“Never mind. I’ll manage. I’ll make up some story. The important thing is to get you out of here, before they come for you. Soon, tonight, you will be in Venice, free. Tomorrow, you will be in Paris. After that, your discovery will belong to the world.”
MacDonald smiled grimly. “When I was young, I used to pray to God. I hope He remembers now.”
“Come,” said Leonid, slowly, silently lifting the window. “There is not a second to lose.”
* * *
Three hours had passed when Vasily answered the doorbell. He held the front door wide, admitting the five men.
The one who was obviously the leader, a stocky, uniformed older man of middle height, hatless, black crew-cut hair, close-set eyes, broad nose, thick lips—almost Mongolian features—glanced about the living room and rested his gaze on Vasily.
“You are Vasily?”
“I am,” said Vasily almost inaudibly, offering a half bow.
“Good work. I am Major Boris Kedrov. I have brought along two of our foremost scientists, Grigori Kapitin and Vladimir Petrovsky, of the Sukhumi Gerontology Institute, to ascertain whether this is a legitimate find or some kind of hoax. With us are two of my KGB agents, Yagoda and Shvernik. The professor—he is still asleep?”
“Yes, sir.” Vasily pointed to the bedroom door.
“Excellent. Let’s waste no time. Before we rouse Professor MacDonald and confront him, let us be certain that this discovery of his is genuine. What do we have, beyond your suspicions, to prove that the professor has found the secret to the prolongation of life?”
“His private journal, Major. I spoke of it on the telephone—”
“Yes, his journal.”
“It is there on the desk,” said Vasily, “still open to the last entry this afternoon.”
Major Kedrov sniffed. “Is there anything more—any other evidence?”
Vasily gestured toward a corridor off the dining area of the living room. “There is his laboratory. There are test animals, mice and guinea pigs. Leonid kept records—”
“Leonid?” said Major Kedrov sharply. “Who is Leonid?”
“His laboratory assistant. A young Jew.”
“Is he on the premises?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
“Probably in his room, near my own, just past the kitchen.” He raised his arm, pointing off. “On the other side.”
Major Kedrov signaled to his men. “Yagoda—Shvernik—find him.” As they hastened toward the kitchen, Kedrov turned to the others. “Dr. Kapitin, you read English, I believe. Have a look at the professor’s journal. Tell me what you think. As for you, Dr. Petrovsky—Vasily will show you the laboratory. See if there is any corroborating evidence.”
Major Kedrov watched Kapitin go to the desk and take up the journal, and then watched Petrovsky follow the servant into the corridor. For a while, he remained immobile, staring at MacDonald’s bedroom door. After three or four minutes, he began to pace in a small circle, waiting.
It was Dr. Kapitin who intercepted him, brought him to a halt. The scientist held up MacDonald’s journal. “It is here,” Dr. Kapitin said cautiously. “The professor claims to have found it. He is very explicit.” He opened the journal and located the passage. He read it aloud. “‘At 5:15 this afternoon… From this day on, my formula, C-98, will extend the longevity of every human being on earth from an average age of seventy-two to an average age of 150.’”
“Can that really be?” said Major Kedrov with wonder in his voice.
Dr. Kapitin’s brow wrinkled. “I do not know. Great progress had been made in the field, but even the most optimistic did not expect the discovery to come for another forty or fifty years.” He tapped the journal. “Of course, this could be an elderly man’s delusions or plain romantic nonsense—more wish and hope than reality—leaping prematurely at conclusions.” He hesitated. “Still, Professor MacDonald’s work is not unknown to me. While I am acquainted with him only slightly from his many visits here, I have read his papers. He is greatly respected internationally, has high standing in the field. But this…” He closed the journal and rubbed the cover thoughtfully. “It is impossible to say. We would have to know more.”
“We do know more,” a voice interrupted. The speaker was Dr. Petrovsky, approaching with a sheaf of charts attached to a board. Vasily followed closely after him. “These meticulous records of MacDonald’s tests on his laboratory animals are conclusive. The segregated group he injected with some kind of formula he calls C-98 has lived twice its normal lifespan. There can be no question in my mind. Professor MacDonald has made some landmark discovery, perhaps one of the most important of all time—one of such meaning and magnitude as to be almost incomprehensible in the effects it will have on the human race.”
“I am not interested in the human race,” said Major Kedrov flatly. “I am only interested, first and last, in the welfare of the Soviet Union, our beloved Motherland.”
“Of course, of course,” agreed Dr. Kapitin.
“So now we deal with reality.” Major Kedrov stared once more at the bedroom door. “It is time we congratulate Professor MacDonald.”
As the three started toward the bedroom door, Vasily darted ahead of them. He wrenched at the doorknob and flung the door open, stepping back to allow his superiors to pass him.
Major Kedrov reached inside, snapped on the light, and entered. He stopped in his tracks, eyes widening at the empty bed. He glanced about the room, walked slowly to the closet, opened and closed the door. He moved to another door beside it, opened it, and peered into the bathroom. He backed away, once more studied the room, and then he observed the open window.
“Well, now,” he said. He half-turned, narrowed eyes fixed on Vasily. “You are sure he went to sleep?”
“Leonid told me he was going to take a nap,” said Vasily nervously.
“Could he be anywhere else in the house?”
“No, sir. I kept an eye on the room here.”
“The window. Did he always keep the window open when he slept?”
“I-I don’t remember. I don’t think so.”
Shvernik reappeared in the bedroom doorway.
“Major—”
“Yes?”
“We have found the assistant, Leonid, in his room. He was undressing for bed. We questioned him about the discovery. He claims to know nothing about it. He says his duties were limited to keeping the laboratory in order and watching over the test animals.”
“He lies,” Vasily interrupted. “He and the professor were in the living room for two or three hours drinking, celebrating. He must know what happened to the professor.”
Major Kedrov nodded. “Yes, I think our Leonid can tell us more.” He addressed one of his agents. “Shvernik, Professor MacDonald is missing. We must know as quickly as possible where he has gone. I suggest you and Yagoda question this man more persistently. Go as far as is necessary. I want an answer, the truth, in the next five minutes.”
After the agent had gone, Major Kedrov surveyed the bedroom once more, then went to the bureau. He began pulling out the drawers, one after another, looking inside each, examining the clothes inside. Finished, he crossed to the bed, opened the” drawer of the bedside stand, closed it.
“I wonder where he keeps his passport,” Major Kedrov said. “It is not in this room.”
Lost in thought, he left the bedroom and returned to the living room. The other three followed him. At the coffee table, Kedrov stopped, dug a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket, extracted a cigarette. Dr. Petrovsky hastened to light it for him.
From behind a stream of exhaled smoke, Major Kedrov spoke quietly. “Perhaps I am unduly alarmed. Perhaps our guest merely went for a stroll and will return any minute. Possibly, there is some other innocent explanation. I would hate to contemplate any other reason for his disappearance. You see—”
He was momentarily distracted by a shrill, prolonged scream from beyond the kitchen. He looked in that direction, liste
ned, and heard moaning, indistinct sounds of protestation, and suddenly another scream.
Major Kedrov gave a short shrug and devoted his attention once more to the two troubled scientists opposite him. “You see, gentlemen, I consider this the most important assignment of my career. There would be no explanation acceptable to the Kremlin if we failed to deliver Professor MacDonald and his C-98. Exclusive possession of the formula by the Soviet Union would change future history. For one thing, the premier himself is seventy-five and not in the best of health. To possess a potion that would give him another seventy-five years—you can see how vital this would be to him personally.” Major Kedrov puffed on his cigarette, then resumed. “But even more, think what this discovery, in our hands alone, could mean to the Soviet Union. It would mean that our leaders—members of the Politburo, our wisest inventors, generals, economists, artists—could live on and on, while their counterparts in America and other nations, limited to normal lifespans, would die off and those countries would have to start afresh with new people in every field. Our advantage would give us dominance of the world in every area imaginable. This would be the instant view of our leaders. I dare not fail them.”
Another series of screams from beyond the kitchen made him pause. Then, there was silence.
Major Kedrov nodded knowingly. He examined the expressions of the faces of Dr. Kapitin and Dr. Petrovsky. “Do not be concerned, gentlemen. In my work the result always justifies any action taken. Simple remember one thing. This discovery was made in the Soviet Union, because of the hospitality of the Soviet Union. Therefore, logically, it belongs to the Soviet Union. So you must—”
“Major Kedrov!” It was the KGB agent Shvernik, who was hurrying toward him. “He has confessed—admitted Professor MacDonald left the country—”
“Left the country?” Kedrov echoed with disbelief.
“That’s right,” Shvernik said breathlessly. “According to this Leonid, the professor learned there was a special flight leaving Sukhumi Airport earlier this evening and that there was room for him on it. The professor found Leonid, pulled a gun on him, and forced him to drive to the airport. He was afraid to confess at once, afraid we would not believe he had been forced to do it. But under extreme interrogation—”
“Never mind,” said Major Kedrov harshly. “Where in the hell did he go? What was the destination of the flight?”
“Venice, Italy, sir.”
“Venice? We have no business in Venice.”
“The Italian Communist party—”
“—got their mayor elected,” Kedrov said. “I remember. Look, Shvernik, get on that phone and call Sukhumi Airport. I must be positive there was such a flight and that MacDonald was on it.”
The KGB man dashed to the phone, put through his call, identified himself, and spoke to the dispatcher. Was there a special flight to Venice this evening? Yes, there was—Flight SU-509, a Tupolev, to Italy. Was an Englishman or American, a Professor MacDonald, on the flight? Yes. His papers were in order, and he had boarded and was on the plane when it took off.
“Hold it a minute,” Major Kedrov called out, before Shvernik could hang up. “Ask him one more thing. Where is the plane right now—can it be recalled?”
Shvernik repeated the question into the telephone. He waited, listened, then said, “I see. Thank you.” He hung up. “I’m sorry, Major. The Tupolev is over northern Italy, in a landing pattern and getting ready for descent. It is too low on fuel to bring back. It cannot be recalled.”
Major Kedrov slapped the palm of his hand on the coffee table. “Damn!” He walked around the table, thinking hard. “The plane went to Venice because…” He looked up. “The Italian Communists are in control of the city. Well, now. That’s something.”
He strode purposefully to the telephone, lifted the receiver. “Operator. Major Boris Kedrov, KGB. Priority call. Give me long distance…”
* * *
Not until the three-engined Tupolev had touched down on the Marco Polo Air Terminal runway, bouncing and bumping, and the hydraulic retractable landing gear had jolted him against his seat belt, and the jet plane had gradually slowed and begun coasting toward the terminal—not until then did the tension begin oozing out of Professor Davis MacDonald’s body.
Even when they had approached the city from above, and he had looked down upon the garlands of gay lights far below on this cloudless night, he had not felt secure. He had still been in the capsule of a Russian plane, guided by two Soviet pilots and one Soviet engineer, his neighbors up ahead thirty-five drinking and noisy Russian bureaucrats. Because the plane’s capacity was 128 passengers and there had been little more than a fourth of the seats filled, he had been able to have three seats to himself in the back, somewhat isolated from the others. Still, all the while aloft, he had felt like a Russian captive and threatened.
But now, bringing up the rear in the crowded aisle of passengers going forward to leave the airliner, he was beginning to feel better. In minutes, he was at the exit. A stewardess wished him well and welcomed him to Venice. MacDonald thanked the stewardess, and wished her well, and then stepped onto the metal platform of the portable stairs. Holding the railing, he descended.
One more step, and his feet were on Italian soil.
His heart quickened. Safe, at last. Safe with the secret that would astound the entire world.
In front of him, a yellow bus waited at attention. Members of the Russian cultural delegation were climbing into it. MacDonald also entered the bus and gripped an overhead rail, ignoring the others. In seconds, the bus doors closed. The bus rumbled across the airstrip and, in a few minutes, halted before a brightly illuminated building.
MacDonald had moved toward the nearest door and was the first person on the ground. As the other passengers left the vehicle, MacDonald remained motionless, observing the air terminal with pleasure. It was a two-story blue-and-white building, the second story recessed. On top of the terminal was a large blue sign with one spotlighted word lettered in white. The word was VENEZIA.
Safety, he thought. Thank the Lord.
Just ahead of him he could see the members of the Russian delegation strung out, walking alongside the air terminal toward the rear entrance. Briefly, MacDonald held back again, so that a short distance separated him from the Russian travelers. Somehow, this apartness gave him an even greater sense of security and freedom.
Standing there, he recalled for the first time that he had been here once before—not at this airport, but in Venice, in what now seemed another age. Unbelievably, it had been over fifty years ago. It was during his last year in medical school, the summer vacation, and he had been confused about his future. He had accompanied his widowed mother—it was chic that year to travel with one’s mother, especially when she was a renowned physicist and was received in the best homes—from London to Paris by boat train via the Dover-to-Calais crossing. They had spent an exciting week in Paris and then had taken the overnight train from Paris for a three-day stay in Venice, before continuing on to Florence and Rome. One memory of Venice had never left him: emerging from the railroad depot into the hot, bright sunlight. He had stood at the-head of the stairs agape at the shimmering broad canal filled with gondolas and motorboats, and been awed by the expanse of indigo water stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction. It had been magical, a liquid fairyland.
Another memory: His mother had become unwell their second day in Venice. Nevertheless, they had gone on down to Florence. There she had become dreadfully ill. The remainder of the trip had been canceled. He had taken her back to London. Two weeks later, she had died of cancer. Two months after that, he had decided that when he finished medical school he would specialize in gerontology, challenged by the idea of extending the human lifespan.
His mind had gone back to Venice. Besides a rembrance of his first view of the place from the railroad-depot staircase, what other fragments remained? The Piazza San Marco with its pigeons and vendors and cafés. The Campanile di San Marco
, or bell tower, rising to the sky in the Piazza. The curious but delicately harmonious Palazzo Ducale, or Doges’ Palace, with its Byzantine and Arabian (overlaid with Gothic and Renaissance) architecture, the structure Ruskin had called the central building of the world. Where had they stayed in Venice? It had been a hotel with a familiar name. It came to him. The Grand Hotel. Again he thought of his mother. If he had discovered C-98 before that long-ago visit to Venice, his mother might be meeting him there tonight, alive and healthy at the age of 101 or so. Well, he could do nothing about the past. But for all the tomorrows facing humanity, he had a gift. Most mothers on the earth would live on and on to 150, enjoying the pleasures of their great-great-great-great grandchildren.
He realized that he had been walking again and had arrived at the Marco Polo Air Terminal. He went through the doorway into a wide corridor, where the last of the Russian travelers were being cleared by a sturdy Italian official wearing an open-collared sport shirt, perched on a stool behind a counter. As the last Russians continued on, turning left and passing out of sight, MacDonald approached the official.
“Passport, please, and carta de sbarco,” the official requested.
MacDonald remembered that he had filled out the disembarkation card on the plane. He found it in a pocket with his passport, and handed both over. The official kept the disembarkation card, then opened MacDonald’s passport, held on his photograph, glanced at him, and returned the passport. “Show it to the young lady in the door before you leave the terminal,” he said in English.
“Thank you.”
MacDonald moved on, and turned left into a large hall that was divided by a railing, beyond which was a rotating luggage turntable. The Russians were all clustering about it. MacDonald started toward the opening in the railing, meaning to join them, and then realized that he had no luggage. Straight ahead of him, two sloppily uniformed Italians were standing beside a low-slung table beneath a sign reading, DOGANA DOUANE/ZOLL CUSTOM. MacDonald deduced that these were certainly the customs inspectors. Just past them was another raised counter manned by a young, plumpish blond Italian lady in a light blue blouse. Above her was a sign reading, INFORMAZIONI.
The Pigeon Project Page 2