The Pigeon Project by Irving Wallace Read Free Book Online

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,