The Pigeon Project (18 page)

Don Pietro had only spoken twice after that.

“You swear by him?”

“Yes.”

“Bring him.”

They had watched from their window for the approach of a vaporetto, finally seen one approaching from a distance, and they had hurried downstairs. Before descending into the empty lobby, Jordan had inspected MacDonald (who appeared younger without a moustache), made certain the raincoat collar shielded his face. With Alison carrying a duffel bag of MacDonald’s old clothes and papers, they had gone past the night concierge, who had hardly looked up from his magazine, and emerged from the hotel into the slashing rain. They had run to the station platform, caught the vaporetto headed for the Rialto station. Looking around the almost-empty water bus, Jordan had been afraid that they might be conspicuous. The few passengers coming and going had paid no attention. At the boat’s destination, they had left it and gone on foot in the downpour the rest of the way, over the Rialto Bridge to the Santa Croce quarter.

Don Pietro, bald head and cherubic face shining, had been watching for them from the lighted doorway of the canonica, or rectory. They had come out of the rain into the hallway, all three soaked to the bone. Jordan had hastily introduced MacDonald, then Alison, asking if the priest had room for Alison also.

“No problem,” the priest had said. “My flat is upstairs. There are two spare rooms. I will fetch you some dry nightclothes.” He addressed MacDonald. “My nightgown will come to just below your knees only.” He addressed Alison. “I will get you a nightgown from my mother’s wardrobe.”

“I must go back to the hotel,” Jordan had said. “I have some business there early in the morning. After that I will return here for lunch—if I am invited.”

“You are invited.”

“And, Don Pietro, I will then offer you an explanation.”

“I hope so,” Don Pietro had said.

Now, sitting, waiting in his hotel suite for the searchers, Jordan lit his pipe to calm his nerves and thanked his lucky stars that it had gone smoothly in the early-morning hours. They had crossed a great part of the city undetected. They had received a hospitable reception from their generous host. MacDonald had safe sanctuary, hopefully until Bruno shortly delivered the escape route.

So now there were only the investigating police to contend with. And as far as they knew, he was merely a longtime resident of the Hotel Danieli, a familiar and crazy American who chose to live and work in this sinking city, so far from his own golden America.

He must simply remain calm and pretend ignorance of what the authorities were after.

It seemed an eternity, this waiting, and then, as he looked at his wristwatch, which showed seven-twenty, the expected knocking came on his entrance door. Knocking, followed by the buzz of his doorbell.

He hastened to the door and admitted the three of them.

They were carabinieri, all right, in full regalia, one of them an officer.

The officer said in precise English, “I am Captain Dorigo. I have a search warrant.” He displayed an Italian document. “We are searching every room of the hotel.”

“For what?” asked Jordan.

“There is an American spy named MacGregor—”

“I have read about him.”

“Then you understand.” He removed a five-by-seven-inch photograph of MacDonald from his jacket pocket and held it up before Jordan. “Here he is. Do you know him? Have you see him?”

Jordan shook his head. “No.”

“You have your passport?”

Jordan had it ready. He pulled it out of his trouser pocket. Captain Dorigo took it, flipped the pages. “Timothy Jordan,” he read. “American. Engineer.” He handed back the passport. “Why are you in Venice?”

“I work here. I have a job. I have been here almost two years.”

“As an engineer?”

“No. I’m public relations director for the Venice Must Live Committee.”

“Ah.” The captain’s countenance was less harsh now. “I think I have seen you about.” He studied Jordan. “You are all dressed, I see. Most guests we have found in their nightclothes.”

“I was going to work early. I couldn’t get out of the hotel.”

Captain Dorigo surveyed the sitting room. “You have another room?”

“Actually, two.” Jordan pointed to the two bedrooms.

Captain Dorigo wandered to the center of the room. “Why two?”

“To spread out my work. I use the second bedroom as an office. Also, for my girl friend when she stays for the weekend. You will find some of her things in the closet.”

The carabinieri officer signaled his two men. “Aldo, you search that bedroom,” he ordered, gesturing toward Alison’s, “and, Filippo, you take his bedroom. I’ll look around this parlor room.”

As Aldo and Filippo disappeared into the bedrooms, Jordan kept a watchful eye on the captain, who was moving around the room, poking at a pile of magazines, opening and shaking some books, going toward the refrigerator.

Jordan pivoted, to take in the rest of the room. Alison had combed through it last night, and he himself had done so this morning, to make certain there were no telltale clues to MacDonald’s presence. Jordan decided it was foolproof. He relaxed and walked to his desk, to see how it would look to the search team.

On one side of his desk was a pile of writing paper, all blank. Then five sharpened pencils in a Venetian pencil holder. Then a pile of publicity releases on the accomplishments of the Venice Must Live Committee. Then—something unexpected caught the corner of his eye.

The silver-metal wastebasket at the nearest leg of the desk. There was something in it. He racked his brain. He had put nothing into the wastebasket. It was something MacDonald or Alison had dropped into it.

He edged closer to the wastebasket. What lay at the bottom of the basket were shreds of paper, large shreds—a sheet that had been torn in half and then in quarters. The ball-point-pen writing on it was barely legible. Jordan squinted, trying to read what was on one shred of paper. He made out a portion of a word, a name, “cDonald,” and beneath” it some numerals, with square roots.

He felt panic. The blood rushed to his head. He made an effort to hide his agitation. Plainly, MacDonald, trying to put his formula for C-98 on paper yesterday, had torn up one sheet and discarded it. And the too-familiar wastebasket with this giveaway inside it had been overlooked by all of them.

Frantically, Jordan glanced up to see what Captain Dorigo was doing. The captain’s back was to him as he leaned into the bedroom to say something to his subordinate in Italian.

It was risk time again, the whole ball game at stake.

As quickly as possible, Jordan bent down, reached into the wastebasket, scooped up the shreds of paper, lost one, retrieved it, brought the handful up, and shoved the pieces deep into a trouser pocket. His hand was still in his pocket when Captain Dorigo turned around and came to the desk.

Jordan nimbly stepped away, to make a place for the officer. The captain stood over the desk, thumbed through the blank sheets of paper, pulled the pencils out of their holder and turned the holder upside down, lingered over the press releases, reading the top one, shuffling through the entire pile.

Now he was yanking out the desk drawers, rummaging through them.

Aldo was back from Alison’s bedroom. Captain Dorigo’s questioning look held on him. Aldo shrugged. Seconds later, Filippo emerged from Jordan’s bedroom. He spoke only one word in Italian. “
Niente
” he said.

The captain confronted Jordan. “We are through with your quarters,” he said crisply. “We are sorry to have inconvenienced you. I wish you luck with the Venice Must Live Committee. Good morning.”

As they left the suite, Jordan called after them, “I wish you luck with your spy.”

The door closed.

Jordan exhaled and listened for his heartbeat to return to normal.

Then he realized there were perspiration patches on his shirt, and he went into the bedroom to change and to flush the shreds of MacDonald’s notes down the toilet.

* * *

Jordan had walked all the way, a long walk, from the Hotel Danieli, stopping briefly at his office on the Piazza San Marco, continuing to the Church of San Vincenzo in the Santa Croce quarter, going by foot because he wanted the time alone to organize his thoughts and examine options for MacDonald’s escape.

He reached the
campo
, or square, with its several trees—rare in this part of Venice—a few minutes before noon. The modest mustard-colored Church of San Vincenzo, with its painted cross over the door and its Romanesque bell tower, had been built in the 12th century. Don Pietro Vianello, after serving six years as a vicario, or assistant, at Mestre, had been promoted to full priest of this church and had served here almost fifteen years. Extending from the church was the tile-roofed two-story rectory, and Don Pietro lived upstairs. Jordan strode across the square to the rectory door and went inside the entry hall, almost bumping into Don Pietro, who was shuffling through the interior door from the church, leading Professor MacDonald and Alison on a guided tour. “And here in the canonica, as we call the rectory,” he was saying, “is an area we use as a
patronato
, meaning a place we use for youth activities and even as a village hall.” He became aware of Jordan. “
Buon giorno
, Tim. I was afraid you had dissolved in the rain.”

“I survived the rain,” said Jordan. He greeted MacDonald and Alison with a nod, adding, “I had a harder time with the police this morning.”

“The police?” echoed Don Pietro. “Don’t worry, they weren’t after me particularly,” said Jordan. “They were searching through the entire Danieli, all the hotels in that area, trying to turn up their fugitive spy.”

The priest frowned. “So I hear.” He cast a nervous glance at MacDonald, then said, “My mother will have lunch ready. We will go upstairs.”

Single file they climbed to the upper floor, entered a central hall—“the portego,” Jordan explained, “found in almost all Venetian homes”—and moved into a dining room, which had a balcony looking over the small square. The old oblong table was set, and Don Pietro directed them to their places. Almost immediately, a plump elderly lady, with gray hair and warts on her face, came in carrying a large platter heaped with spaghetti and tomato sauce.

Respectfully, Don Pietro introduced her as his mother, Lucia, to Alison and to MacDonald. To her son, she intoned, “
Sia lodato Gesù Cristo
.” Don Pietro answered, “
Sempre sia lodato
.” Jordan translated this for Alison beside him. “She offered the formal religious greeting, ‘Let Jesus Christ be praised,’ and her son replied, ‘Always praised.’ She is a wonderful lady. She keeps house here for Don Pietro.”

The mother had gone and was already returning with another platter filled with
fegato alla veneziana
—liver fried with onions. After she had left the dining room, and as the platters were being passed around, Don Pietro said to all of them, “Yes, I am fortunate to have her here to help me. The situation is difficult for parish priests in Italy. If a priest has a widowed mother, as I have, or an unmarried sister, he usually has her live with him, to cook, to clean, and in return he is able to take care of her. But my colleagues who are not so fortunate as to have a mother or sister must find an unemployed woman to be a
perpetua
, which is what we call such a housekeeper. It is not a simple matter. Such a woman, as we say, must be ready to marry the priest’s job without marrying the priest. Usually, she must be over forty-five years old, and preferably ugly, to—uh—let us say, to avoid being a temptation.”

Professor MacDonald seemed fascinated. “Is it expensive to hire such a woman, Father?”

“Everything, everything is expensive here,” Don Pietro grumbled. “Most perpetue work by the hour and live out. They must be paid 2,000 lire an hour, to which must be added contributions toward their health insurance, their pension, their taxes. Yes, that is expensive when you realize that a priest like me is paid only 49,000 lire a month—translated into American dollars, that is fifty-seven dollars a month. Of course, to be honest, I have other sources of income. I celebrate Mass every day, and offerings are made—altogether maybe 3,000 lire a day. Also, I receive payment for teaching religion. In every school, each class must have one hour of religious instruction a week. The other money I receive, such as for officiating at weddings and funerals, this money goes to support the expenses of my church, such as heating, electricity, candles, repair work. So you see, it is not easy.”

With that, Don Pietro devoted himself to his liver and spaghetti.

Jordan cleared his throat and spoke to the priest. “Don Pietro, this reminds me of something I meant to bring up with you last night. You are doing us a tremendous favor. Any expenses you incur, by keeping Professor MacDonald and Dr. Edwards here, will be reimbursed by us. It is only fair—”

“It is nonsense,” Don Pietro, his mouth full of food, declared. “You are my friend. What I do, I do out of our friendship. I would expect the same from you. We will not speak of such a matter again.”

As the lunch proceeded, and drew to a finish, Don Pietro continued to talk about himself and his daily life. To Jordan it was as if the priest were deliberately avoiding any mention of Professor MacDonald’s presence, either because he did not want to know the truth or because he did not wish to embarrass his guests.

The coffee had been served, and Don Pietro had already discussed his upbringing by his religious father, an organist, his education at a
scuola media
until he was fourteen, at a
liceo classico
until he was nineteen, and finally at the Seminario Patriarcale where he studied theology and where he had prepared for the priesthood. Now he was giving MacDonald a rundown on his daily activity, from his eight o’clock morning Mass to his teaching at the Instituto Turismo across the Grand Canal to his after-dinner evening meetings with parishioners who were about to get married or who had just had children.

Don Pietro stopped his autobiographical monologue. “Enough. I will drive you from here with my ceaseless reminiscences.”