The Pigeon Project (37 page)

For Jordan, the scenario was verified. Felice, always desperate for money, desperate to make enough money to get her out of tourism and into art school at Grenoble, had at last found the means of becoming rich and free overnight. She had recognized Professor MacDonald as the fugitive MacGregor in the police poster. She was informing on him. To hell with her friendship with Jordan. To hell with anything like that. Tonight, she would be $150,000 richer and she would have her dream, and the police and the Communists would have their life-prolonging scientist.

Jordan waited only seconds more. Felice, at the green stand marked polizia, was reaching for the telephone receiver which would carry her excited voice directly to the local police station.

There was no time to waste, not even an instant. Jordan wheeled, went down the stone steps even faster than he had come up them, dashed into the square, slowed to a fast walk so as not to draw attention, and came up behind MacDonald. He looped his arm under MacDonald’s and gently drew him out of the group.

Putting pressure on the bewildered MacDonald’s arm, he slowly began to walk him, then with more haste hurry him, in the opposite direction, away from the square, away from the bridge, away from the informing Felice Huber.

“You were recognized,” Jordan said under his breath. “She spotted you and is calling the police. She wants the reward, and we want out of here. The place will be swarming with uniforms in a few minutes. This is going to be close. Keep moving. Let’s hit the side streets. We’ve got to find a place to hide you again. Any place nearby.”

* * *

During the next fifteen minutes, the local police and the carabinieri had been pouring into the San Marco area from every direction, and throughout that time Jordan, with Professor MacDonald close to him, had been adroitly evading them, weaving into and out of the small streets and back alleys he knew so well. He had been moving them behind the Piazza, behind his office building, toward the Mercerie, with no plan or destination in mind.

All the while he had been racking his brain, taking rapid inventory of his remaining store of Venetian friends, acquaintances, contacts, groping for one more dependable person who might help the professor out of this jam. He needed just one more place to keep the professor in seclusion and to allow himself time to organize some new escape plan. No person came to mind, and he knew that soon, by the laws of chance, they would be seen and the pursuit would be ended.

Once during the flight, he had been frightened by the ominous buzz of a helicopter low overhead. Fearing it might be a police helicopter, he had shoved the professor back against a wall. But as the helicopter passed by, he saw it was not one that belonged to the police but the ridiculous one flying the Cinzano banner.

A short block from the Mercerie, as he realized where he was, an available refuge came to mind. It meant using somebody twice, but the somebody had once been a person of goodwill and might prove cooperative a second time.

Heartened, Jordan led MacDonald across the main shopping street and into a dark alley that opened into the small square called the Campo San Zulian.

As they approached the square, Jordan spoke to the wearying MacDonald. “Professor, remember after we pulled you off the isle of San Lazzaro in the beginning, I told you there was a man who had made it possible. The one whose nephew was the monk taking care of you in the monastery.”

“I remember.”

“That’s where we’re going. I can think of no one else. His name is Sembut Nurikhan. He owns a shop in the Campo San Zulian—a glassware shop with an office in the back—and I’m going to ask him to keep you for a day.”

“For a day?”

“Yes. I have an idea how to get you out of here tonight or tomorrow night.”

The idea had struck him a few minutes ago. At first inspiration, it had seemed a ridiculous idea, but in the intervening minutes it had matured in his head and now seemed feasible. Before he could investigate it, he must safely deposit the professor somewhere.

The Campo San Zulian was like most other squares in Venice, only much smaller, as if miniaturized, with the inevitable old church dominating it on one side. Jordan went into the square first, to scout it. He stood under a sign reading ESTADOS UNIDOS MEXICANOS CONSULADO and took in the activity. There was almost none, a few window-shoppers, no police yet.

He beckoned MacDonald, marched him to the glass shop with its aluminum-trimmed display windows, and brought him out of the hot day into the air-conditioned interior. Their entrance had caused a bell to tinkle, but there was no one in the shop. Then Sembut Nurikhan appeared from his rear cubicle to meet his customers, and his sallow merchant’s face cracked into a slight smile as he saw Jordan.

“Tim,” he said, “I wondered what happened to you.”

“Sembut, I need your help again. Can we talk in your office?”

The proprietor squinted at MacDonald through his gold-rimmed glasses, patted his bow tie, then said, “Come.”

It was hardly an office: a cramped room illuminated by two fluorescent lights with a rolltop desk, file cabinet, cot, and two chairs.

“Not very comfortable here,” said Nurikhan apologetically, “but there is privacy.”

“Sembut, I want to introduce you to Professor Davis MacDonald, the gerontologist who made the great discovery. The man you helped me rescue from San Lazzaro.”

“I’ve been wanting to thank you,” said MacDonald, extending his hand.

Nurikhan gingerly shook hands. “I am honored.”

“Sembut, I require a place to keep the professor, keep him out of sight, until I can get him out of the city, possibly by tomorrow. If you could let him stay here in the back, let him rest—”

Nurikhan’s expression was worried. “I-I don’t know. It could mean trouble.”

“No one would know. And as I promised you, the professor will help your brother.”

“My brother—” the proprietor began to say, when he heard the doorbell tinkle. He looked off. “Customers. I must attend to the customers.”

“Please, Sembut.”

Nurikhan sighed heavily. “Very well,” he said to Professor MacDonald. “You may stay—for a while.”

After the proprietor had left them, MacDonald sat down on the cot. “What can you do by tomorrow?”

“Something, I hope. You’d better lie down and get as much rest as you can. If what I have in mind works, you’ll need all your energy. I’ll probably be away all afternoon. If I am, I’ll send Alison to keep you company. One way or another, I’ll see you tonight before he closes the store. Hopefully, you’ll be in Paris by tomorrow.”

* * *

When he arrived at his secretary’s office, Jordan found Gloria busily typing, preparing next month’s newsletter for the Venice Must Live Committee.

He greeted Gloria, then looked into Marisa’s office. It was empty.

“Where’s Marisa?”

“She just left for lunch.”

“Do you know where?”

“She didn’t say. She only said she’d be back by two o’clock.”

“Dammit. Well, I’ll just have to wait for her.”

He went into his own office to see if he could find the information he wanted from Marisa. He went through his personal address book, then through his desk drawers. No luck. Finally, there was nothing he could do but settle down and await Marisa’s return. He took out his pipe, packed it, and for more than an hour examined the one possibility for escape he had come upon. After that, he explored other options.

At ten minutes to two, his office door opened and Marisa filled it.

She came to him and kissed him on the lips.

“Gloria says you want to see me.”

He studied her briefly. Her eyes were tearful, her face drawn.

“What’s the matter?” he wanted to know.

“I wasn’t at lunch. I was at the hospital with my mother. She looks terrible. She’s in pain. The doctors are finishing their tests today. We will have a report soon.”

“I’m sorry.”

She pulled herself together, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and sat down on the other side of the desk.

“I’m all right,” she said. “Incidentally, thank you for not involving Bruno in your scheme to smuggle that courier friend of yours out of the country. He’s sore as hell at you for changing your mind, but I’m glad.”

“I appreciate all he tried to do, Marisa, and I’ll pay him for his time. But at the last minute I couldn’t go through with it. I didn’t trust his contact.”

“Anyway, I’m relieved.”

Jordan straightened in his swivel chair and became more businesslike. “Marisa, I was waiting for you because I wanted to get hold of the name of that fellow in town here who owns a helicopter and rents it for advertising and other things. You were the one who arranged for him—I think it was over a year ago—to do that photo survey of the Lido Channel for us. You recall? The crazy guy who once had his helicopter put down in the Piazza San Marco to win a bet.”

“Signor Folin,” she said. “He’s the one. What do you want with him?”

“I’ve got a notion for a fund-raiser that involves a helicopter. I want to talk it over with him. Do you know his address?”

“He has a desk at American Express. He works part time for them, to pay for his desk space, and he rents out his helicopter the rest of the time.”

“Good.” Jordan stood up. “Call him up and see if he’s going to be there a little while. Tell him I want to talk to him and I’ll be right over.”

* * *

Signor Folin had bulging eyes, a small mouth that held a cigar in its center, and ashes all over the broad expanse of his chest and stomach.

He was on his feet, beside his desk, pumping Jordan’s hand. “Yes, I remember your name,” he said. “I did business with you once through your assistant. It was agreeable. I hope we can do business again.”

“We can,” said Jordan.

“Well, here now, have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.”

Jordan glanced around the room. It was filled with clerks and customers, many of them within earshot.

“I’d rather speak to you privately. It’s a confidential matter. Can we just step outside and take a short stroll?”

This did not seem unusual to Signor Folin. Obviously, a man who owned a helicopter was ready for anything. “Whatever will please you, Mr. Jordan,” he said.

Outside, they strolled slowly, and Jordan lowered his voice as he spoke.

“You still have your helicopter?” asked Jordan.

Folin’s porcine face lit up. “I now have two,” he said proudly.

“Where do you have them? In Venice?”

“In Venice is impossible. I have my landing pad and hangar between Marghera and Mestre. Only minutes away.”

“Was that one of your helicopters flying over the city this morning?”

“But of course. I am the only one in the vicinity with a helicopter business. This morning, we were working for our Cinzano account, a handsome account.”

“So you had no problem flying over the city from the mainland, even though there is a ban on incoming traffic?”

“No, this problem does not apply to my business. What harm could I do them?”

“Why, you might fly someone in—or fly someone out.”

Folin laughed. “Impossible. Where would I land? In the Grand Canal?”

Jordan eyed him carefully as they walked along, and was silent for a few moments. Well, he decided, sooner or later, it had to be said. “For one thing, Signor Folin, you could land in the Piazza San Marco.”

Folin looked at Jordan to see if he was joking. “Who would expect me to do a thing like that?”

“Exactly,” said Jordan. “No one would expect it. But you could do it.”

“Are you serious?”

“Never more so.”

“It’s—it is unthinkable.”

“You thought about it once. I heard you once had your helicopter actually land in the middle of the Piazza.”

“Ah, five years ago.” Signor Folin chuckled. “That was different. That was to win a bet. It was an amusement. Even so, I was fined—a stiff fine. But it was worth it.”

Jordan halted, and Folin halted with him.

“What would it be worth to do it again?” Jordan asked.

Folin had become more serious. “You mean it?”

“Absolutely.”

“I could lose my license. Probably not. The mayor is my cousin. But certainly, I’d be fined heavily. It depends what you want a helicopter for.”

“To take a passenger out of Venice. To Marghera, where a rented car would be waiting.”

“That would be against the law, the emergency law, Mr. Jordan.”

“Who would know? At two in the morning, the Piazza San Marco is a desert. No one around. Certainly no police. No one would see you land or take the passenger on board. If some late person witnessed it, and reported it, you could claim he was drunk, you took no one on, you had engine trouble, landed where you could, then found you could take off again.”

“You make it sound possible.”

“I’m sure it’s possible,” said Jordan.

“Well, I suppose so, and safer if I rented a helicopter from one of my competitors in Padua.” Folin threw down his cigar stub and squashed it with his foot. “It would be expensive, Mr. Jordan.”

“I can offer you $10,000.”

“Not enough, Mr. Jordan. More like $20,000.”

Jordan thought about it. Gathering the financial resources that he and Alison had on hand, then writing checks on his New York bank and cashing them at the Danieli and two local banks he did business with, he could raise the sum this afternoon.

“Okay,” said Jordan. “You’ve got a deal.”

“Not so fast. Not yet. I must telephone one of my pilots on the mainland. He must agree to this.”

“How can you call? I thought all long-distance calls were monitored.”

Folin grinned. “My wife is a telephone operator in Venice. She always puts through my calls and no worry about being monitored. She goes to work at six o’clock. You come to see me at seven o’clock this evening, at American Express. I will be there alone.”

“Do you think it will work out?” Jordan asked worriedly.

Folin grinned again. “Bring half the sum when you come to see me. Be ready to pay the other half to the pilot when your man gets on board. See you at seven this evening, Mr. Jordan. Good day.”

* * *

When Jordan returned to the Hotel Danieli suite, Alison was waiting, filled with anxiety.