Alison was frightened. “Whatever you think is right, Tim.”
Jordan had her by the shoulder. “Wait for me at the hotel.” He started for the door. “I’ve got to get MacDonald back. I hope it’s not too late.”
He was through the door, in the sunlight, in the square, when he heard Don Pietro’s shrill voice cry after him. “Tim, don’t, don’t—don’t interfere!”
* * *
Luckily, Jordan had caught a motorboat cruising in a canal, had hailed it, had offered the driver a bonus to get him to the railroad station as fast as possible.
During their speedy passage, Jordan had speculated on the possibility of catching Professor MacDonald in time. The clerical party had had a good head start, but they had gone by gondola, and now he hoped his motorboat would close the gap between them. If he failed to catch the professor in time, he felt it could be a disaster. The Church itself, he knew, would never condone what might happen, and might never know. Cardinal Bacchi and his minority group of Savonarolas could work quietly and meanly to achieve their ends.
Now the railroad station was in sight and growing closer. Then, just as the driver eased the craft in alongside the wharf, Jordan, at the bow, spotted them up ahead. The six members of the clerical party were at the top of the white stone stairs, before the entrance to the station. Two guards, one an officer, were inspecting their exit permits.
For a split second, as he paid off the boat’s driver, Jordan had a pang of indecision. A few moments more and the professor would be free, free of the Communist net, and it might be the only opportunity for regaining his freedom he would ever have. If he remained here, the Communists might win by attrition, surely close in on him or catch him unless Bruno came through with another escape hatch. At the same time, he might be walking into a trap set by religious fanatics, who could detain him indefinitely. On the other hand—Jordan always was mindful of his own paranoia—the good priests might merely talk to MacDonald, try to persuade him, and failing to do so, they might free him. Could the gamble be taken?
Jordan’s mind was alreadv made up as he leaped out of the motorboat and hurried up the pier.
He wanted to run, to be sure to catch MacDonald before he finished the inspection and went through the glass doors into the depot. But Jordan was afraid to run, afraid to attract the attention of the many police scattered about the area.
With effort, he contained himself, moving in long, fast strides to the station’s stairway and then up the steps two at a time.
Ahead, he could see that MacDonald, in a long black cassock, had just been allowed to proceed by the police guards and was going to join four others who had already been passed. One clergyman was left, his permit being inspected by the officer. The one who was left was dressed more regally than the others, and Jordan guessed that this was Bishop Uberti.
At the top of the stairs, Jordan slowed down and, trying to be as casual as possible, walked toward the two policemen and the clergyman. The police officer had just handed the one who was presumably the bishop his paper, and nodded, when Jordan called out, “Bishop Uberti.”
The clergyman, about to start toward the others in his party, halted, responding to his name, and looked inquiringly at Jordan.
“I can’t cross the line,” Jordan said. “Can you come here for a moment? I must have a word with you concerning your mission.”
Perplexed but curious, the stout bishop changed his course, moved past the guards, and came to Jordan. “Do we know each other?” he asked.
Jordan took him by the elbow and propelled him out of earshot of the guards. “I am a friend of Don Pietro’s,” he said in an undertone. “I also a friend of the professor’s. I brought them together.”
“You are the American—Jordan?”
“Yes. The professor wrote out his formula. He left it at the hotel. I was to bring it to him, but I missed him.” He patted his trouser pocket. “I have it here. He has it all in his head, but this will make it easier for him to remember. I want him to have it before he leaves.”
“I’ll take it and give it to him,” said the bishop.
Jordan had been prepared for this. “I’m sorry. Except for me, no one may touch the formula but the professor. His own rule. If you’ll send him over here, I’ll hand it to him and he can go.”
The bishop wavered, undecided a moment, staring down at Jordan’s pocket. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll send him over, but hurry it up.”
He left Jordan, spoke a few words to the officer guard, then continued on to the glass doors of the depot where the priests were gathered. Jordan watched him speaking to MacDonald. He saw MacDonald nod, look toward him, and then begin to retrace his steps, walking back past the guards.
Nervously waiting, Jordan glanced over his shoulder at the floating boat station below. There were no unoccupied motorboats in view. A half-filled vaporetto, heading down the Grand Canal toward the lagoon, was just arriving at the station, the gate in its guardrail opening to discharge several passengers.
Jordan turned back just as MacDonald reached him.
“I’m almost free,” MacDonald said. “The bishop told me you wanted to see me. What is it?”
“Listen to me. Just listen, and do as I do.” Jordan had one arm around the professor’s shoulder, and was starting him slowly down the flight of stone steps, as he pretended to dig for the nonexistent formula in his pocket. “You were not almost free. You were being led into a different trap. They were taking you to Rome, with no promise to release you until you gave the Vatican the exclusive right to C-98.”
“That—that’s unbelievable. Would they really do that?”
“They could do it. You can’t chance it. We’ll find another way. Right now, I’ve got to get you out of here fast.”
The two had reached the foot of the stairs.
“But the bishop—he’ll—” MacDonald began to protest.
“He can do nothing. He doesn’t dare alert the guards, let them know he was helping you escape. See that vaporetto—the water bus—just about to leave. It would be natural to run, to catch it. Let’s run.”
At the platform of the station, Jordan broke into a trot, followed by MacDonald.
They came to the edge of the station just as the boat was parting from it.
“Jump on!” yelled Jordan.
He let MacDonald go past him. MacDonald leaped from the station to the boat, caught his foot in the hem of his cassock, and went sprawling on the hard wooden deck. Jordan vaulted aboard after him, regained his balance, and hastily joined several Venetians who were helping MacDonald to his feet.
“Are you all right?” Jordan asked anxiously. He drew MacDonald toward a bench and saw that he was limping.
“My leg,” grunted the professor, “it’s very painful. I hope I didn’t break anything.”
Jordan eased MacDonald down on the bench, and as he did so, he looked back at the receding railroad depot. There was a single figure, the bishop, hastening down the steps, running toward the boat station, shouting. But they were in the middle of the canal, out of reach, and Jordan turned away from the station.
“We’ll have to get you some help for your leg,” Jordan said to MacDonald.
“Maybe we’d better,” MacDonald said, wincing. “But where do we go?”
“Considering your leg,” said Jordan, “we have little choice. There’s only one place to go—to a small clime I know.”
“But if they recognize me?”
“A small clinic owned by a dear friend,” said Jordan. “We’ll get off at the next station. Do you think you can make it?”
V
There had been two narrow escapes as they had tried to make their way, haltingly, to the doctor’s clinic in the square of San Zan Degolà.
Going on foot, they had twice almost run into police patrols, on each occasion detouring into a claustrophobic side street in the nick of time. Increasingly, also, Professor MacDonald’s injured leg impeded their progress. At last, Jordan sought and found a
free gondola. They were able to move through the city, using the network of canals, more easily and safely.
Now, as they neared their destination, Jordan was speaking to MacDonald, who was still wearing the black cassock.
“This gondola will take us practically to his doorstep. He’s been my doctor ever since I’ve been in Venice.”
“What’s his name again?” asked MacDonald.
“Dr. Giovanni Scarpa. He’s one of the most popular physicians in the city. Has patients as far away as Mestre. In fact, he’s so busy he has no time for exercise. You know how he gets his exercise? He keeps a car, a motorcycle, and a bicycle at the garage at the Piazzale Roma, and if the weather is good, he used the bike to pedal to his patients, to keep in shape. He’s a Mutua doctor—Mutua is the name of Italy’s National Health Insurance—and he takes workers who belong to the plan, even though it means less income for him, because he feels everyone deserves the best medical help possible. You may find our Sior dotor—‘Mr. Doctor,’ as the Venetians say—a little remote, cold, businesslike, but he’s a good, warm, concerned man inside. And extremely learned. He and I have a mutual interest in rare books. He’s quite a contrast to Don Pietro. For one thing, Dr. Scarpa is a freethinker, an absolute enemy of the Catholic Church. He believes strongly in birth control, population control, not only for Italy but for the world. In fact, his latest book—he’s published several—advocates rigid birth control for Italy. It caused quite a controversy when it came out last year… Well, here we are. Let’s hope he’s in.”
The gondola had bumped up against the side of the canal, and the gondolier loosely secured it to the nearby iron rail. Jordan stood up, paid the gondolier, told him not to wait, stepped from the rocking boat to the semicircular cement stairs that led up to the square.
“Careful,” he said to MacDonald as he helped him out of the gondola.
MacDonald limped up the stairs ahead of Jordan, who pointed to his left. “Scarpa’s clinic, as well as his home.”
It was a squarish two-story building, faced in yellow plaster, with an open terrace over the ground floor and a slanting red tile roof above it. They approached the black front door of the building.
“The doctor’s offices and clinic are downstairs,” said Jordan. “He lives upstairs with his wife and two children.”
“After he examines me,” said MacDonald worriedly, “do you think he’ll allow me to stay?”
“I believe he will. At least, I’ll try to persuade him,” said Jordan. About to open the front door, he held back a moment. “Just one thing, Professor—”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want him to know who you really are. Okay? I have my reasons.”
“Very well, Tim.”
They entered the cool, dark entry hall, setting a bell ringing, and continued into the austere waiting room, furnished with cane and brown imitation-leather armchairs and sofa arranged on a floor composed of red Verona marble tiles. The nurse’s desk was unoccupied.
But almost immediately, from the open doorway of the examination room, she was heard, “Chi PS?”
“She asks who it is,” Jordan translated for MacDonald. He called back, “Amici.” Then to MacDonald, “Friends.”
The nurse, a young but plain blonde in a blue uniform, came out of the examination room, looking a little annoyed. “The doctor’s hours are not until two o’clock, and if you…” She recognized Jordan and stopped, breaking into a smile. “Oh, it is you, Mr. Jordan. That is different.”
“Is Sior dotor in?”
“He has just returned from his morning house calls. He is in his office making some notes. I’ll tell him you’re here.”
“Tell him I wouldn’t have interrupted him this way, but it’s an emergency.”
The nurse disappeared into the doctor’s office, only to reappear seconds later.
. “Of course, Dr. Scarpa will see you, Mr. Jordan,” she said. “Please go right in.”
Jordan took MacDonald by the arm and led him to a sofa. “Let me go in alone first, Professor. You get off your feet, rest that leg.”
Once MacDonald had settled down, wincing as he sat, Jordan made directly for the open door of the doctor’s office and entered it. Dr. Giovanni Scarpa was standing, occupied with some papers fanned out before him on his desk. He was taller than the average Italian male, and his height was accentuated by his thinness. Only a patina of black-gray hair covered his baldness. His face was long and bony, and possessed a faintly clinical air. His noise was sharp and long above a thin-lipped mouth. At the sound of Jordan’s approach, he raised his head, and his dark eyes were warm.
“Tim,” he said, putting out his hand.
“Giovanni, good friend,” said Jordan, clasping the other’s extended hand, “and you are indeed a good friend to see me without notice.”
Dr. Scarpa’s eyes took in Jordan’s person, head to foot, before he said dryly, “You look vigorous enough.
But looks can lie. Sit down and tell me what is wrong.” Jordan remained standing. “Oh, I’m fine. Nothing wrong with me, knock wood.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk. “It is a friend of mine, a close friend. We were running for a vaporetto just now, and he stumbled and fell and injured his leg. I decided to bring him right over here, to find out how serious it is. Can you have a look at him?”
“Of course.”
Jordan’s relief was audible. “I’ll bring him right in.”
He left the office and returned to MacDonald, who struggled to his feet awkwardly. “Will the doctor see me?” asked MacDonald.
Jordan nodded. “This minute. Can I help you?” He reached to take MacDonald’s arm, then realized that the professor was still wearing the black cassock. Jordan hesitated. “Wait…” His hand touched the top of the garment. “We’d have to explain this. The nurse didn’t seem to notice, but the doctor might ask questions. What are you wearing underneath this thing?”
“My suit.”
“Better, much better. Let’s get you out of this clerical outfit.” Quickly, he helped MacDonald divest himself of the robe, then rolled it up and stuffed it into the side of the sofa. “Okay, that’s better. Now let’s go in to see him. I’ll introduce you as Professor—Professor Dawson.”
Jordan led the limping older man into the office as Dr. Scarpa came around his desk to meet them.
“Dr. Scarpa,” Jordan said, “this is an old friend of mine from New York—Professor Dawson.”
The Italian shook MacDonald’s hand. “Professor of what?” he asked politely.
MacDonald looked at Jordan blankly, and Jordan answered, “Renaissance history. He’s well known in his field.”
Dr. Scarpa addressed MacDonald. “Tim explained to me that you had an accident. What seems to be troubling you?”
“It’s mainly my knee—my left knee.”
Dr. Scarpa’s eyes had narrowed as they held on MacDonald’s face. He nodded absently. “All right, let’s find out what it is. Let’s go into the examination room. I’ll have a look and then take an X-ray.”
He guided MacDonald into a small adjacent room and shut the door.
Jordan remained behind, alone in the doctor’s office. Finding his pipe, filling and lighting it, he remembered that Dr. Scarpa had several recovery rooms with cots in the rear where he sometimes kept anesthetized patients overnight. He wondered if he could prevail upon the physician to keep MacDonald in one of those rooms for two or three days, until word came from Bruno that an escape had been arranged. Smoking, Jordan stood beside the doctor’s neat desk, staring at a set of hypodermic-syringe containers. After several minutes, he heard the door behind him open and close, and Dr. Scarpa appeared at his desk.
“I had a look at the knee,” he said. “I don’t think it is anything serious. But we’ve taken a picture. We’ll soon know for certain. I’ve left him in there for some heat therapy and”—he moved to the swivel chair at his desk and sat down—“because I wanted to speak to you alone.”
This sounded mildly ominous.
Jordan found a place on the couch across from the desk. “Yes, Giovanni, what is it?”
Dr. Scarpa’s features were unmoving as a mask. His hands fiddled with a Florentine letter opener on his desk. His eyes were lowered. “Your friend in there,” he said softly. “Examining him, I felt rather like your famous—or infamous—American doctor, Dr. Mudd.”
Jordan was confused. “Dr. who?”
“Dr. Samuel A. Mudd, the American physician who treated John Wilkes Booth’s broken leg in 1865 and was sent to jail for aiding Lincoln’s assassin. Just now, in there, I felt like Dr. Mudd.”
Jordan was momentarily speechless.
Dr. Scarpa went on. “I was aiding a criminal, an enemy of the state. Yes, Tim, I recognized your friend, the spy whose photograph is posted everywhere. He is no professor, no historian. He is a spy. All of Venice is trying to find him. Why did you lie to me?”
Jordan found his voice. “I didn’t know what to say. He is a friend. He needed help. I said whatever came to mind. I’m sorry, Giovanni.”
“You could compromise me. It could mean real trouble.”
Jordan hesitated, then grasped a straw. “If you know the truth, why are you treating him now? Why don’t you just pick up the phone and call the police?”
Dr. Scarpa’s thin lips curved upward slightly in the semblance of a smile. “Because you are my friend, and he is your friend, and my instinct tells me you would not aid a criminal.”
“Thank you, Giovanni. Your instinct is correct. The man is not a criminal. He is not a spy. That is some nonsense the police dreamed up. His name is not Dawson. It is MacDonald. And he is a professor, an English scientist who has his laboratory in New York. Why do the police want him? For no criminal act whatsoever. Quite the contrary. It is the police who are engaging in criminal behavior. MacDonald was doing experiments in the Soviet Union. He made a discovery the Russians wanted. He came to Venice, en route home, and the Russians asked your police to detain him. I don’t think he should be detained. So I’m trying to help him get out of the city.” He waited for the physician to absorb what he had said, and then he added, “I know my story is difficult to accept, but do believe me. It is true.”
The Pigeon Project Page 17