The Pigeon Project

by Irving Wallace

  He pulled the limping MacDonald through the tour group and into the open, and headed him toward the vaporetto station.

  “Thanks,” MacDonald said with a sigh. “He almost had me there. Must have seen in my face in some science journal.”

  “Or a poster,” said Jordan. “Look, Professor, if I can get you from here to the vaporetto station, I think we can make it to a safe hideout. We’re going to go over the bridge there, grab a newspaper at the stand, and then catch the ferry that crosses the lagoon from here to San Giorgio to the Giudecca. All the way over, I want you to bury your face in the newspaper, use it as a shield from other passengers. Once we get to the Giudecca, it’s only a very short walk to the Palazzo De Marchi.”

  “Palazzo what?”

  “The home of a charitable contessa. She’s the only one I can think of at the moment who can save your neck. Now lower your head, keep going fast, and maybe we’ll make it.”

  * * *

  There were two approaches to the Palazzo De Marchi, Jordan was explaining, one by boat on the canal that ran up alongside the palace and the other on foot on the sidewalk that separated the building from the Giudecca Lagoon.

  They were approaching on foot from the vaporetto landing, walking as rapidly as MacDonald’s bad knee would permit, heading for the palazzo’s street entrance. To Jordan’s relief, the street was almost empty. There were no police in sight—at least, not at the moment.

  With the pressure off them, and still a few minutes before they reached their destination, Jordan felt that he could use the time to brief Professor MacDonald on the formidable old lady who might (if they were lucky) soon be his hostess.

  “Professor, let me fill you in on the Contessa Elvira De Marchi,” said Jordan, “just in case you’re able to spend some time with her.”

  “Do that,” said MacDonald. “I’ve met many politicians and millionaires—we depend on them for our grants—but I’ve never met royalty.”

  “Well, Venetian royalty is not real royalty in the feudal sense. Venice has always been a republic, and each Doge was a president. But from the start there was a kind of ruling class composed of wealthy merchants, mostly shipowners. Anyway, the contessa is a surviving descendant of one of those families. A really illustrious line. There was one Doge, a De Marchi, along the way, and one saint in the 15th century. Like her ancestors, the contessa is rich and religious.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Oh, I’d say about seventy-five. She needs a cane, but she gets around very well. She’s alert, bright, knowledgeable—she visits London almost every year—and she’s a people collector. That’s how I got into her orbit. Although generally, she scoops up celebrities, mostly American and British. Needless to say, her English is perfect. What else can I tell you? She’s the daughter of a marchese. She’s been widowed about twenty years. She has two children. One lives at the family summer villa near Treviso. The other spends a lot of time at the family house in Cortina.”

  “What does she do with herself?” MacDonald asked.

  “Good question,” said Jordan. “Far as I can make out, she goes to Mass every morning at eight. She likes to shop herself at the Rialto market. She doesn’t do much around the palace. She has a Frenchwoman who serves her as a companion and maid. She also has a live-in couple for housekeeping and to serve at cocktail and dinner parties. What does she do? She’s on the local board of several cultural organizations or charities—like UNESCO, like the Croce Rossa or Red Cross, like the San Vincenzo de Paoli, a Catholic group that helps the poor. Not that she’s lavish with her own money. Most Venetian aristocrats are not celebrated for their financial generosity. They give time, not money. Our contessa is quite tight with a buck. Except when it comes to entertainment. She usually has a houseful of VIPs, and she treats them handsomely. That’s my big hope for you, Professor. If she thinks you are a celebrity, she’s more likely to take you in.”

  “You’re going to tell her who I am?”

  “I don’t want to, but I’ll have to,” said Jordan. “I’ve got to impress her immediately. If I fail, we’re in serious trouble. I don’t know where to turn with you. Our backs are against the wall. I’ve got to make it with the Contessa De Marchi.”

  “Fingers crossed,” said MacDonald.

  “Keep them crossed,” said Jordan, “and here we are at her front door.”

  The entrance was an enormous wooden door set into a 16th-century Renaissance facade of gray rectangular granite blocks. Jordan rang the doorbell.

  A small, swarthy man, wearing a red vest over a black shirt and wearing black trousers, opened the door.

  “I’ve come to see the Contessa De Marchi,” said Jordan in Italian. “I’m an old friend.”

  “I’ll see if she is free. Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Signor Timothy Jordan. I need only a few minutes of her time.”

  “Please come in.”

  Jordan went inside, followed by MacDonald. They stood in a huge ground-floor hall, furnished only with a long bench along one wall, over which hung a wooden carving of a crowned eagle, the De Marchi family crest. There were two staircases—the smaller leading to the mezzanino floor, where the servants slept, and the monumental larger one rising to the first floor. At the top of this staircase stood a marble Madonna and child with a lighted lamp in front of them.

  The servant gestured toward the bench. “Please wait here. I will find the contessa.”

  He went up the broad staircase. MacDonald immediately dropped down onto the bench with a grunt.

  “I could use a series of shots of the eminent Professor MacDonald’s C-98,” he said wryly.

  Jordan smiled. “You’ve been doing okay.”

  “I’m in a constant state of tension. I guess I’m scared as hell. I don’t want to be caught.”

  “I’ll do all in my power to see that doesn’t happen.”

  “I appreciate what you’re doing. I’m just afraid we’re trapped. I can’t let myself—and my discovery—be locked up in the Soviet Union for life. I think I might kill myself first.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” said Jordan. “You’ve got to be optimistic. After all, you’re still free.” He began to wander around the hall, determined to change the subject. “This ground floor is like the ones in all the big palaces. They were never lived in. They still aren’t. The old Venetian merchants used to unload their ships, bring their goods directly to their palaces, and store them conveniently on the ground floor. The contessa’s living quarters are entirely upstairs.”

  “Signor Jordan…”

  Jordan saw that the servant had come partially down the staircase. He was friendlier now, and beckoning. “Please, sir, follow me. The contessa is happy to receive you.”

  “Grazie.” Jordan went to MacDonald. “You just stay put. I won’t be long. I’ll have a decision for you in five or ten minutes.”

  “I’ll be waiting”—he tried to smile—“tensely.” Jordan climbed the stairs, went with the servant across the upper portego with its stucco walls decorated with paintings by Nicolò Bambini, and was finally shown into a tasteful, moderate-sized sitting room. One wall was hung with a tapestry depicting medieval horsemen, another wall held a bookcase filled with leather-bound sets, and a third wall displayed a marvelous Canaletto of a Venice sunset—and beside the dominating oil, even more dominant, regal, tall, thin as a rail, draped in an aquamarine dress, holding her brown lion’s-head cane, stood the Contessa Elvira De Marchi.

  She came forward, halfway across the room, to greet Jordan. “Timothy, how good to see you. It’s been ages since you visited here.”

  Jordan took her aristocratic hand. “I’ve missed you. I’m always hoping to run into you in the Piazza.”

  “I get out less and less now… Do sit down.”

  She settled slowly onto a flowered divan, and he sat in a straight-backed chair with gilt arms across from her.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Timothy?” she inquired. “I suspect it is n
ot a social call. If I may say so, you look too harried.”

  He smiled at her typical forthrightness. “You’re very perceptive, Contessa. Actually, I’m in a bind, and I had to turn to someone who might be hospitable. I need your help.”

  She did not seem surprised. “In what way?”

  He hesitated, trying to form what he would say. When he had entered the room, his intention had been to blurt out the truth, and trust her totally. But now he reasoned that if he could achieve the same end with somewhat less than the truth, MacDonald’s situation would be more secure.

  “Let me say this much,” he began. “I have a friend visiting me from America, an Englishman, a prominent scientist who lives and works in New York. He happened to be in Venice for a day, when the city was closed down to all traffic—”

  “Isn’t it ridiculous, the way the authorities are behaving?”

  “Yes. But it’s made it difficult for my friend. For reasons I cannot explain, he is traveling incognito. He must not be recognized. He needs an isolated place to stay for several days. I was hoping against hope I might prevail upon you to put him up—three or four days at the most.”

  The contessa looked pained. “Timothy, this embarrasses me. You know how much I like to have visitors here. You know how eager I am to help my friends. But you’ve come to me just at the wrong time. I have a house absolutely filled with guests. Cedric Foster arrived yesterday—I’m sure you’ve heard of him?”

  “The bestselling novelist.”

  “The same. And he brought with him an entourage of four, including his literary agent—his own companions. I couldn’t inconvenience someone as—well, as famous as Cedric Foster by insisting he or one of his companions share a room with your friend—”

  Jordan knew his approach had been wrong. Only truth could prevail. It was a time for utter candor.

  “I appreciate your predicament, Contessa. Now I had better tell you the entire truth about my own. The man I am speaking about is already renowned in his field. But from the moment he leaves. Venice safely, and reports a discovery he has made, he will become the most celebrated, the most worshiped, the most famous man in the world. Neither the President of the United States nor the premier of the Soviet Union will be better known. And you can be one of the persons responsible for his fame.”

  Her eyebrows had arched. “Whatever are you talking about, Timothy? Speak clearly.”

  Jordan knew he almost had her. She had taken the bait. He must now draw her in. “Okay, clearly,” he said. “I have in my charge Professor Davis MacDonald. After years of work, he has just discovered the means of prolonging human life, everyone’s life, to the age of 150. Do you comprehend what I am saying?”

  She sat silently, eyelids blinking.

  Jordan watched her. “It’s true, Contessa,” he said.

  “It’s fantastic,” she murmured. “But then, why—”

  “Why do I need a trusted person to give him a room, to hide him out? That’s what I’m about to tell you.”

  Then, crisply, withholding nothing, he recounted the entire saga of Professor MacDonald to date. Throughout his recital the contessa sat stiffly, not a muscle moving on her wrinkled face.

  When he had finished, she spoke. “Even Cedric Foster has never written a story quite like that.”

  “I’ve got to see that it has a happy ending, Contessa,” Jordan said. “Right now there doesn’t seem much chance. Except with your help. Without your help, we have no place to go. I’ve just about run out of ideas. The Communists are sure to get him in the next twenty-four hours.”

  “The Communists,” she said vehemently. “They shall not touch him. Professor MacDonald is a great man, a genius, and his discovery belongs to the world. If I can help give it to the world, I shall.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Where is this wonderful man?”

  Jordan rose quickly. “Contessa, you’re a dear. I’ll never be able to thank you enough. The professor, he’s downstairs in your entry.”

  “Well, my God, bring him right up and let’s make him comfortable. I’ll ask one of Cedric Foster’s sycophants to vacate his room, double up with someone else, and the professor shall have a lovely bedroom to himself, with complete privacy.”

  “Contessa, just one thing. No one, but no one—certainly not your guests—must know what he has done or that he is here.”

  “You have my sacred word.”

  “I’ll be by to see him tomorrow evening, to let him know how escape plans are progressing.”

  “Tomorrow evening? About tomorrow evening, Timothy. I’m giving a small dinner party for Cedric Foster. Since you’re coming by anyway, why don’t you plan to attend the dinner? You can bring one of your many ladies. I’d love to have you.”

  “I appreciate that. I’m not sure I’m in the mood for parties—”

  “You need a diversion.”

  “All right, I accept. I’ll bring the professor’s assistant, Dr. Alison Edwards. We’ll come by a bit early, so we can see the professor first. Now I’d better introduce you to our fugitive.”

  * * *

  The following morning, from the moment he had awakened early in the Hotel Danieli, Tim Jordan had determined to put Professor MacDonald out of his mind and for the first time in recent weeks concentrate on his work. After all, it was not often that the Venice Must Live Committee got a break like this, a chance to have its story told in 1,400 American newspapers by the most widely read columnists in the United States. This day, Jordan had known, he must give all his energies to the columnist, Schuyler Moore, and not be diverted by his role in MacDonald’s escape.

  Yesterday, after leaving MacDonald with the pleased and excited Contessa De Marchi, he had devoted himself to trying to locate Bruno Giradi. He had left telephone messages at Il Gazzettino, at the mayor’s press office, at two restaurants he knew Bruno frequented, each time asking that Bruno contact him as soon as possible. By late this afternoon, he hoped, after he had returned from Voltabarozzo, he would have some favorable word from Bruno that he would be able to impart to Professor MacDonald tonight before the contessa’s dinner party.

  Until then, though, his devotion must be entirely to Schuyler Moore and the Pirelli-Furlanis Dam that was to save Venice from sinking into the sea.

  There had been five of them who had met at the main garage in the Piazzale Roma. Jordan and Marisa had picked up Schuyler Moore at the Hotel Bauer Grunwald, taken a motorboat to the Piazzale Roma. There the two young carabinieri guards assigned by Colonel Cutrone had been awaiting them, as well as the Mercedes sedan made available by the Italian Ministry of Public Works.

  Jordan had driven, with Schuyler Moore beside him in the front seat and Marisa squeezed between the two guards in the back seat. Jordan had made the trip many times before with journalists, and once again he had reached Padua in forty minutes.

  In Padua, he had driven the Mercedes to the Corso Milano, and across from the Teatro Verdi had parked in front of the modern building housing the Genio Civile, the local branch of the Ministry of Public Works. While the others waited, and accompanied by one guard, Jordan had gone inside briefly and from the chief of the department had obtained the special pass that would allow them to inspect the miniature model of the Venice lagoon.

  Now they were on their way to Voltabarozzo, the small community outside Padua where the Centro Sperimentale di Idraulici—the Center for Experiments in Hydraulics—was located. As they rolled along the Strada Statale, between rows of typical Italian dwellings on one side of the highway and artificial canals and meadows on the other, Jordan listened to Marisa describing the area to Schuyler Moore. The columnist had twisted in the front seat, facing Marisa in the rear to hear her better, and Jordan had a closer and more careful look at him. Moore appeared to be about forty years old, with a rather squarish, slightly acned face. His hair was dark blond, thinning, parted neatly on one side. Hornrimmed glasses perched on his short straight nose, and the lenses somewhat exaggerated his small, doubtful blue eyes. His mouth was s
mall and constantly puckered. Until now, he had not talked much, preferring to listen to Jordan’s anecdotal highlights of Venice’s history and Marisa’s occasional interjections.

  As Marisa caught her breath, Schuyler Moore spoke up. “All very interesting and helpful,” he said. “But until now you haven’t told me a word about this flood-control apparatus we’re going to see.”

  “On purpose,” said Jordan from the wheel. “This is one of those things that are better understood when seen—even in miniature. It’ll all be very clear once you set eyes on it. We just didn’t want to confuse you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “In fact, the Center is coming into view,” said Jordan. In a few seconds he pointed out the window, adding, “There, to the left, up ahead, Mr. Moore. The Center complex forms a triangle. At one end of the triangle is a two-story office building. Next, an area for open-air experiments. Finally, the dominant part of the Center, the part that will interest you, the mammoth metal building that resembles a plane hangar—that’s where the model of the Venice lagoon has been built You’ll see for yourself in a few minutes.”

  After they turned off the road, and parked, and got out of the car, Jordan guided Schuyler Moore up ahead of the others. As they approached the hangar-like structure, Jordan began to fill Moore in on the background. Moore quickly pulled a small, cheap notebook out of the pocket of his seersucker jacket, located his ball-point pen, and began to jot notes.

  “There are many reasons why Venice is gradually sinking into the sea,” said Jordan, “and there are many proposed solutions to save it, but we are only concerned with one, the best and most practical one. But first, why is Venice sinking? Answers. The world’s ice masses melt, the world’s oceans rise, and because of this the water level here is one inch higher every five years. Further, the city rests on a muddy foundation of soil. Then, more important, private industry in Marghera and Mestre pumped water out of the lagoon . bottom, out of the subsoil, forcing the land to sink. But the main reason for the city’s sinking—and in fact, its being slowly eroded and destroyed—is that high tides come in from the Adriatic through three channels and fill the lagoon. The lagoon, in turn, rises and engulfs, or floods, the city. Often, when the waters are at high tide, the sirocco, a windstorm or gale, sends the lagoon smashing over Venice. Almost every winter, floods put the Piazza San Marco under three inches of water. As you may recall, the disastrous flood of 1966 had the Piazza over six inches underwater, left oil from the central heating tanks six feet high on buildings, wrecked shops, homes, walls, paintings, boats, left 5,000 people homeless. And any future storm that generated a wind velocity of sixty miles an hour would put the city under nine inches of water. What can be done to prevent these annual floods? There is one solution. Now you shall see it for yourself.”