The Pigeon Project (43 page)

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 carrying 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.”

“No,” she begged. “You must save my mother first. You owe this to me. We’ve been together, Tim, close together for a long time. I have done things for you. Now you must do this one thing for me. I’ve never asked anything of you. Now I ask this. Please, Tim!”

Momentarily unnerved, he held fast. “Impossible, Marisa. I wish I could, but—”

“You won’t do it?” she said.

“I can’t.”

“All right,” she said. She walked quickly to the antique table, yanked open a drawer. “All right,” she repeated, and she turned around facing them, “then I’ll make you do it.”

In her right hand she was clasping that ugly Italian revolver, a Beretta. She pointed it at Jordan.

“You are not leaving here,” she said hoarsely.

“Marisa, don’t be foolish…”

He started slowly toward her.

The gun wavered in her hand.

Gently, he reached out, removed the revolver from her grasp, and pocketed it.

She broke down, bursting into tears, sobbing.

He stared at her a moment, with wrenching sorrow, then leaned forward to kiss her. She tore away, still sobbing.

“We must go, Marisa,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

He beckoned to MacDonald and they started for the door.

He heard her voice.

“I’m sorry too,” she called after him.

There was a special quality in her voice. Only later did he realize it was that of love turned to hate.

* * *

It was five minutes after eleven in the morning, and the three of them—Alison, MacDonald, Jordan—were securely aboard Rocco’s large, powerful walnut-colored motorboat, a sea rocket, and on their way.

Sitting back, as the waters of the lagoon churned around them, Jordan thought it was a miracle to be here at all, to have got this far without detection. The walk from Marisa’s apartment to the lagoon pier near the Hotel Danieli had been a heart-stopping experience. The two men had gone swiftly but warily, as if terror lurked at every corner. At least five times, they had passed posters—to the mind’s eye they loomed as gigantic—showing their faces, offering the rewards on their heads. Every minute had been terrifying until they had reached Alison, suitcase in hand, on a constant lookout for them.

Yards away, a burly stranger, one foot on the side of his motorboat, was beckoning to them. At first, Jordan had not recognized him, and then he had remembered that Rocco would be disguised. Jordan realized that the stranger must be Rocco. He was wearing dark sunglasses, an elongated hooked nose probably made of putty, a fake flaring moustache, and an enormous bush of black beard.

“There he is,” Jordan had said to MacDonald and Alison.

They had hurried toward him. He had helped them down into the craft, settled MacDonald and Alison in the rear and Jordan right behind him.

“It’s really you, Rocco?” Jordan had asked.

Steering the motorboat backward, away from the pier, swinging it gradually around, he had chuckled. “For this kind of money, it’s Rocco, you bet.”

And now they were on their way, all chips in the pot.

Rocco’s craft slithered along the water, close to the shoreline of Venice, going past the empty berth where
The Delphic Oracle
had stood little more than an hour ago, skimming past the public park Jordan had visited yesterday, then rounding the tip of Venice. For a short time, they rode in a northerly direction toward Murano. Then Rocco gradually began to bend his craft away from the open lagoon, heading southeast, bearing down on the waterway between a small cluster of islands and a larger island.

They had been traveling for twenty minutes without any of them speaking a word.

Now, above the hum of the engine, Rocco pointed ahead, announcing, “There’s the entrance to the Porto di Lido.”

Jordan could feel the tension growing, behind him and in his own chest.

Noticing a leather case on the floor beside the pilot, Jordan asked, “Are those binoculars?”