The Pigeon Project (41 page)

Jordan recoiled, momentarily watching them in hypnotized fascination.

Then he saw that they weren’t heading toward the helicopter at all. The swarm was descending on Gino, certain he was the fugitive MacDonald.

The helicopter pilot, apparently alerted by the tumult and seeing the charge of the police, immediately had his aircraft in motion once more. The chopper was rising, slowly, then faster, eluding the police. It was airborne above the Piazza and beginning to wing away.

And the police were upon Gino, surrounding him, manhandling him.

Jordan had seen enough.

Cursing Nurikhan under his breath, he shoved away from the arcade column, snatched the trembling MacDonald by the arm as he spoke to Alison. “Get back to the hotel,” Jordan snapped at her. “We’ve got to run for it. We’ve got to get as far away from here as possible.”

With that, he and MacDonald plunged into the narrow cave of the Mercerie.

They ran and they ran. Jordan did not know how long they had been running, but when MacDonald was choking for breath, ready to collapse, Jordan stopped and propped MacDonald up.

“I can’t go another step,” MacDonald groaned. “I’m sorry. I give up.”

“Okay,” said Jordan. A sign above, half hidden by mist, read, CAMPO SAN LIO. “There’s a bridge. We’ll go down below it, off this main street. We’ll rest down by the canal. Maybe no one will see us.”

He had started toward the bridge with MacDonald when he saw a young woman come to the top of the bridge and begin to descend it.

As she passed under a lamp, her sharp-featured painted face, low-buttoned blouse, tight skirt, swinging purse were illuminated, and Jordan recognized her. He had encountered her his first week in Venice, and many times after. Her name was Clara something-or-other. She was a well-known streetwalker, a prostitute familiar to the habitues of the Mercerie and Rialto.

She had just turned off the main street, going toward a building facing the embankment of the canal, when Jordan called out, “Clara.”

She halted, startled, trying to see who it was. Supporting MacDonald, Jordan went to her.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, mildly disgusted. “One of my no-customers.”

“Maybe you’ve hit the jackpot, Clara. I’d like to be a sort of customer tonight. So would my friend.”

“You want some fun?
Marchetta
? Both of you?”

“Both of us. How much?”

“For one hour? All night? What?”

“To tell the truth, Clara, we want a place for all night.”

Clara calculated. “All night. For two. Considering it is already this late, I’ll make you a bargain. Let’s say 20,000 lire.”

“Fair enough,” said Jordan.

She winked. “Follow me.”

They went down the steps to the canal level, and at the first door of the old apartment building she motioned them inside. There was a dark hallway, and her three-room apartment was the second on the left.

She turned up a lamp in what appeared to be a sitting room, with a bedroom behind it, and a kitchen in an alcove. She locked the door from the inside, put her purse on a mantel, and went up to Jordan. She held out the palm of her hand.

“Pay before play,” she said.

“Sure,” said Jordan. He counted out 20,000 lire.

After she had deposited the bills in her purse, she came around unbuttoning her blouse, stripping it off. Before Jordan could speak, she had unsnapped her skirt and stepped out of it. Her small breasts were bare, and she was wearing only tight nylon panties.

“All right, gentlemen,” she said, “take off your trousers and come to the bathroom. I want to wash you both off .first.” She started for the bedroom. “What’s it going to be, one at a time or both of you together?”

Jordan asserted himself. “Hold it, Clara. Let me explain…”

“What’s the matter?”

“We just want a place to stay for the night. A place to rest. That’s all. That’s what we paid you for.”

She could not believe her ears. “No fucking?”

“No nothing,” said Jordan. “We just want a place to sleep. You can keep your bed. My friend and I will get some rest right here. When it’s morning, we’ll leave you.”

“I’ve never had this before,” she said, shaking her head. “But everybody’s queer in his own way. Well, do what you like. I’m going to sleep.”

Once they were alone, Jordan got MacDonald to the sofa and helped him lie down.

“This is better,” murmured MacDonald. “What about you?”

“I’ll sleep in the armchair.”

“That was a close one we had, wasn’t it?”

“The closest yet,” admitted Jordan, shedding his jacket.

“Tim—”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t we give up? There’s no place left to go.”

Jordan stared down at the old man. “There’s one place,” he said quietly. “I’ve been saving it. We’re going there in the morning. It’s our last hope.”

IX

He had not wanted to bring MacDonald here. Throughout the hectic week, it had always been in the back of his mind as a place of last resort. He had constantly resisted this refuge, because while it might be safe from the outside, there were potential dangers inside. For inside was the two-deck apartment in which Marisa, Bruno, and their widowed mother, Ada Girardi, lived.

Since the Girardi apartment, a ten-minute walk behind the Piazza, had been five or six minutes away from the prostitute’s quarters, the passage to it presented them with only fleeting exposure. On their way, they had been forced to hide just once, slipping into a tobacco-and-souvenir shop when they saw a pair of policemen strolling toward them. After that, there had been few people to recognize MacDonald and no further obstacles.

Jordan had pushed open a wrought-iron gate leading into a picturesque courtyard, and near the old rain cistern set in an alcove was the entrance to the residential building. They had climbed three stories up the steep turning staircase to the top floor and on the upper landing had arrived at the Girardi apartment.

It was now five minutes after eight in the morning. Marisa did not arrive at work until nine-thirty, so the odds were that she was still at home.

Jordan rang the doorbell.

He could hear footsteps in the corridor and entry hall. The door partially opened. Marisa, in blouse and skirt, running a comb through her long hair, peered out. She was surprised.

“Tim, what are you—” Then she saw MacDonald. “Come in,” she said to Jordan.

They were in the entry hall, both men breathing easier. Marisa considered Jordan briefly. “You look like hell. Where have you been all night?”

“It’s a long story. Marisa Girardi, let me introduce you to my friend, the one I’ve told you about, Professor Pearson.”

She eyed him speculatively. “How do you do?” she said. “Well, let’s not stand here.”

She led them down the corridor, past the kitchen and dining room, into the comfortable living room. There were the familiar Bukhara red rug, the antique Tyrolean table with four chairs, the Tuscan sideboard with its pewter plates, the walnut chest beneath the center window covered by white curtains, the oversized divan, and two armchairs. Behind the divan were wooden stairs going up to a mezzanine with doors to the three bedrooms.

“Are you here alone?” Jordan wanted to know.

“Yes. Bruno just left for work. Mamma, as you know, is in the hospital.”

“How is she?”

“She has been in pain. But they are giving her heavier sedation. They will finish their tests today. Dr. Scarpa promised a diagnosis no later than tomorrow. I’m worried.”

“Let’s hope for the best,” said Jordan lamely. “Marisa, I’ll tell you why we’re here. I need a place for the professor to stay tonight—well, today, tonight, maybe tomorrow, until I can get him out of Venice. I thought you might help us.”

She was silent a moment. “Of course. There is Mamma’s room. He can stay in her room.”

Jordan kissed her on the cheek. “I knew you’d help.”

“Did you have breakfast? Would both of you like some coffee?”

MacDonald spoke up. “To be frank with you, Miss Girardi, I didn’t sleep too well last night. I’d just like to lie down somewhere for a while.”

She started for the stairs to the mezzanine. “Come with me. I’ll show you my mother’s room.” Over her shoulder, she said, “Tim, if you’re having coffee, I’ll have a cup with you.”

Jordan waited until they had gone up to the bedroom, then went into the kitchen. He found the coffee, filled two cups, and brought them to the low table before the divan just as Marisa came down the stairs to join him. She settled beside him on the divan and stirred her coffee meditatively.

She said, “Of course, I want to help you, Tim, but I don’t want to get mixed up in any trouble.”

“I promise you, Marisa, no trouble.”

She looked at him. “I recognize your professor, Tim. I recognized him the minute you introduced me. He’s no underground courier working with separatists, as you’ve been saying. He’s the spy, the one whose face is on a hundred posters and in the papers. He’s MacGregor.”

Jordan wondered how much he dared tell her. The less the better, he decided. “Marisa, please believe me—I swear to you on all that is holy—he is not a spy. You’re right. He’s not an underground courier either. He’s a good, decent man, an important man, a scientist, who’s committed no crime, no crime whatsoever. He’s wanted by the Communists for another reason. He’s wanted by the Soviet Communists, and the local Communists are cooperating in trying to catch him. I’ll tell you more someday. But I can’t right now. Will you accept that?”

She smiled. “Of course, Tim.”

“Just one more thing. Can you tell Bruno to sleep somewhere else tonight? It would be awkward if he turned up. Tell him we want to spend the night here together.”

“Very well. I’ll phone Bruno when I get to the office. He has friends. He’ll find a place to stay.” She finished her coffee and came to her feet. “I’m going to the office early because I need a longer lunch hour. I want to go to the hospital to see Mamma. Are you coming with me?”

Jordan shook his head. “Not yet. Maybe I’ll be in later. I want to sit here alone and do some thinking.”

“Then I’ll leave you alone.”

She went to the sideboard to get her briefcase, picked up a manila envelope beside it, began to put it into her briefcase, then retained it and went back to Jordan.

She was pulling some eight-by-ten-inch photographs out of the manila envelope. “Perhaps this is something you should see. I’d better have your approval before I pass them out. Schuyler Moore wanted photographs of the Pirelli miniature model in action, and I collected some. Then he called and asked for photographs of the actual Lido channel where the inflatable dam is installed. I got Bruno to dig up the latest in his office and let us have prints. Schuyler Moore is coming by for them today. Do you want to have a look first?”

Although uninterested, Jordan accepted the half dozen or more photographs. He peeled through them. They were mostly aerial shots of the narrow opening of the Porto di Lido which led from the Venice lagoon into the Adriatic Sea. Some of the closer shots tried to show the pumping station for the inflatable dam. He came to the last picture, which showed a cruise ship passing from the Adriatic through the channel into the lagoon.

He started to hand them back to Marisa. “Fine, fine,” he said. “You can give Moore the lot.”

As Marisa took hold of the photographs, something far back in Jordan’s brain surfaced and struck him with a thought.

He held on to the pictures, pulled the last photograph free, the one with the ship passing through the channel.

“One second, Marisa. This one. When was it taken?”

“It says on the back. The day before the quarantine was declared on the city. That Greek cruise ship was the last one to enter here before the city was closed down.”

“Is the ship still here?”

“I have no idea.”

“Let me see the others again.”

He took them, went through them, studied the various views of the narrow channel leading out of Venice, the pumping station that had never been used, the vistas of the open sea. He handed them back to Marisa. “Perfect. Schuyler Moore will be pleased to have them.”

She went for her briefcase, slid the manila envelope into it, found her purse. Going to the corridor, she stopped beside Jordan, unzipped her purse, and handed him a key.

“Mamma’s key, in case you want to go out.”

“Thanks, Marisa.” He stood up and kissed her. “I will be going out soon.”

She hesitated. “I hope you find a way to help your friend,” she said.

“I will,” he said. “I’m sure I will.”

He watched her leave and was relieved when she was gone. He wanted to be alone with his new idea. He wanted to examine it, assess its practicability.

It was amazing, he thought. All the while, all these past days, while on the run, there must have been a half dozen latent escape ideas in his mind. This had been one of them. The murky idea, a mere impression of an idea, had come to full life, stimulated by a photograph. He began to turn it over in his head, a writer plotting. To the idea he added things remembered, something he had seen, something he had overheard recently, something that had been told to him not long ago.

The idea developed in his head, became a possibility, took on a reality.

He was excited. He visualized it clearly now, the only, the last means of escape.

How had he not thought of it before? But here it was. Of all his ideas, the simplest, the best—and the most dangerous. This was it. There would not be time for another. Going to the telephone to call Alison, he glanced at his watch. There was still a full day ahead of him.

He would need every minute of it.

* * *

Alison Edwards, in smoky oversized lavender sunglasses, blue blouse, and jeans, nibbling at a small cucumber sandwich and drinking her coffee, was waiting for him in the second row of Florian’s outdoor café, across the Piazza from Quadri’s, when he arrived.

As he sat down, and before she could ask, he said quietly, “MacDonald’s safe for the moment.” She sagged in relief.

He crossed his legs, lighted his pipe, and said, “It took some doing and some luck. We just ran and ran, no place to go, until we bumped into a prostitute I’d seen around coming home late. We paid her just to put us up.”