The Pigeon Project (42 page)

“Not really?”

“It served.”

“Is David still there?”

“No. The woman has regular customers she must accommodate. We couldn’t stay. This morning, I dragged the professor to the last place I could think of…”

Considering how he would explain the next, he stalled briefly by summoning the waiter and ordering tea and a roll.

He decided to be frank. “Remember when we were at the Lido beach and I had a couple of women’s swimsuits in my cabana?”

“The one that had too many curves for me.” Then she added, “Your Venetian inamorata.”

“Friend,” he corrected her. “She’s my assistant in the office. Her name is Marisa Girardi. She lives with her brother, Bruno, the photographer, the one who tried to bribe the captain for us—she lives with him and with her mother in an apartment not too far from here. Well, I turned to her this morning.”

“Why hadn’t you tried her before?”

“Mostly Bruno. He’s too close to the police, covering their hunt. Anyway, Marisa took the professor in, and that’s where he is right now. Incidentally, how did you make out last night, after the police swarmed over poor Gino and the professor and I took off? Did you have any trouble?”

“Not much,” said Alison. “I ignored the police and just started walking across the edge of the Piazza, in front of the Basilica, a tourist going back to her hotel. A couple of police came over to question me.”

“Like what?”

“Who was I? Where was I coming from? Where was I going? I told them, rather indignantly, I’d come to Venice for one day and had been stuck here ever since. I’d just been visiting a friend and was getting back to the Danieli. I asked them what the commotion in the Piazza was all about. They wouldn’t tell me. They wanted to know if I’d seen someone running on the Mercerie. I told them I had seen no one running or walking. So they waved me on.”

“Good.”

“Tim, just one thing bothers me about last night. Do you think the police asked Gino why he was running toward the helicopter? He might have told them who sent him.”

Jordan shook his head. “I doubt if he involved me. I had worried about that. But knowing Gino, he probably told them he was drunk, and saw this crazy helicopter land, and ran out to see what was going on. If he had given the police my name, they’d have been after me already. I checked the hotel. No one has been looking for me.”

Alison appeared satisfied. “And Davis? Is he safe at Marisa’s?”

“If we don’t hide him there too long. I arranged for Bruno to sleep somewhere else tonight. But I won’t be able to keep him out much longer. And he’d recognize MacDonald in an instant.” The tea had been served. Jordan took a bite of the roll and drank the tea. “We’ve got to move fast.”

Alison’s anxiety had returned. “What’s next, Tim? What’s left?”

He smiled, to relieve her concern. “We get the professor out of here—in fact, you and the professor. It’s the best idea I’ve had. I think I’d had it somewhere in my head for days. In the last hour it came together. But it depends on several factors. I’m going to spend the rest of the day looking into them.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Not yet, Alison. I only want to tell you that if it does work out—be ready to leave Venice in the morning with the professor.”

“And if it doesn’t work out?”

“We’re finished.” He laid some money on the table. “Now I’d better start moving. I’ll walk you to the hotel.”

They went back to the hotel in silence, wending their way through groups of tourists being photographed amid clusters of pigeons pecking at food, and in a few minutes, he had her back at the Danieli entrance. The two uniformed police guards were outside the glass doors, studying every person entering or leaving.

“Okay, I leave you here,” said Jordan.

She was reluctant to go inside. “When will I hear from you, Tim?”

“Tonight, I promise. One way or the other.”

He waited for her to go inside, and when she was gone, he resumed walking. He went over the bridge near the entrance and strolled to the edge of the lagoon.

With one hand he shaded his eyes from the fierce sun, and scanned the curve of the lagoon to his left. Then he saw what he wanted to see and had expected to see. About the distant point where he remembered the Istituto di Studi Adriatici was located, sitting high in the water at dockside, was a huge, gleaming white cruise ship. He could not make out the design of its flag, but he was certain that this was the vessel that Dante, his lifeguard friend on the Lido, had spoken about, the ship that could be seen entering the lagoon the day before the emergency. The same vessel he had just seen in a photograph.

All that mattered was that it was still here.

Satisfied, Jordan retraced his steps to the Danieli entrance and went into the cool lobby. No guests were at the concierge’s counter. Fabris, the chief concierge, was on the telephone at the end of the counter. He acknowledged Jordan’s appearance with a raised hand, then hung up.

“We have not seen much of you lately, Mr. Jordan. Is everything all right?”

“Just busier than ever,” said Jordan. “By the way, Fabris, I was taking a walk on the Riva degli Schiavoni, and I spotted a cruise ship out there. I thought no ships were allowed into the lagoon during the emergency.”

“Ah, the Greek ship—
The Delphic Oracle
. It arrived the day before the emergency, while the port was still open. This was not on its itinerary. It was sailing back to Piraeus when it needed repairs. So it docked just as the port was shut down.”

“Can anyone visit the cruise ship? I’ve always wondered what one looks like.”

“Sorry, no, Mr. Jordan. From the moment of the emergency, the ship has been quarantined. No passengers permitted to leave. No one permitted to visit. They take no chances with the spy. Even the crew is confined, except for the captain and purser.”

“Will it be allowed to leave Venice?”

“Absolutely. It was supposed to sail yesterday. But it was held up for one more repair. I believe it now leaves tomorrow.”

“You mentioned that the captain and purser can come ashore.”

“Oh, yes. In fact, they come by our bar every day for a Bellini or two. The captain left a few minutes ago, but the purser—a very nice fellow, a Mr. Papadopoulos—he still may be in the bar having his refreshment.”

“Thanks, Mr. Fabris.”

Jordan crossed the main lobby and entered the darkened bar. At this hour of the morning, the bar was unoccupied except for a youthful assistant bartender reading a newspaper and a lone middle-aged man in uniform sunk deep into an armchair, enjoying a Bellini.

Jordan approached him. “Mr. Papadopoulos?”

The craggy-faced purser looked up.

“My friend the chief concierge told me I might find you here. I wanted to speak to you about a matter of business.”

The purser seemed more than pleased to have company. “Sit down, do sit down. Will you join me for a drink?”

“You’re very kind, but no, thanks.” Jordan settled into the armchair beside him. “My name is Timothy Jordan. I’m an American with the Venice Must Live Committee.”

“You are an engineer to save Venice from sinking?”

“I used to be. I’m a writer now, actually handling public relations for the Committee. I see your ship is still in port.”

“Unhappily for most of the passengers. They’re not allowed off. Foolish, but they are not. I guess the police are afraid one of them might return from an excursion with the spy’s secrets. The confinement—most of them are very restless by now. Well, it won’t be long. We had hoped to sail yesterday, even the day before, but repairs continue. The Venetians are terribly slow.”

“When does
The Delphic Oracle
sail?”

“In the morning. Tomorrow morning, for sure.”

“What time?”

“Ten o’clock.”

Jordan did not waste words. “I’d like to put someone—a friend—on your ship.”

The purser gave him a long look. “Impossible in port. We would be agreeable, but the authorities would not permit it. It can’t be done in port.”

“I don’t mean in port,” said Jordan. “I mean at sea.”

Papadopoulos gave him a longer look. “At sea?”

“Surely it’s been done before?”

The purser nodded. “Yes. It has been done a number of times. Especially when one of our passengers has missed the sailing.”

“This would be a new passenger—two, actually—and even though you’d be on the last leg of the cruise, they’d pay full fare.”

The purser was thoughtful. “It would be an inconvenience, slowing the vessel.” He shrugged. “Still, why not? It could be done, if we are at sea out of the jurisdiction of Venice. You’d have to find a means of reaching us.”

“It would-be arranged.”

“I see no objections. The rest is up to you.”

Jordan felt relieved. “Very well. Then let’s get down to business.”

It was late morning, but before lunchtime, when Jordan parted the brown swinging doors at Harry’s Bar.

He was pleased at what he saw. All but two of the small lacquered circular tables, with their low chairs padded in black leather, were empty. To his left, next to the framed photograph of Ernest Hemingway posing with the elder Giuseppe Cipriani, who had founded Harry’s Bar, the cashier sat at the register counting bills while engaged in conversation with the head bartender, the slick-haired, always smiling Alberto, with whom Jordan had enjoyed a cordial relationship since first he had set foot in the restaurant.

Jordan went to the bar.

Alberto and the cashier interrupted their conversation to greet him warmly.

“Alberto,” said Jordan, “I’ll have a Campari. I want to speak to you privately for a moment.”

“Take your place. I will be right over.”

Jordan threaded through the room, going to a table as far from the nearest customer as possible, finally sitting down against the back wall of the restaurant under the rectangular oil painting of the Cipriani Hotel.

In a few minutes, Alberto came with the Campari, set it down, then leaned forward, palms on the table, head dipped toward Jordan. “Something private?”

“Yes.” Jordan kept his voice low. “I don’t know if you will remember, Alberto, but a month or so ago, late one night, you and I and a couple of other customers were talking at the bar. You mentioned something about smugglers, that there were a number of smugglers who came in and out of Venice regularly. Were you kidding or did you mean it?”

“But it’s true.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“One of them, the best of them, he is a close friend of mine.”

“What does he smuggle?”

“Goods, imports, to be brought in without duty and sold cheaply. It is profitable.”

“How does he get away with it?” Jordan wondered.

Alberto lifted his shoulders. “Who knows? He has tricks of his trade, I suppose. He knows every inch of the lagoon, every shortcut, detour. He has the swiftest private motorboat in the area. And I suppose, it could be, he pays a bribe to some of the patrolmen regularly.”

“Are you still in touch with this friend?”

“I see him often. He is much fun to drink with.”

“Alberto, I’d like to meet him. Is it possible?”

“Whenever you like, I am sure. Do you wish to speak to him as a writer or for business?”

“There’s a job I’d like to have him undertake. I’d like to discuss it with him.”

“When?”

“Today. As soon as possible.”

Alberto nodded and straightened. “I will telephone him this minute. If he is in, we will soon know.”

The bartender went back behind his counter, picked up the telephone receiver, and dialed. Jordan drank his Campari and hoped. He could observe Alberto speaking into the telephone. After an interval, Alberto hung up, came from behind the bar, and joined Jordan again. He appeared pleased.

“The appointment is arranged,” said Alberto. “He will meet with you at three o’clock this afternoon.”

“What’s his name?”

“Rocco. Just Rocco. Do not be put off by him. He is rough in his ways, very straightforward, honest in personal dealings, a kind of honorable pirate. Great physical daring. No fear. Also, I assure you, a man of his word. Be direct with him. Trust him.”

“Where do I see this Rocco?”

“Yes, of course. It is a place we call Smuggler’s Cove. The first canal after the location of the Biennale. It is the area from which most of the smugglers operate.”

“Is there a rendezvous?”

“An exact one. He will be waiting for you on the bridge of the Rio Sant’ Elena, just behind the public park. You can take a vaporetto to the Viale Vittorio Veneto. Or you can walk straight there. If you walk, allow perhaps thirty to forty minutes. He will be easy to recognize. He is a big man, muscular, with a scar on his chin. You won’t miss him.”

* * *

In the interval between the time of his conversation at Harry’s Bar and the time he was to leave to meet Rocco, he had gone up to his hotel suite, where he found Alison, fully clothed, sound asleep on her bed. Deciding this was a good idea, he had left a wake-up call with the telephone operator and thrown himself on his own bed for a short nap.

At two-ten in the afternoon, he had been awakened, and by two-twenty he was on his way out of the Danieli, going on foot to this crucial rendezvous.

He had hiked briskly along the edge of the lagoon, and by now, after twenty minutes and passage over six bridges, he was beside the large white hulk of the Greek luxury cruise ship,
The Delphic Oracle
. At the gangplank were three Venice police guards, armed with rifles. On the first and second decks of the ship, the quarantined passengers could be seen moving about.

Jordan did not loiter. He kept going. There was another bridge to climb, a large, sweeping concrete bridge, and from the top he could see the dense greenery of a park to his left and to his right a dark green statue just above the water that Alberto had told him would be the Monument of the Partisans of the Second World War.

He was almost there.

He accelerated his pace down the last bridge and headed for the more populated section of the park, sparsely wooded, with an outdoor roller-skating rink being used by shouting children. He went into the park, past busts of Giuseppe Verdi and Richard Wagner.