The Pigeon Project (21 page)

“Wait a minute,” Jordan interrupted. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“That the professor should allow us, the Church, to handle the formula, pass it out in an intelligent and decent way. It would be done correctly, for the good of humanity.”

Jordan did not like what he was hearing. “For the good of humanity?” he repeated. “And the Church is getting nothing out of this?”

Don Pietro lifted his shoulders. “I will not attempt to deceive you, my friend. I will be honest. In a secondary way, the Church would profit from the opportunity to dispense C-98, of course. The act would earn tremendous goodwill for the Church, especially in a time when the faithful are dwindling. Overnight, we are the ones selected by the discoverer as the agent to give succor to mankind. After all, Tim, what difference does it make who is elected to pass out the formula? It has to be someone. Why not the Church?”

“And you think Professor MacDonald will go for that?”

“We are all certain he will approve.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“But he will He will be persuaded to see this in the proper light.”

“And if he isn’t persuaded? You will let him go on to Paris?”

“Tim, Tim, he will be convinced. Once Cardinal Bacchi has talked to him—”

“Cardinal who?” Jordan interrupted harshly. “Bacchi.”

“That reactionary madman!” Jordan exploded. “I’ve read about him, heard about him, trying to turn the Church back to the Middle Ages, to impose super orthodoxy on orthodoxy, to stamp the entire world with his brand of Catholicism. You’re going to turn that inquisitor loose on Professor MacDonald?”

“Come now, my friend, be reasonable. You are exaggerating…”

“Don’t tell me I’m exaggerating.” Jordan whirled away from the priest, facing Alison. “Don’t you see?” he said to her. “Now we’re getting to the fine print. Bacchi is the kind of man who could keep MacDonald in the Vatican indefinitely, make him a prisoner again, until he cooperates. Bacchi is the kind of man who will use C-98 to proselytize, employ it as blackmail to hold over the world—You want to live to 150? Well, join up or no soap.”

“Please, Tim,” Don Pietro protested behind him. Jordan ignored the priest. “Alison, believe me, turning MacDonald over to the likes of Cardinal Bacchi is a greater risk than keeping him here in Venice. Bacchi and his crowd are fanatics—well meaning, I’m sure—but so certain that their medieval beliefs are infallible that they are capable of doing anything to have their way. They could hold on to MacDonald forever, until he gave in. It may not happen. But it could happen. I don’t see rescuing the professor from one set of ruthless fanatics—Communists—to turn him over to another set of fanatics—that Opus Dei group in the Church. We can’t take a chance.”

Alison was frightened. “Whatever you think is right, Tim.”

Jordan had her by the shoulder. “Wait for me at the hotel.” He started for the door. “I’ve got to get MacDonald back. I hope it’s not too late.”

He was through the door, in the sunlight, in the square, when he heard Don Pietro’s shrill voice cry after him. “Tim, don’t, don’t—don’t interfere!”

* * *

Luckily, Jordan had caught a motorboat cruising in a canal, had hailed it, had offered the driver a bonus to get him to the railroad station as fast as possible.

During their speedy passage, Jordan had speculated on the possibility of catching Professor MacDonald in time. The clerical party had had a good head start, but they had gone by gondola, and now he hoped his motorboat would close the gap between them. If he failed to catch the professor in time, he felt it could be a disaster. The Church itself, he knew, would never condone what might happen, and might never know. Cardinal Bacchi and his minority group of Savonarolas could work quietly and meanly to achieve their ends.

Now the railroad station was in sight and growing closer. Then, just as the driver eased the craft in alongside the wharf, Jordan, at the bow, spotted them up ahead. The six members of the clerical party were at the top of the white stone stairs, before the entrance to the station. Two guards, one an officer, were inspecting their exit permits.

For a split second, as he paid off the boat’s driver, Jordan had a pang of indecision. A few moments more and the professor would be free, free of the Communist net, and it might be the only opportunity for regaining his freedom he would ever have. If he remained here, the Communists might win by attrition, surely close in on him or catch him unless Bruno came through with another escape hatch. At the same time, he might be walking into a trap set by religious fanatics, who could detain him indefinitely. On the other hand—Jordan always was mindful of his own paranoia—the good priests might merely talk to MacDonald, try to persuade him, and failing to do so, they might free him. Could the gamble be taken?

Jordan’s mind was alreadv made up as he leaped out of the motorboat and hurried up the pier.

He wanted to run, to be sure to catch MacDonald before he finished the inspection and went through the glass doors into the depot. But Jordan was afraid to run, afraid to attract the attention of the many police scattered about the area.

With effort, he contained himself, moving in long, fast strides to the station’s stairway and then up the steps two at a time.

Ahead, he could see that MacDonald, in a long black cassock, had just been allowed to proceed by the police guards and was going to join four others who had already been passed. One clergyman was left, his permit being inspected by the officer. The one who was left was dressed more regally than the others, and Jordan guessed that this was Bishop Uberti.

At the top of the stairs, Jordan slowed down and, trying to be as casual as possible, walked toward the two policemen and the clergyman. The police officer had just handed the one who was presumably the bishop his paper, and nodded, when Jordan called out, “Bishop Uberti.”

The clergyman, about to start toward the others in his party, halted, responding to his name, and looked inquiringly at Jordan.

“I can’t cross the line,” Jordan said. “Can you come here for a moment? I must have a word with you concerning your mission.”

Perplexed but curious, the stout bishop changed his course, moved past the guards, and came to Jordan. “Do we know each other?” he asked.

Jordan took him by the elbow and propelled him out of earshot of the guards. “I am a friend of Don Pietro’s,” he said in an undertone. “I also a friend of the professor’s. I brought them together.”

“You are the American—Jordan?”

“Yes. The professor wrote out his formula. He left it at the hotel. I was to bring it to him, but I missed him.” He patted his trouser pocket. “I have it here. He has it all in his head, but this will make it easier for him to remember. I want him to have it before he leaves.”

“I’ll take it and give it to him,” said the bishop.

Jordan had been prepared for this. “I’m sorry. Except for me, no one may touch the formula but the professor. His own rule. If you’ll send him over here, I’ll hand it to him and he can go.”

The bishop wavered, undecided a moment, staring down at Jordan’s pocket. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll send him over, but hurry it up.”

He left Jordan, spoke a few words to the officer guard, then continued on to the glass doors of the depot where the priests were gathered. Jordan watched him speaking to MacDonald. He saw MacDonald nod, look toward him, and then begin to retrace his steps, walking back past the guards.

Nervously waiting, Jordan glanced over his shoulder at the floating boat station below. There were no unoccupied motorboats in view. A half-filled vaporetto, heading down the Grand Canal toward the lagoon, was just arriving at the station, the gate in its guardrail opening to discharge several passengers.

Jordan turned back just as MacDonald reached him.

“I’m almost free,” MacDonald said. “The bishop told me you wanted to see me. What is it?”

“Listen to me. Just listen, and do as I do.” Jordan had one arm around the professor’s shoulder, and was starting him slowly down the flight of stone steps, as he pretended to dig for the nonexistent formula in his pocket. “You were not almost free. You were being led into a different trap. They were taking you to Rome, with no promise to release you until you gave the Vatican the exclusive right to C-98.”

“That—that’s unbelievable. Would they really do that?”

“They could do it. You can’t chance it. We’ll find another way. Right now, I’ve got to get you out of here fast.”

The two had reached the foot of the stairs.

“But the bishop—he’ll—” MacDonald began to protest.

“He can do nothing. He doesn’t dare alert the guards, let them know he was helping you escape. See that vaporetto—the water bus—just about to leave. It would be natural to run, to catch it. Let’s run.”

At the platform of the station, Jordan broke into a trot, followed by MacDonald.

They came to the edge of the station just as the boat was parting from it.

“Jump on!” yelled Jordan.

He let MacDonald go past him. MacDonald leaped from the station to the boat, caught his foot in the hem of his cassock, and went sprawling on the hard wooden deck. Jordan vaulted aboard after him, regained his balance, and hastily joined several Venetians who were helping MacDonald to his feet.

“Are you all right?” Jordan asked anxiously. He drew MacDonald toward a bench and saw that he was limping.

“My leg,” grunted the professor, “it’s very painful. I hope I didn’t break anything.”

Jordan eased MacDonald down on the bench, and as he did so, he looked back at the receding railroad depot. There was a single figure, the bishop, hastening down the steps, running toward the boat station, shouting. But they were in the middle of the canal, out of reach, and Jordan turned away from the station.

“We’ll have to get you some help for your leg,” Jordan said to MacDonald.

“Maybe we’d better,” MacDonald said, wincing. “But where do we go?”

“Considering your leg,” said Jordan, “we have little choice. There’s only one place to go—to a small clime I know.”

“But if they recognize me?”

“A small clinic owned by a dear friend,” said Jordan. “We’ll get off at the next station. Do you think you can make it?”

V

There had been two narrow escapes as they had tried to make their way, haltingly, to the doctor’s clinic in the square of San Zan Degolà.

Going on foot, they had twice almost run into police patrols, on each occasion detouring into a claustrophobic side street in the nick of time. Increasingly, also, Professor MacDonald’s injured leg impeded their progress. At last, Jordan sought and found a free gondola. They were able to move through the city, using the network of canals, more easily and safely.

Now, as they neared their destination, Jordan was speaking to MacDonald, who was still wearing the black cassock.

“This gondola will take us practically to his doorstep. He’s been my doctor ever since I’ve been in Venice.”

“What’s his name again?” asked MacDonald.

“Dr. Giovanni Scarpa. He’s one of the most popular physicians in the city. Has patients as far away as Mestre. In fact, he’s so busy he has no time for exercise. You know how he gets his exercise? He keeps a car, a motorcycle, and a bicycle at the garage at the Piazzale Roma, and if the weather is good, he used the bike to pedal to his patients, to keep in shape. He’s a Mutua doctor—Mutua is the name of Italy’s National Health Insurance—and he takes workers who belong to the plan, even though it means less income for him, because he feels everyone deserves the best medical help possible. You may find our Sior dotor—‘Mr. Doctor,’ as the Venetians say—a little remote, cold, businesslike, but he’s a good, warm, concerned man inside. And extremely learned. He and I have a mutual interest in rare books. He’s quite a contrast to Don Pietro. For one thing, Dr. Scarpa is a freethinker, an absolute enemy of the Catholic Church. He believes strongly in birth control, population control, not only for Italy but for the world. In fact, his latest book—he’s published several—advocates rigid birth control for Italy. It caused quite a controversy when it came out last year… Well, here we are. Let’s hope he’s in.”

The gondola had bumped up against the side of the canal, and the gondolier loosely secured it to the nearby iron rail. Jordan stood up, paid the gondolier, told him not to wait, stepped from the rocking boat to the semicircular cement stairs that led up to the square.

“Careful,” he said to MacDonald as he helped him out of the gondola.

MacDonald limped up the stairs ahead of Jordan, who pointed to his left. “Scarpa’s clinic, as well as his home.”

It was a squarish two-story building, faced in yellow plaster, with an open terrace over the ground floor and a slanting red tile roof above it. They approached the black front door of the building.

“The doctor’s offices and clinic are downstairs,” said Jordan. “He lives upstairs with his wife and two children.”

“After he examines me,” said MacDonald worriedly, “do you think he’ll allow me to stay?”

“I believe he will. At least, I’ll try to persuade him,” said Jordan. About to open the front door, he held back a moment. “Just one thing, Professor—”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want him to know who you really are. Okay? I have my reasons.”

“Very well, Tim.”

They entered the cool, dark entry hall, setting a bell ringing, and continued into the austere waiting room, furnished with cane and brown imitation-leather armchairs and sofa arranged on a floor composed of red Verona marble tiles. The nurse’s desk was unoccupied.

But almost immediately, from the open doorway of the examination room, she was heard, “Chi PS?”

“She asks who it is,” Jordan translated for MacDonald. He called back, “
Amici
.” Then to MacDonald, “Friends.”

The nurse, a young but plain blonde in a blue uniform, came out of the examination room, looking a little annoyed. “The doctor’s hours are not until two o’clock, and if you…” She recognized Jordan and stopped, breaking into a smile. “Oh, it is you, Mr. Jordan. That is different.”

“Is Sior dotor in?”

“He has just returned from his morning house calls. He is in his office making some notes. I’ll tell him you’re here.”