The Pigeon Project (17 page)

The thought in his head and the intense friction below came together, and he stiffened, gasped, exhaled in an orgasmic spasm.

He dropped to his side, on the bed, bringing her close to him.

“Was it good?” she whispered.

“Great,” he said, trying to catch his breath and feeling guilty for the image that had brought on his orgasm.

“Tim, I’m ready too,” she said.

He disengaged himself from her and reached down to touch and rub her distended clitoris.

She was ready. In the next ten minutes, she had four prolonged orgasms, and at last she pushed his hand away and lay back limp and exhausted.

“Can I say I love you?” she said.

“Don’t,” he said, reaching for one of her cigarettes and lighting it. “Just say you care for me a lot.”

“I love you,” she said. “I wish you could stay all night. Can you? Bruno goes to his own room.”

“I can’t,” he said, getting off the bed. “My friend is waiting for me. I’ve got to tell him about my discussion with Bruno.” He peered down at her and saw that her eyes were closed. “Marisa, are you still awake?”

“Mmm.”

“One thing I forgot to ask Bruno. Will you ask him if the police are going to visit the hotels? I suppose they are—but if they do, try to find out from him when they are going to do it. Will you remember?”

She opened her eyes. “I will ask him in the morning.

“I just want to be sure my friend is safe, until Bruno can help get him out of the city.”

“Then tell your friend not to make long-distance calls. Bruno told me they are monitoring all calls.”

“Thanks, darling.” He went to the edge of the bed and bent down to kiss her.

As she returned his kiss, her hand reached out and stroked his penis. “Good night, lover,” she said. Then she closed her eyes again and turned on her side to sleep.

Not until five minutes later—after he had dressed, had quietly let himself out, had taken the steep staircase down to the ground floor, and stood in the street before the apartment building—did it strike him. As he had left Alison, earlier, she had said, Professor MacDonald has been trying to think of someone on the outside he might contact to come in and help him. As he had left Marisa, just now, she had said… tell your friend not to make long-distance calls… they are monitoring all calls.

What struck him was that if MacDonald was seeking help from the outside, he would likely try to locate some friend in London or New York by telephone. His call would be monitored, reported to the police, and he would be traced and grabbed at once.

Perhaps it had already happened. Perhaps not yet.

Jordan began to run through the deserted street toward the Hotel Danieli. It was drizzling lightly, and when he reached the Piazza it was slippery, and he slowed to a trot as he hurried to the hotel.

When he reached his suite, he burst inside. Alison, curled up on the sofa reading a book, was startled.

Trying to regain his breath, Jordan sputtered, “The professor—did he phone anyone on the outside tonight—any long-distance calls?”

“He was trying to think of someone to call. He just did. He’s in the bedroom now, trying—”

“He can’t!”

Jordan dashed toward the bedroom, pushed open the door. MacDonald was seated on the edge of the bed, the telephone receiver at his ear. He was saying into the mouthpiece, “Operator, I’d like to put through—”

Jordan was across the room, snatching the receiver from MacDonald’s hand. “Sorry, operator, but forget it for now,” Jordan said into the phone. He firmly set the receiver down on the cradle.

Taken aback, MacDonald blinked at Jordan uncomprehendingly. “I was just calling—trying to call New York—”

“No long-distance calls, now or at any time.”

“But it is my only chance,” MacDonald pleaded. “I’ve just remembered an acquaintance, a man I have a social friendship with—he’s a delegate to the United Nations from Britain—and if he heard my situation, he could alert the U.N., and then the whole world would descend on Venice to free me. The Communists would be helpless.”

Jordan heard him out tolerantly. “Sorry, Professor, it won’t work. The Communists aren’t stupid enough to let a call like that go through. They’re having every long-distance call from Venice monitored right now. The minute they realized what you were talking about—knew it was you—they’d cut you off, trace your location, and have the police in this suite in five minutes to apprehend you. You’d be finished. I’m afraid there is no way you can communicate with anyone outside of here.”

MacDonald found it hard to believe. “They’re monitoring all long-distance calls?”

“Every one,” said Jordan, “to prevent you from doing exactly what you were attempting to do.”

MacDonald lowered his head into his hands. “Then I’m afraid my situation is hopeless.”

“Not quite,” said Jordan. He took MacDonald gently by the arm and helped bring him to his feet. “Come into the next room and let me pour you a drink. I’ll catch you up on what I’ve been doing.”

They went into the sitting room to join Alison, who had been listening at the doorway.

“Have you found a way?” inquired Alison anxiously.

“Possibly,” said Jordan, halting at his makeshift bar atop the refrigerator. “Let’s just relax a moment. What’ll you have?”

“The same as you’re having,” said MacDonald.

“Me too,” said Alison.

Jordan poured three cognacs, handed one to MacDonald, placed the other two on the coffee table. He sat down, waiting for the others to be seated.

“All right,” said Jordan. “Let me tell you of a conversation I had tonight.” He paused. “Professor, did Alison repeat to you my talk with her about raising money for a bribe?”

Alison spoke up quickly. “I haven’t told him about that yet.”

“We’ll need $10,000,” said Jordan. “Alison has $4,000 on hand. I’ll be glad to kick in the other $6,000—please don’t protest—as I told Alison, I consider it an option on living to the age of 150. Now let me tell you what happened at dinner tonight.”

After identifying Marisa Girardi merely as his assistant at work, and her brother, Bruno, as the leading photographer for
Il Gazzettino
, he recounted what he could remember of his entire conversation with Bruno in Harry’s Bar.

When he had finished, MacDonald said, “Then you think there is hope?”

“Bruno would not promise anything. But he was interested. Very. And he is close to this captain in the carabinieri, who heads a company of guards on the causeway to Mestre. Bruno made it clear this captain needs money badly. I’m sure Bruno will find a means of approaching him. I’m not sure what his answer will be.”

Alison sipped her cognac. “When will you know?”

“I can’t say. Bruno is aware of the urgency. I told him my separatist courier had to be in Paris in less than a week.”

MacDonald was still worried. “What if the police captain refuses to cooperate?”

“I’ll be thinking of an alternative plan, making inquiries. I’m confident something else will turn up. But I’m betting on Bruno. I feel he’ll get his friend to come along.”

“In a few days,” said MacDonald.

“Yes. Our situation isn’t too bad. You’re safe here, Professor. No one knows where you are. So we just have to sit back and wait for the moment we can smuggle you out of the city. Now, what do you say to another drink?”

* * *

Tim Jordan lay on his side, in a fetal position, in the bed. He could hear the windswept rain beating against the wooden bedroom shutters. It was coming down in torrents. Every once in a while it was counterpointed by a crackle of lightning. Beside him, in the bed, another sound, the professor erratically snoring. Then another insistent sound. On his bedside table, his travel clock, ticking away. At last glimpse, the clock had read two-sixteen in the morning.

His eyes were shut, the lids heavy from cognac and fatigue.

He tried to erase the thoughts floating through his mind and to sink into what he hoped would be dreamless sleep.

But yet another sound intruded.

With difficulty he opened his eyes, listened, raised his head. It was his bedside telephone, two feet from him, ringing.

His hand darted out, captured the receiver, brought it to the rim of his blanket.

He tried to keep his voice down. “Hello?”

“Tim? Marisa. Did I wake you?”

“No. Is anything the matter?”

Her tone was one of concern. “You asked me, before leaving tonight, to find out from Bruno in the morning if the police were going to investigate the hotels in Venice.”

“Yes?”

“Bruno just came home. He was having something to eat in the kitchen and that woke me. So I got up to talk to him, and I remembered what you wanted to find out. I asked him if he knew about the hotels. He knew. I thought I should call you immediately.”

“What did he say, Marisa?”

“It is not good for your friend. The police have already started surprise raids on every hotel in Venice. They are scheduled to move in on your hotel, the Danieli, and all the hotels in your area at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“I mean this morning, Tim. Five—five hours from now.”

Jordan lay back on the pillow, deeply disturbed. “Bruno is sure of this?”

“No question. Colonel Cutrone gave the assignment to his officers a little while ago. Bruno overheard the officers discussing it. Seven o’clock this morning. They will fence in the Danieli. Let no one out. Interrogate everyone inside. Search everything. You had better do something quickly for your friend.”

“I’d better. Thanks, Marisa.”

He hung up, threw off his half of the blanket, and jumped out of bed. Taking off his pajamas, he could hear the rain outside the window ever louder. He tried to think as he hastily dressed. Buttoning his shirt, he went around the bed, turned up the lamp on MacDonald’s side, and then shook the professor, who finally opened his eyes.

“Are you awake yet?”

“I guess so…”

“Listen. I just got a call from a friend. She tipped me off that the police are raiding the Danieli—this hotel—in a few hours, to question every guest. If they find you here, you’re cooked. I’ve got to get you out of here in the next two hours.”

MacDonald was sitting up, shivering. “But where? Where can I go?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something. You get dressed. Pack all your effects. Leave nothing behind. I’ll give you a canvas bag. And, Professor—shave off your moustache. Every little bit helps. Now hurry.”

He left his bedroom, crossed the sitting room, opened the door to Alison’s bedroom, and entered. He turned on the light next to her bed. Her lovely face was deep in the pillow, only a bare shoulder exposed above the blanket.

He touched her shoulder, and at once she was awake. She tried to focus on him, did, and sat right up, holding her blanket to her throat.

“What is it, Tim? Is something the matter?”

Without wasting words, he told her what was going on.

She was agitated. “What can you do?”

“I’m going to try to find some place to take him. I can’t risk another hotel. It’ll have to be a private place. It’ll be safe to move across the city. It’s raining heavily outside, and at this hour the streets are practically empty. He’ll have my raincoat. He can partially cover his face. You can stay on here.”

“No, I’d prefer to come along, if someone will take me too.”

“If you insist. Okay, put on your clothes. And check out both bedrooms and the sitting room to see that no evidence of MacDonald is left behind.”

He went out of her room and stood in the middle of the sitting room trying to clear his head and fasten on someone he could trust who would help him.

He needed a hiding place, a sanctuary.

Sanctuary.

Churches always provided sanctuary.

Church. Priest. Friend.

His old friend Don Pietro Vianello, whom he had seen only yesterday noon on the Mercerie.

Jordan started for the telephone.

IV

It was ten minutes after seven o’clock in the morning, and Tim Jordan, fully dressed, sipping his breakfast tea, sat in the sitting room of his Hotel Danieli suite waiting for the police.

Once again, restlessly, he got up and walked to his open window to see whether they had arrived yet. Outside, the lagoon was calm. The rain had stopped. Soon the sun would break through. It would be a hot and muggy morning. Before him, the usual sights. There was the six-foot-wide pier, two motorboats moored on one side, two gondolas on the other, with a sign over it reading, SERVIZIO MOTOSCAFI/TAXT. Nearby was the vaporetto landing station with its glass ticket booth and its own sign above, reading, LINEE 1 5 8. Then there was the one-funnel, two-deck steamer, the
Altino
, one of the vessels that made the twelve-minute commuter’s run to the city of Lido every twenty minutes. In the street between the Danieli and the lagoon, an elderly man had set up a brown umbrella beside the three-lamp street post and was now stacking prints on an easel in preparation for the day’s tourist traffic.

So far Jordan had not seen what he had expected to see. He stepped out onto his small balcony, gripped the iron railing, and peered directly below.

There they were, all right. A group of a dozen or more carabinieri in their khaki uniforms, white straps, side arms, black boots, cordoning off the hotel entrance. For the time, no one could enter or leave the hotel without examination and interrogation. Jordan imagined that the teams of searchers had covered the ground floor by now, had worked their way up to the first floor, and would soon reach his suite on the second floor.

He sat down once more before his breakfast tray, finished the last of his tea, and stared at the entrance door. He was quite alone in the suite, thank God, and ready for the hunters.

The experience of last night had been unnerving, and the aftereffects still had him on edge. The telephone call to the priest, to Don Pietro Vianello, had been difficult to make at that awful hour. And indeed, he had awakened Don Pietro. He had been blunt with the clergyman. He had said that he was trying to protect a friend who was being sought by the police. He had said that he needed sanctuary, for a brief period, for his fugitive friend. He had added, fervently, that his friend was innocent, that he would swear by him, and that he required a hiding place just long enough to be vindicated. Jordan had promised Don Pietro he would give him all the details at a more reasonable hour.