopter materialized. It came in over the Piazza, overhead rotor whirling, seemed to hang in midair over the center, and slowly began dropping, lowering.
In seconds, it had landed and stood squatting in the middle of the great square, an amazing, incongruous mechanical apparition.
“Okay, Gino!” Jordan barked over his shoulder. As Gino staggered forward, Jordan reached back, grabbed him, and pushed him into the Piazza. The elderly news vendor, shabby suit coat flying, broke into a weaving, uneven trot, running steadily toward the helicopter, with its door flung open and its ladder hanging alongside.
The lone figure was halfway to the helicopter.
Jordan sucked in a deep breath and held it.
Gino was three-quarters there, and the Piazza remained otherwise empty and silent.
Jordan’s excitement grew.
In seconds, the helicopter would be freedom’s exit.
That instant, all hell broke loose. Jordan’s head swerved to his right at the explosion of noise. From both sides of the Napoleonic wing, at the far end, a dozen, two dozen, three dozen uniformed police catapulted out of the camouflage of night fog and into the open, racing toward the helicopter and Gino, running fast, shouting, several of them shooting their pistols into the air.
Jordan recoiled, momentarily watching them in hypnotized fascination.
Then he saw that they weren’t heading toward the helicopter at all. The swarm was descending on Gino, certain he was the fugitive MacDonald.
The helicopter pilot, apparently alerted by the tumult and seeing the charge of the police, immediately had his aircraft in motion once more. The chopper was rising, slowly, then faster, eluding the police. It was airborne above the Piazza and beginning to wing away.
And the police were upon Gino, surrounding him, manhandling him.
Jordan had seen enough.
Cursing Nurikhan under his breath, he shoved away from the arcade column, snatched the trembling MacDonald by the arm as he spoke to Alison. “Get back to the hotel,” Jordan snapped at her. “We’ve got to run for it. We’ve got to get as far away from here as possible.”
With that, he and MacDonald plunged into the narrow cave of the Mercerie.
They ran and they ran. Jordan did not know how long they had been running, but when MacDonald was choking for breath, ready to collapse, Jordan stopped and propped MacDonald up.
/> “I can’t go another step,” MacDonald groaned. “I’m sorry. I give up.”
“Okay,” said Jordan. A sign above, half hidden by mist, read, CAMPO SAN LIO. “There’s a bridge. We’ll go down below it, off this main street. We’ll rest down by the canal. Maybe no one will see us.”
He had started toward the bridge with MacDonald when he saw a young woman come to the top of the bridge and begin to descend it.
As she passed under a lamp, her sharp-featured painted face, low-buttoned blouse, tight skirt, swinging purse were illuminated, and Jordan recognized her. He had encountered her his first week in Venice, and many times after. Her name was Clara something-or-other. She was a well-known streetwalker, a prostitute familiar to the habitues of the Mercerie and Rialto.
She had just turned off the main street, going toward a building facing the embankment of the canal, when Jordan called out, “Clara.”
She halted, startled, trying to see who it was. Supporting MacDonald, Jordan went to her.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, mildly disgusted. “One of my no-customers.”
“Maybe you’ve hit the jackpot, Clara. I’d like to be a sort of customer tonight. So would my friend.”
“You want some fun? Marchetta? Both of you?”
“Both of us. How much?”
“For one hour? All night? What?”
“To tell the truth, Clara, we want a place for all night.”
Clara calculated. “All night. For two. Considering it is already this late, I’ll make you a bargain. Let’s say 20,000 lire.”
“Fair enough,” said Jordan.
She winked. “Follow me.”
They went down the steps to the canal level, and at the first door of the old apartment building she motioned them inside. There was a dark hallway, and her three-room apartment was the second on the left.
She turned up a lamp in what appeared to be a sitting room, with a bedroom behind it, and a kitchen in an alcove. She locked the door from the inside, put her purse on a mantel, and went up to Jordan. She held out the palm of her hand.
The Pigeon Project Page 32
