The craggy-faced purser looked up.
“My friend the chief concierge told me I might find you here. I wanted to speak to you about a matter of business.”
The purser seemed more than pleased to have company. “Sit down, do sit down. Will you join me for a drink?”
“You’re very kind, but no, thanks.” Jordan settled into the armchair beside him. “My name is Timothy Jordan. I’m an American with the Venice Must Live Committee.”
“You are an engineer to save Venice from sinking?”
“I used to be. I’m a writer now, actually handling public relations for the Committee. I see your ship is still in port.”
“Unhappily for most of the passengers. They’re not allowed off. Foolish, but they are not. I guess the police are afraid one of them might return from an excursion with the spy’s secrets. The confinement—most of them are very restless by now. Well, it won’t be long. We had hoped to sail yesterday, even the day before, but repairs continue. The Venetians are terribly slow.”
“When does The Delphic Oracle sail?”
“In the morning. Tomorrow morning, for sure.”
“What time?”
“Ten o’clock.”
Jordan did not waste words. “I’d like to put someone—a friend—on your ship.”
The purser gave him a long look. “Impossible in port. We would be agreeable, but the authorities would not permit it. It can’t be done in port.”
“I don’t mean in port,” said Jordan. “I mean at sea.”
Papadopoulos gave him a longer look. “At sea?”
“Surely it’s been done before?”
The purser nodded. “Yes. It has been done a number of times. Especially when one of our passengers has missed the sailing.”
“This would be a new passenger—two, actually—and even though you’d be on the last leg of the cruise, they’d pay full fare.”
The purser was thoughtful. “It would be an inconvenience, slowing the vessel.” He shrugged. “Still, why not? It could be done, if we are at sea out of the jurisdiction of Venice. You’d have to find a means of reaching us.”
“It would-be arranged.”
“I see no objections. The rest is up to you.”
Jordan felt relieved. “Very well. Then let’s get down to business.”
It was late morning, but before lunchtime, when Jordan parted the brown swinging doors at Harry’s Bar.
He was pleased at what he saw. All but two of the small lacquered circular tables, with their low chairs padded in black leather, were empty. To his left, next to the framed photograph of Ernest Hemingway posing with the elder Giuseppe Cipriani, who had founded Harry’s Bar, the cashier sat at the register counting bills while engaged in conversation with the head bartender, the slick-haired, always smiling Alberto, with whom Jordan had enjoyed a cordial relationship since first he had set foot in the restaurant.
Jordan went to the bar.
Alberto and the cashier interrupted their conversation to greet him warmly.
“Alberto,” said Jordan, “I’ll have a Campari. I want to speak to you privately for a moment.”
“Take your place. I will be right over.”
Jordan threaded through the room, going to a table as far from the nearest customer as possible, finally sitting down against the back wall of the restaurant under the rectangular oil painting of the Cipriani Hotel.
In a few minutes, Alberto came with the Campari, set it down, then leaned forward, palms on the table, head dipped toward Jordan. “Something private?”
“Yes.” Jordan kept his voice low. “I don’t know if you will remember, Alberto, but a month or so ago, late one night, you and I and a couple of other customers were talking at the bar. You mentioned something about smugglers, that there were a number of smugglers who came in and out of Venice regularly. Were you kidding or did you mean it?”
“But it’s true.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“One of them, the best of them, he is a close friend of mine.”
“What does he smuggle?”
“Goods, imports, to be brought in without duty and sold cheaply. It is profitable.”
“How does he get away with it?” Jordan wondered.
Alberto lifted his shoulders. “Who knows? He has tricks of his trade, I suppose. He knows every inch of the lagoon, every shortcut, detour. He has the swiftest private motorboat in the area. And I suppose, it could be, he pays a bribe to some of the patrolmen regularly.”
“Are you still in touch with this friend?”
“I see him often. He is much fun to drink with.”
“Alberto, I’d like to meet him. Is it possible?”
“Whenever you like, I am sure. Do you wish to speak to him as a writer or for business?”
“There’s a job I’d like to have him undertake. I’d like to discuss it with him.”
“When?”
“Today. As soon as possible.”
Alberto nodded and straightened. “I will telephone him this minute. If he is in, we will soon know.”
The bartender went back behind his counter, picked up the telephone receiver, and dialed. Jordan drank his Campari and hoped. He could observe Alberto speaking into the telephone. After an interval, Alberto hung up, came from behind the bar, and joined Jordan again. He appeared pleased.
“The appointment is arranged,” said Alberto. “He will meet with you at three o’clock this afternoon.”
“What’s his name?”
“Rocco. Just Rocco. Do not be put off by him. He is rough in his ways, very straightforward, honest in personal dealings, a kind of honorable pirate. Great physical daring. No fear. Also, I assure you, a man of his word. Be direct with him. Trust him.”
“Where do I see this Rocco?”
“Yes, of course. It is a place we call Smuggler’s Cove. The first canal after the location of the Biennale. It is the area from which most of the smugglers operate.”
“Is there a rendezvous?”
“An exact one. He will be waiting for you on the bridge of the Rio Sant’ Elena, just behind the public park. You can take a vaporetto to the Viale Vittorio Veneto. Or you can walk straight there. If you walk, allow perhaps thirty to forty minutes. He will be easy to recognize. He is a big man, muscular, with a scar on his chin. You won’t miss him.”
* * *
In the interval between the time of his conversation at Harry’s Bar and the time he was to leave to meet Rocco, he had gone up to his hotel suite, where he found Alison, fully clothed, sound asleep on her bed. Deciding this was a good idea, he had left a wake-up call with the telephone operator and thrown himself on his own bed for a short nap.
At two-ten in the afternoon, he had been awakened, and by two-twenty he was on his way out of the Danieli, going on foot to this crucial rendezvous.
He had hiked briskly along the edge of the lagoon, and by now, after twenty minutes and passage over six bridges, he was beside the large white hulk of the Greek luxury cruise ship, The Delphic Oracle. At the gangplank were three Venice police guards, armed with rifles. On the first and second decks of the ship, the quarantined passengers could be seen moving about.
Jordan did not loiter. He kept going. There was another bridge to climb, a large, sweeping concrete bridge, and from the top he could see the dense greenery of a park to his left and to his right a dark green statue just above the water that Alberto had told him would be the Monument of the Partisans of the Second World War.
He was almost there.
He accelerated his pace down the last bridge and headed for the more populated section of the park, sparsely wooded, with an outdoor roller-skating rink being used by shouting children. He went into the park, past busts of Giuseppe Verdi and Richard Wagner.
Off to his left was a white canvas sign reading, LA BIENNALE. He proceeded to the end of the park, which curved around to run into a small canal. This was the Rio Sant’ Elena, his destination. He saw the stone bridge. A barge ca
rrying cases of soda water was passing beneath the bridge. Jordan raised his eyes, and on the summit of the bridge, leaning on its railing staring down into the water, was a lone muscular man.
Quickening his stride, Jordan made it to the top of the bridge in a matter of seconds.
The man turned his head at Jordan’s approach. He had the battered, flattened face of a retired pugilist. The scar on his jaw was a long one. His upper lip curled, revealing two gold teeth.
“Rocco?”
“Yes. You are Jordan?”
“Alberto’s friend.”
“I am also Alberto’s friend,” said Rocco. “So I think we can trust each other.”
Jordan groped for what to say next, and when he said it he felt foolish. “You—you make your living smuggling in and out of Venice, I’m told.”
“It is my job. This past week I have not done anything. I could run the blockade, but it would be a greater risk. There are many more patrol boats. They are more alert. But I would not mind an assignment, if it is a good one. Do you want to bring something into Venice, or take something out?”
“Out.”
“What is the cargo?”
“Two human beings. Friends of mine. They must get out of here tomorrow. They—”
Rocco lifted his paw of a hand. “I am not interested in reasons. Where are they to be delivered?”
“To a ship at sea,” said Jordan. “There’s a Greek cruise ship, The Delphic Oracle, in port for repairs.”
“I know.”
“It sails at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. When it is outside the city’s jurisdiction, I would want you to leave and catch up with it. I’m told the ship should have an hour’s start to be in safe waters. I’m also told it would still be visible from the Lido. Does that sound right?”
“It is right. Territorial waters begin at twelve miles out.”
“Arrangements have been made with the ship’s purser. They would expect your passengers and be ready to take them on. The question is—can you run the blockade?”
Rocco seemed to concentrate on the canal below. He turned back. “It is more difficult in daylight. We usually work by night. But it can be done.”
Jordan had to be convinced. “How?”
“We would hug the coastline going to the Lido channel. In the open lagoon, traveling normally—so no suspicion—we would head toward the patrol boats. The moment they came up to us, to see my permit, I would cut loose, surprise them, tear away at full speed toward the channel.” He smiled pridefully. “The police patrols are no match for my motorboat. I have the fastest craft in Venice. I would outrun them easily. There could be only one obstacle…”
Jordan waited, then said, “What’s that, Rocco?”
“The police have one large motor launch that is faster than mine, much faster. It belongs to the Squadra Mobile. I could not outrun that one. So if the plan is to work, the police must not know of it.”
“There is no way they can know.”
“Then I could not be stopped. I could take your friends safely to the ship in the Adriatic.”
“It sounds perfect,” said Jordan, feeling elated. But he wondered about one thing. “Just to satisfy my curiosity. The police will recognize you. How will you ever get back to Venice?”
Rocco grinned, and his gold teeth shone. “They will not recognize me. I will wear a disguise—false nose, moustache, beard. After I deliver my cargo, I will go on south to Chioggia. I will take a vacation there until the Venice blockade and emergency are ended. Then I will trade in my motorboat for another model and return to Venice.”
“Neat,” Jordan said with admiration. “All right. Let’s get back to the plan. Where would we meet? We couldn’t come all the way here.”
“You name the place.”
“The vaporetto station in front of the Danieli. Right near it. Would that be too conspicuous?”
“Not at that hour.”
“What hour?”
“We should leave no later than eleven in the morning to catch the Greek ship in the place of safety.”
“Eleven o’clock in the morning,” said Jordan. “Then I guess we’re set.”
“Not quite,” said Rocco. “One more detail.”
“Yes?”
“The money.”
“Okay,” said Jordan, “let’s talk about it.”
* * *
He had spent the rest of the afternoon raising the money.
He still had $15,000 left of the $20,000 he had accumulated for the ill-fated helicopter escape, but he had required twice that amount. He had consulted with Alison, gone to the cashier of the Danieli, visited his bank, and by dinnertime he had put together Rocco’s price.
Now, early evening, he was nearing Marisa’s apartment, feeling at once optimistic about the morning’s prospects and tense about the dangers involved.
Almost at the courtyard to Marisa’s building, just across the street, he saw a laborer plaster a poster to the wall. He glanced at it, spun toward it again, and stood in shock. Looking at the poster was like looking in the mirror. He saw his own face, his very own face, the face of his passport, staring back at him from the poster.
He read the big black heading over it in Italian, and automatically translated it into English:
FOR ANY CLUE LEADING TO THE ARREST OF THIS MAN, TIMOTHY JORDAN, A REWARD OF $50,000 WILL BE PAID.
He reeled a few steps backward. Now there was not one fugitive but two. Who had told the police he was MacDonald’s accomplice? It could have been one of many people, but happening now, it could only have been the news vendor Gino, or Sembut Nurikhan. No matter which.
He gazed at the people passing through the street. It was if every one of them knew, the whole world knew, that he was wanted by the police. There was no escape.
Yet, there was tomorrow morning.
He regained his balance. Almost stealthily, he backed away, then sidled toward the wrought-iron gate of the courtyard. He opened it, and once in the courtyard he raced through it and up the steep stairs, and breathlessly let himself inside.
He sought Marisa, but found only Professor MacDonald, on the sofa with a book.
“Is Marisa here?” he asked.
“She just went out to the hospital again to visit with her mother.”
He felt relieved. “Good. I wanted to talk to you alone.”
MacDonald kept trying to read his face. “Tim, is it good news or bad?”
“I just had a scare, but never mind. It’s good news, Professor. You’re leaving in the morning—and so am I. The police just put out the word. They want me too. We’re all getting out of here together at eleven in the morning, and it’s not a minute too soon.”
* * *
Morning.
Jordan had awakened to a gray, overcast day. By nine o’clock, dressed for the big adventure, he had gone downstairs expecting to find Marisa and MacDonald, but MacDonald was alone.
“She got a call from her family doctor,” MacDonald had explained. “The doctor wanted Marisa and her brother, Bruno, to meet with him as soon as possible in the hospital. I’m sure she’s there now.”
“I hope there’s nothing wrong,” Jordan had said, then added, “I hope she gets back before we leave. I wanted to say good-bye to her.”
Now, at last, it was ten thirty-five, and in ten minutes, they would leave, taking less-frequented back streets, to emerge near the Danieli and meet Alison and board Rocco’s motorboat.
“Are you all set?” Jordan asked MacDonald.
“As set as HI ever be.”
“Do you have the formula?”
“All done on one sheet.” He patted the breast of his jacket. “In my pocket.”
They were alerted by the sound of a key in the front door, heard the door squeak open and then close, listened to the footsteps in the corridor.
Marisa came into the living room.
Jordan said quickly, “I’m glad you’re back, Marisa. We’re leaving in a few minutes. Now the police want me too, and we�
�ve got a chance to get out of the city. I…”
He realized that she was oblivious to what he was saying. She had gone robotlike past him and was staring intently at MacDonald. Jordan stepped closer to her and then saw that her eyes were swollen, still brimming, and he knew that she had been crying.
He took her by the shoulder and turned her to him. “What is it, Marisa? Your mother?”
She nodded slowly. “Mamma has stomach cancer. Advanced. She is dying. Dr. Scarpa told Bruno and me. There is no mistake. She is dying.”
“Oh, Christ, I’m sorry, darling.” He tried to take her in his arms. “I can’t tell you how sorry.”
She pulled free of him. “You are going?”
“In a few minutes.”
“You can’t go. Dr. Scarpa told me the truth. He said Mamma was lost but maybe there was one hope. He said he knew about us, you and me, and since I’m so close to you, then perhaps you could help. He said he briefly protected you and Professor MacDonald—yes, I know his name now—and Dr. Scarpa told me all about Professor MacDonald’s discovery. He said if the professor’s discovery is real, it could save Mamma. ‘See Timothy,’ he said, ‘and maybe he can get MacDonald to save your mother.’ I am telling this to you, Tim. I want you to make the professor save Mamma.”
“Marisa, believe me, we want to help your mother. As I’d want to help my father if he were still alive. But I’d sacrifice him rather than risk the whole project. Staying here to help your mother would take too much time…” He looked helplessly at MacDonald.
“At least a week,” said MacDonald, “and I would need the proper facilities—”
“I will get you everything,” Marisa cried out.
“The police would get me first. They would send me back to the Soviet Union. I could do nothing for your mother or anyone then. But this way, if we escape, I might be able to get my formula to you in time—”
“There is no time!” Marisa shouted. “You must help now!”
Jordan intervened, trying to calm her. “Marisa, listen, we’ve tried everything to get MacDonald out of here. Everything has failed. This is our last chance. A Greek ship has just left the port. It will be expecting us. I’ve arranged for a special motorboat to run us out of the city, out to the ship. Then the professor will be free. His discovery will belong to everyone—your mother and everyone. We must do it, Marisa. We simply must.”
The Pigeon Project Page 34
