A few minutes later, they were safely in Jordan’s office.
They both emitted weary sighs of relief. “Sit down somewhere and try to relax, Professor,” said Jordan. “I’d better return Alison’s call. After that, we’ll have to figure out where to hide you in the morning.”
He dialed the Hotel Danieli and asked to speak to Dr. Alison Edwards.
When she answered, he said, “Alison? Tim—”
“I just tried to call you.”
“Yes, I heard your signal as we were going out the door. Memo tipped me off that the police had discovered where we were. So we had to get out in a hurry.”
“Where are you now?”
“In my office. We barely made it. What’s up?”
“I was trying to get hold of you because Bruno Girardi called. He has to speak to you. He wants you to call him at Il Gazzettino before eleven o’clock tonight.”
Jordan lowered the phone receiver to make out the time on his watch. It was ten thirty-five.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll call him. Did he give you any hint of what this is about?”
“No idea. Only his tone made it clear he must talk to you by eleven. Tim, do you think it’s about you-know-what?”
“I’m hoping. I’m hoping it’s something good. We need a break. I don’t know how long we can keep up this disappearing act. It’s getting tougher and tougher.”
“Better be careful what you say.”
“No one’s on this line, Alison. They’re only monitoring long-distance calls. They don’t have the personnel for this. All right, I’ll get after Bruno. And be in touch with you.”
As he hung up, he saw Professor MacDonald’s watery blue eyes behind the crooked wire-framed glasses, fixed on him.
“Are you all right, Professor?” Jordan inquired.
“A little frayed at the edges. I’m out of cigars. Do you have a cigarette?”
“I’m a pipe man, but wait…”
Jordan went into his secretary’s office, opened the top drawer of her desk, and found half a pack. He extracted a cigarette, brought it back to MacDonald, and lit it for him.
“Bruno wants to speak to me,” Jordan said.
MacDonald, smoking awkwardly, frowned. “Let’s pray he has news for us—good news.”
“Let’s pray,” said Jordan, slumping behind his desk and lifting the telephone receiver once more.
He got through to Bruno almost immediately.
“Bruno? Tim Jordan. I just received your message. What’s happening?”
Bruno’s boyish voice dropped to a conspiratorial level. “Green light, Tim,” he said. “Our carabinieri friend—his name is Captain Silvestri—he has received encouragement from his wife. He is prepared to go ahead as agreed.”
Jordan, elated, waved his hand happily at MacDonald. “Great,” he said into the phone. “When do we go?”
“Tonight. Midnight.”
“That’s fast. Little over an hour. We’ll have to hustle. Where do we meet?”
Bruno’s voice dropped again. “After you leave your motorboat, walk into the Piazzale Roma. On your right is the Garage Comunale. You’ve seen it.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be waiting for you on one side of the auto entrance. Then we’ll walk across the square to a small indoor restaurant that is open until late. Captain Silvestri will instruct you from there.”
“What about transportation?”
“I’ve rented a Fiat for you. It is all ready and waiting in the Garage Comunale.”
“Good, Bruno. Very good.”
“Now, about the money—the $10,000—”
“Look, Bruno, I don’t have that much cash on me, and there’s no place to change a large sum of traveler’s checks. I can give you a down payment tonight. Maybe $2,000. The rest tomorrow. Will you and your captain trust me?”
There was the merest beat of hesitation. “It will be all right, Tim. I will trust you and my friend will trust you—until tomorrow. But bring the down payment so the captain can see you are sincere.”
“I’ll bring it.” He paused. “Will it be dangerous?”
“Not tonight. That is why it is tonight. The captain is himself in charge at the Ponte della Libertà checkpoint. Tomorrow, there would be others. But tonight is the safest.”
“Midnight, then.”
“Midnight,” said Bruno, and he hung up.
Jordan smiled across his desk at Professor MacDonald. “We’re on our way at last,” he announced. “Tomorrow, you’re in Paris.”
* * *
It was a few minutes before the stroke of midnight when Tim Jordan entered the nearly desolate Piazzale Roma, going alone toward the Garage Comunale.
Over an hour before, after talking to Bruno on the telephone, he had left the professor drinking hot coffee in his office and had gone over to the Hotel Danieli. There the cashier was still on duty and Jordan had changed $2,000 in traveler’s checks. Then he had gone up to his suite, found Alison in bed reading a paperback, reported to her about the arrangements for the impending escape, and finally entered his bedroom to make one last call.
The immediate problem was getting to the Piazzale Roma safely. There was no gondolier or motorboat pilot he trusted, except for one. He had known that despite the hour, he could phone his old gondolier friend, Luigi Cipolate, and if it was humanly possible his friend would help him. Moreover, he knew Luigi had access to a motorboat—a motorboat was necessary because a gondola would be too slow traveling the fairly long distance to the end of the Grand Canal—since Luigi had frequently spoken of the motorboat owned by his son, which he himself sometimes used.
The phone had been picked up by Luigi’s wife, who had reassured him that he had not awakened her and that Luigi was wide awake, probably having a beer in the kitchen. When Luigi had come on, Jordan had explained that he had a business associate he had to deliver to the Piazzale Roma by midnight. For various reasons, to be given one day when there was more time, he could not use public transportation and in fact preferred not to use a boat driver he did not know. He needed someone he could depend upon to be discreet.
Luigi, as ever, had asked no questions. They’d need a motorboat to make it in time, he had said. He would borrow his son’s. He would meet Jordan and his associate at the Servizio Motoscafi just in front of the Danieli. He would be there at eleven-thirty sharp.
Jordan had then gone back to his office to get MacDonald.
At twenty after eleven, as they prepared to leave, Jordan had suddenly wondered about something. “Have you finished writing out your formula for C-98 yet?”
“I have most of it down.”
“Be sure to leave it with me when we part company at the Piazzale Roma. Just in case something happens to you.”
MacDonald had shot him an apprehensive look and said, “I’ll remember.”
They had left Jordan’s office and descended the staircase into the arcade. Only a few night people were in sight, and no policemen. Together, Jordan and MacDonald had walked down the aisle of the lightly populated Quadri’s café.
There had been a scattering of people in the Piazza San Marco, mostly youngsters. As they started into the giant square, Jordan had cautiously surveyed their left flank. Among the people in front of the Basilica there were two in khaki uniforms, local police joking with several foreign girls.
Jordan had said, “Professor, bend your head close to me, as if you’re engaging me in earnest conversation. That’ll give them less chance for a full view of your face.”
“I-I don’t know what to say.”
“Say the Lord’s Prayer.”
As MacDonald bent his head close to Jordan’s and recited a complicated scientific formula, they had continued walking in stride past the towering Campanile. They had come to the Doges’ Palace and the Piazzetta undetected and turned toward the Hotel Danieli, going a little faster between the columns of the Doges’ Palace and the waterfront. They had gone up and down a bridge, and to their right they had seen so
meone trying to get their attention. It was Luigi Cipolate, and when Jordan acknowledged him, Luigi had run back to point out his motorboat.
Jordan had settled MacDonald low in the rear of the craft, and himself had stood beside Luigi as he maneuvered the wheel of the motorboat.
Although Jordan had been anxious the entire journey through the Grand Canal, the passage had been uneventful. Except for the approach of one small police patrol boat—its occupants had not even looked at them—and one churning vaporetto and a barge piled high with crates of canned goods, they’d had the Grand Canal to themselves.
Luigi’s motorboat had arrived at the Piazzale Roma boat station at four minutes to twelve o’clock.
Jordan had gestured for Professor MacDonald to remain in his place. “I want to see them alone first,” he had said. “I’ll be back as fast as I can.” To Luigi he had added, “Just stay put. If anyone comes snooping around, cut loose and drift around in the water until you see me. I should be back in ten or fifteen minutes.”
Now he was in the Piazzale Roma, on his way to the meeting that would lead to MacDonald’s escape from Venice.
There was a lone figure waiting in front of the entrance to the Garage Comunale. The stubby young man, curly-haired, darkly handsome, a camera case slung over one shoulder, was Bruno Girardi.
Jordan was relieved. It was going according to schedule.
“Hi, Bruno. Right on time.”
“Good, Tim.” He looked about. “You are by yourself. Where’s your man, the underground courier you want to get through?”
“He’s not far away. I thought I’d come alone first, meet Captain Silvestri, find out the plan.”
“Everything is arranged.” He pointed across the square. “He will be waiting for us in the all-night restaurant. He has told his men he is taking a coffee break. Let’s go see him.”
They started across the empty square. Entering the small restaurant, with its white metal tables, they found no one inside except a pudgy waitress setting out fresh salt and pepper shakers.
Bruno consulted his watch. “He told me he’d be here waiting.”
“Do you think he changed his mind?”
“No.” Bruno was confident. “I would have known already. He will be here. For the $5,000, he will be here. Let’s take a table.”
They seated themselves at a table. Bruno ordered black coffee, and Jordan ordered hot tea.
Setting down his camera case, Bruno asked, “What is your man’s name?”
Jordan improvised quickly. “Pearson.”
“All right. I didn’t know his name, so I took the car out from the rental service—they know me—in your name. You’ll have to reimburse me for the deposit.”
“Okay.”
“The papers are in the glove compartment of the car. There’s the address of the company in Paris where Pearson will leave the car when he gets there.”
“Very well.”
The waitress came with the coffee and tea.
Bruno was silent until she was out of earshot. Then he said, “Does your friend know his way?”
“Not really,” said Jordan. “He’s never been here in this section before. I’ll drive him across the causeway to Mestre. From that point on he’ll use a marked map I’ve given him which shows what routes to take.”
Bruno drank his coffee. “You are going to Mestre too?”
“If the captain doesn’t mind.”
“He won’t mind. Are you coming back?”
“Yes, of course. Tonight.”
“How?” asked Bruno.
“I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose I’ll take the first bus I can get.”
“Tim, there are no buses coming into Venice. Have you forgotten? The city is closed down.”
“You’re right. I suppose I’ll have to walk back.”
Bruno shook his head. “No. I can borrow a motorcycle. It has room for another on the back. I’ll follow you to Mestre, and after Pearson leaves I’ll bring you back here.”
“That’s nice of you, Bruno.”
Bruno grinned. “You’re a member of the family. Besides, you are paying me well.” Then he said more seriously, “We need the money now. Mamma is running up big hospital bills.”
“Marisa told me she wasn’t well. What’s wrong with her?”
“Nobody knows. They try to find out. She is weak. She has stomach pains every day. They make tests.” He glanced at the door. “Where the devil is Silvestri?”
“You’re still sure he’ll show up?”
“He’ll show up. Since he isn’t here, I’ll tell you the procedure. We can confirm it again with him.”
“Go ahead.”
“Simple. Step one. You make the down payment. I’ll give it all to Captain Silvestri to show good faith.”
“Okay.”
“Step two. After our meeting, you will bring Pearson inside the Garage Comunale. I’ll be there and take you to your car. Captain Silvestri will return to his post. Step three. I will get the motorcycle and follow you to the Ponte della Libertà. As you get to the causeway, you will see the captain with perhaps three or four of the police. You will stop. Captain Silvestri will hold his men off, tell them he will attend to this personally. He will come to you, pretend to see your permission pass to leave the city. Then he will send you on, and I’ll be right behind you, and he’ll send me on.”
“Will there be any more checkpoints after that?”
“At the end of the causeway, there will be two guards on the Mestre side. They will not bother you, since you got that far. They are there to prevent cars from coming into Venice. We will have a return permit.”
“So we just keep going into Mestre? That’s all there is to it?”
“That’s all.” Bruno was scrambling to his feet. “Franco—” he called out.
Jordan looked over his shoulder. From the doorway, a small, thin police officer, in uniform and armed, was approaching their table. He had dark pinhole eyes, a long nose, and a foxlike aspect.
“Captain Franco Silvestri,” said Bruno, “this is my friend Mr. Timothy Jordan, an adopted Venetian.”
“How do you do,” said the captain. He shifted a roll of what appeared to be posters held together by a thick rubber band from under one arm to the other so that he could shake hands. Taking a seat, he was apologetic. “Forgive my lateness,” he said, placing the posters on the table. “I was just leaving for our meeting when I was called back because a messenger came from headquarters with some new posters. Questore Trevisan wants them put up at once.” As he began to remove the rubber band from the roll, he said to Bruno, “Is everything in order here?”
“I was outlining the procedure for Mr. Jordan. I will be going too, Franco, on a motorcycle behind them, so I can bring Mr. Jordan back. Is that all right?”
“Fine.”
“I told Mr. Jordan when he reaches the checkpoint with his passenger, he is to stop, and you alone will come alongside to clear his permit.”
“I will do that myself.” He squinted at Jordan. “You are lucky. I am the only officer on duty tonight. There will be no problem.”
“Thank you,” said Jordan.
The captain continued to squint at Jordan. “Bruno tells me you will leave a down payment with him. And give him the balance of the 4,000,000 lire tomorrow.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you want some coffee, Franco?” Bruno asked.
“Not now,” said the captain, beginning to unroll the posters. “I have to arrange to have all these put up.” He had opened the posters and flattened them out across the table. “Why do we need more of these on the spy MacGregor? It’s the same…”
Jordan’s throat constricted as he saw once more the large portrait of Professor MacDonald on the poster. Then he saw something else, which the captain saw at the same instant.
“… no, I see, it’s not the same,” the captain was saying. “They’ve printed something new on top—a reward.” He gave a low whistle. “One hundred thirty million lire
to find this man. Now, that is a reward. Someone will be very rich.” He stuck a finger on MacDonald’s face on the poster. “This is the man I’d like to set eyes on. I appreciate your 4,000,000 lire, Mr. Jordan, but I’d trade that in for even a chance to get this 130,000,000-lire reward. Oh, well.” He began to roll up the posters again. “I’d better be off. See you in ten minutes, Mr. Jordan.”
After the captain had left, Jordan remained seated as Bruno rose and paid for the coffee and tea. At last, Jordan got up and slowly followed Bruno out of the restaurant. Trailing behind Bruno, Jordan realized to what extent the encounter with the police captain had shaken him.
When they reached the middle of the Piazzale Roma, Jordan took hold of Bruno’s arm.
“One minute, Bruno.”
“I’m going to get the motorcycle. You bring your friend. We can’t lose time.”
“Hold it, Bruno. I’ve changed my mind. I can’t go through with it.”
Bruno appeared not to have heard him correctly. “You can’t what?”
“I’m not going through with it. I’ll pay you something for your time.”
Bruno was astounded. “You are not going through the checkpoint?”
“Not tonight. It’s too complicated. I’ll explain the whole thing tomorrow. I’ve got to leave now.”
Jordan swung away and began to cut across the square toward the boat station.
“Tim, wait a minute,’” Bruno called. “This makes no sense.”
“Tomorrow. I’ll phone you tomorrow,” Jordan called back.
He went as fast as he could go, without running, toward the wharf.
Luigi was waiting in the prow of the motorboat, smoking, with MacDonald huddled in the darkened rear.
Jordan stepped down into the boat. “Cut loose, Luigi. We’re getting out of here. New plan.”
Luigi moved to untie the rope that held the boat to a piling. “Where to?”
“I’m not sure yet. Start back to San Marco slowly, while I consult with my friend.”
Jordan climbed to the rear of the motorboat and squeezed in beside MacDonald, who looked scared.
“What’s the matter?” MacDonald wanted to know. “Did something go wrong?”
The Pigeon Project Page 28