The Pigeon Project by Irving Wallace

Author:Irving Wallace [Wallace, Irving]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

VI

It was almost ten o’clock in the morning, a hot, humid Venice morning, and Jordan had had MacDonald in tow ever since leaving Dr. Scarpa’s office a full half hour ago.

Now, in a side street off the teeming Mercerie, a few blocks behind the Piazza San Marco, Jordan scouted the terrain ahead. It was as dangerous as no-man’s-land. At short intervals, khaki-clad, armed local police, in pairs, passed in patrol, searching the faces of shopping pedestrians.

“It’s a risk,” Jordan muttered. “But I don’t know what else to do.”

Even if he made his destination, Jordan was aware, there were hazards involved. All last night, dreading the morning, he had reviewed in his mind friends and acquaintances he might trust to provide a hiding place until Bruno came through—if he came through—and he had been unable to think of a single safe haven. By the time he had picked up MacDonald, he had settled on a place of last resort. His plan was to take MacDonald to his office in the Venice Must Live Committee suite and try to secrete him there. He did not like his choice, but he could conjure up no other. The uncertainties were numerous. Suppose his secretary, Gloria, recognized MacDonald? Suppose Marisa recognized him? Suppose visitors, or other personnel in the building, came across him?

But at the moment, Jordan realized, the problem was not how unsafe his destination might be, but how much more dangerous the means of reaching it.

He watched the passersby coming and going on the Mercerie, then decided to venture into that main street by himself to see if the coast was clear of police.

“Just wait here a moment,” he told MacDonald. “Let me see if we can make our move now.”

He walked to the edge of the Mercerie and peered to his left toward the Piazza San Marco. No uniforms in sight. He swung to his right and looked off. At once, he saw a familiar face and figure approaching from perhaps forty or fifty feet away.

She was a tall, flat young woman holding a black umbrella aloft and waving to a cluster, a human bee-swarm, of nondescript middle-aged people frantically trying to stay close to her.

This was Felice Huber, with a sensitive, elongated, Virginia Woolf countenance, a scholarly thirtyish woman of Swiss origin who was a tour guide for the Venice travel agency CIT. In a pre-Marisa period, Jordan had gone to bed with her several times, no copulation, strictly oral both ways, which was fine. They had remained friends, enjoying an occasional lunch and discussions about Magritte and other wonderful art crazies.

Jordan started toward her. “Felice!” he called out.

She saw him instantly, and her usual somber, sometimes unhappy, face broke into a smile. They met. She stopped, the bee-swarm stopping behind her, and he pecked a kiss at her cheek.

“You’re looking wonderful,” he said. “How’ve you been?”

“Unwonderful, same reasons,” she replied. “And busy, as you can see. Today, for this English flock—Liverpool and Manchester—it is Program A.” Mockingly, she recited the tour advertising brochure.

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