The Pigeon Project

by Irving Wallace

  “What do you do on the island?” asked MacDonald.

  “We are one of the leading Armenian centers in the world. We have an important school here. We have a church. We have a printing press—in fact, eighteen modern presses, run by four of the brothers. We print Italian guidebooks, and—this may amuse you—we print Italian comic books to raise money to support ourselves. Otherwise, we are one of the most tranquil places on earth. In 1717, when we took over the island, it was only 6,000 square meters in surface size. In 1850, the emperor of Austria, who controlled Venice, enlarged our island with new soil, making it its present 30,000 square meters in size. These 30,000 square meters have been a garden spot. None of us ever dreamed they would be used for a prison. I hope—”

  That moment, Aleksandr Veksler, in the same dark business suit he had worn the night before but now wearing a pink sport shirt, came into the room.

  Observing that he had interrupted a conversation, he frowned. “You may go now, Padre,” he said. “I have some business with our guest. We must be alone.”

  Hurriedly, the monk took up the breakfast tray and, with a quick nod at MacDonald, departed from the library room.

  Veksler waited for the door to close, and then he gestured to the chair behind MacDonald. “Perhaps it would be better if you sat down. I want to have a little talk with you.”

  MacDonald felt defiant and considered remaining on his feet, but he decided that this was childish, and he lowered himself into the chair.

  Veksler drew another chair from beneath the windows and settled in across from MacDonald. “I have been authorized to make a proposition to you, a very generous one.” For the first time, MacDonald became aware of a sheaf of paper and a pen that the Russian had in one hand and was now holding up. “I have have brought you paper and a pen,” he said. He laid them on the table beside MacDonald. “I am going to leave them with you. As to the proposition…”

  The Russian pulled his chair nearer to MacDonald and leaned forward, speaking softly. “The pen, the sheets of paper are for your C-98 formula. If, in the next few days, you will write out your formula for us, we will have our scientists immediately analyze it by computer. If they think you have honestly given us your formula, and it appears to be workable—that is, it could double the human lifespan—you will be handsomely rewarded. You will be given great comforts, honors, and complete freedom inside the Soviet Union while we actually test it on human beings. That is our pledge to you.”

  “Inside the Soviet Union,” MacDonald repeated. “Do you mean that?”

  “Our premier has taken a special and personal interest in you and your discovery. Those were his very words several hours ago.”

  “I am an Englishman by birth and a naturalized American,” said MacDonald. “I work in New York, and my home is an hour’s drive outside the city. That’s where I choose to live. I don’t intend to spend the remainder of my life in Russia.”

  Veksler stiffened. “I am afraid there is no choice for you. You made your discovery in the Soviet Union, and the Soviet Union alone has the right to possess it and to dispense the formula as it wishes.”

  “That’s insane,” said MacDonald heatedly, “trying to monopolize a discovery that was made for all mankind, that belongs to all nations of the world and people everywhere. My God, can’t you see? You’ll get the formula to C-98 anyway. Everyone will have it. Not only the United States and Great Britain, but France, Germany, Spain, Italy, Liechtenstein—and China, China too, and Japan, and the countries of Africa—and yes, the Soviet Union. It can belong to no one nation, no one group, exclusively. No, I will never allow it.”

  Veksler’s countenance had gone frosty. “In your place, I would think it over very carefully. If you are uncooperative, if you resist, things could go badly for you. Once you are back in the Soviet Union, we would be forced to confine you. And to use—to use every means at our command to make you come to your senses.”

  MacDonald considered the threat. In reality, what could they do to him? Starve him? Torture him? Bring him to the brink of death? No, he decided, they would not dare risk it. In view of his age, they would fear killing him. His only value to them was in being kept healthy and alive in the hope that his confinement alone might eventually encourage him to give them the formula.

  “You don’t frighten me,” he said calmly. “It’s all in my head. As long as it is, you need me alive and well. Kill me, and you kill all your hopes—your hopes of even sharing longevity with the rest of the world”

  “You might be surprised.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Veksler came to his feet. He gestured toward the pen and paper. “You think it over. Believe me, if you are wise, you will give us the formula right now. If you wait until you are back in the Soviet Union, we may be less generous and less patient with you.”

  Rising, MacDonald asked, “How long are you keeping me here in this monastery?”

  “Six days, at the most. We thought of sending a special plane for you tomorrow. But that has been vetoed. We do not want to give you the slightest opportunity to make your predicament public—en route to the airport or at the airport. Instead, we have diverted a Soviet freighter and asked it to call at the deep-water dock not far from San Lazzaro for one passenger. It will then sail back to the Black Sea and Sukhumi.” He crossed the room to the door and turned back briefly. “Take the easy way, Professor… Write down your formula. Believe me, you will not regret it. I shall look in on you again in a few days.”

  He was gone. MacDonald was alone.

  He remembered the day, so long ago, when his mother had died. The future had seemed bleak. He felt the same loss now. Only the loss was his own life. And the future—there was no future at all.

  * * *

  On this, the third day of his confinement, the solitude had oppressed him, and when the monk, Pashal Nurikhan, had appeared with the lunch tray, MacDonald had asked if he might take some fresh air before eating.

  Pashal had no objection. “Except the food—it will be cold.”

  “No matter,” MacDonald said. “I really have no appetite. Maybe the walk will help.”

  The routine had been exactly the same as that of the previous two days. They had gone down the four short turnings of the staircase and crossed to a door that led them out into the enclosed courtyard in the center of the monastery. In silence, they had walked under the overhang, past green metal chairs and around the colorful garden, which featured two small palm trees and was profuse with pink hydrangeas and purple geraniums.

  Ten minutes later, they emerged from the monastery to the outdoors and began their hike that would cover the grounds surrounding the aged two-story building with its red tile roof. The noon day was windless and abnormally bright. The sun blazed down, and it promised to be hot. MacDonald inhaled deeply, but the fresh air did not dispel his lingering depression.

  “It is beautiful today,” the monk said.

  “Not for me,” MacDonald replied bitterly.

  Pashal tried again, pointing off to the east The Lido island—you can see it clearly today.”

  “The Lido?” MacDonald repeated blankly, uncertain whether he had been told about it before.

  “It is the large island opposite Venice. There is a city of 20,000, many apartments for upper-middle-class Italians. Automobiles are permitted. There is the casino, and there are many rich hotels—mainly the Excelsior, with its cabanas—for tourists.”

  MacDonald supposed he should show interest, but he did not. His mood was too low.

  They traversed a dirt walk between dense foliage and a scattering of trees, going alongside the monastery to the rear of San Lazzaro. There, as before, sternly forbidding, were the two guards from the carabinieri, each with a rifle slung over a khaki-clad shoulder, each watching him intently. There again, just past them, were the stone steps to the rise which held the green bench and the full-grown olive tree that Lord Byron himself had planted long ago. As they walked on, mere was once more the small,
quiet ancient cemetery of the Mechitarist fathers.

  They turned a corner and strolled on between the far side of the monastery and a six-foot brick wall that held off the sea. As they neared the front of the monastery, the neighboring island, dominated by a huge ugly building, came fully into view, and MacDonald remembered that this was San Servolo and the building was a mental hospital.

  MacDonald jerked his thumb toward it. “That’s where I’ll wind up—or in one like it in Russia.”

  “I cannot believe it,” the monk said, trying to cheer him. “Sooner or later, they will have to let you go.”

  “Do you want to wager on that?” MacDonald said.

  The monk, uncomfortable, tried to change the subject. Shading his eyes, peering off, he said, “Look, today you can see Venice more perfectly.”

  Indeed, at some distance to the northwest, like a needle pointing out of the lagoon, there was the Campanile, the bell tower, of Venice, and to its right were the majestic outlines of the Doges’ Palace.

  For a protracted interval, MacDonald considered the miniature of Venice, haven of freedom, his one hope, so very near—eight minutes by motorboat—yet, now, so impossibly far and out of reach.

  He turned desperately to the monk. “Pashal,” he said in an undertone, “you must help me. For the sake of humanity, you must help me escape.”

  Pashal backed off nervously. “There is no way for me, Professor. I am helpless.”

  “But you could help. You could have a motorboat ready, and when we went for our next walk, I could make a run for the boat and get away.”

  “You would never manage it. They would catch you easily. I would be punished severely, maybe put in jail for life.” He shook his head. “No, please, it cannot be done.”

  “Then get in touch with someone for me,” MacDonald persisted. “There are telephones. I see them being used. When you are not seen, call the American consul in Venice, tell him my situation. He would do something. You can try.”

  “Believe me, Professor, it is too dangerous. I would be caught, and it would be the end of me. I am sorry, but—”

  “Never mind,” MacDonald said curtly. “I understand. Let’s get back to my cell.”

  In a few minutes, preceded by the monk, MacDonald was approaching his library room. As the monk held open the door, he said, “Let me take your tray and heat the pasta e fasioi and the pollo.”

  MacDonald nodded as they entered, and the monk went ahead of him to retrieve the tray. That moment, MacDonald realized there was a third person in the room. At the grilled window, the Soviet cultural attaché, Aleksandr Veksler, stood, hands clasped behind his back and fidgeting. The Russian waited until Pashal had taken the tray and hurried out with it, and then he came slowly forward to meet MacDonald at the table.

  Veksler offered a half smile. “Well, now, I hope the professor is feeling better.”

  MacDonald made no comment.

  Veksler resumed. “You will always have such freedom available—to walk anywhere, to talk to people, to do as you wish. All this you will have in your new homeland, once you choose to cooperate.”

  MacDonald remained silent.

  Veksler eyes him briefly, then reached down and snapped the rubber band that held together the sheaf of paper he had left behind three days earlier. “I see the pages are still blank,” the Russian said. “You have written down nothing.”

  “Nor will I,” said MacDonald.

  “Stubbornness may be a good trait in a scientist, Professor, but in a prisoner it can lead to death.”

  “I am not afraid. As long as the formula is in my head, you will not harm me.”

  “Do not be so certain,” said Veksler. “I can assure you we will try various forms of persuasion. It is a foolish risk for you to undertake. I remember one occasion, several years ago, when we had to interrogate a dissident scientist about his friends. We were advised to use every means to make him talk, yet were warned to keep him alive. The interrogators, unhappily, were unable to judge his strength, and our scientist died on us during the second hour. You see, Professor, there are no guarantees.”

  “There is one I can make,” said MacDonald. “Whatever becomes of me, you are not going to get the formula from me—not now and not later.”

  Veksler shrugged. “We shall see.”

  He had started for the door when it opened and Pashal came through with the warmed-over lunch.

  Veksler stopped him to inspect the contents of the tray. “Uh, bean soup,” he murmured, “a half spring chicken, mixed salad, fresh white bread, butter. Not bad, considering.” He looked at MacDonald. “I am sorry to say your fare on the freighter that is coming for you a day earlier than expected will not be quite as good. Yes, I meant to alert you, our freighter will be here, near San Lazzaro, the day after tomorrow.” He watched the monk set down the tray, adding, “Still time enough for you to reconsider how you wish us to treat you.”

  “If I write down the formula,” MacDonald said on impulse, “will you call off the freighter and let me go on to Paris?”

  “You are in no position to bargain,” said Veksler.

  “Neither are you,” said MacDonald.

  “You are not merely foolish,” said Veksler, “you are stupid.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and followed Pashal out the door.

  MacDonald heard the door close, heard the key turn, and at last walked glumly to his lunch tray and sat heavily before it. He tore a piece of bread in half, dipped it into the soup, and chewed on it. He spooned the thick bean soup, reluctantly consumed a portion of it, and decided he’d had enough. He had no stomach for food while his poor exhausted mind conjured up fantasies—perhaps realities—of what might await him in the Soviet Union. Again, as it had almost ceaselessly for nearly three days, his mind turned to escape, countless unworkable schemes locked in his brain, as he was locked in this room.

  He glanced at the grilled window where the noisy familiar pigeons were waddling about on the ledge outside. As he held on them, it struck him as ironic that those idiotic birds were free as the air, while he, with all his brilliance, was confined to a cage.

  If there were only some way to be as free as those pigeons, some way to fly out of here to freedom. If there were only some way to get word of his captivity to the outside world. If there were someone, some way, to carry his cry for help out of here. To carry news of his plight, carry it… carrier… carrier pigeon.

  Carrier pigeon!

  My God.

  He had cultivated the friendship of those damn pigeons on the window ledge, faithfully fed them twice a day, and now they owed him something.

  It was perhaps a futile and impractical idea, a ridiculous and hopeless idea, but it was an idea where there had been none before. The odds were a thousand—more likely ten thousand—to one against its working. Were these pigeons from Venice itself? Did they commute daily from their home in the Piazza San Marco to nearby islands like San Lazzaro? And even if they did, would anyone in Venice recognize his desperate cry for help? It was a pitifully romantic idea. But it was an idea, an action. It was something.

  He glanced off at the pigeons. There were four of them, waddling or perched on the ledge, waiting for his crumbs. He realized he had better make haste while they were still there.

  He eased the rubber band off the sheaf of paper that Veksler had left him. He placed the rubber band on the table, took the top sheet of blank paper, carefully tore a half-inch strip from the bottom of the page. It would be too long to fit, he decided, and he ripped it in half.

  Setting the strip of paper on the table, he prepared to write his SOS.

  What to say that made sense and could be squeezed into three or four microscopic lines?

  He thought about it for a number of seconds. He must identify himself. He must state his situation. As well as the time factor. He must ask for help and beg the finder to contact Dr. Edwards in Paris.

  Could he manage all this legibly and clearly in four tiny lines? He must try.<
br />
  His pen touched the narrow strip of paper, and he began to write: Am British scientist illegally imprisoned on San Lazzaro by Communists.

  He paused, considering what to say next, finally framed it in his mind, and resumed his miniaturized writing. The message was complete. He reread it. Not quite complete. He must give some indication of why he was a prisoner, why the Russians wanted him, why at any cost he must be saved. There was barely room for a hint, space for no more than six to ten words. He sought them, found them, and meticulously fitted them, into the last blank space on the strip of paper.

  Now, quickly, he folded the strip once, then again, then a third time. He stuffed it into his shirt pocket with the rubber band.

  From his lunch tray, he tore off a corner of bread, broke it into crumbs. Rising, trying to show no signs of anxiety, he approached the window where the alerted pigeons were waiting. As he had done yesterday, and the day before, he put his right hand through the bars of the grille, spilled a few of the crumbs onto the ledge… Immediately, two of the pigeons went for the food, and a third crowded in to join them. The fourth pigeon, a fat dark gray one, was watching his hand. MacDonald moved his hand toward the lone pigeon, offering his palm of remaining bread crumbs. The pigeon strutted toward his hand, hovered over it, suddenly darted its beak toward the crumbs and began to eat them.

  Cautiously, MacDonald slipped his free left hand through the next pair of bars, lowering it over the occupied pigeon.

  For a moment, MacDonald held still, motionless. Then in a flash he dropped his left hand toward the pigeon, grabbed it about the back of its head and its breast. The startled bird was all motion, trying to squirm loose, get away, but MacDonald had its wings pinned down.

  Swiftly, he drew the pigeon into the room, held it with its bottom up and its flailing claws exposed. With his right hand he dug into his shirt pocket, pulled out the rubber band and the tightly folded message.