The Pigeon Project by Irving Wallace Read Free Book Online Page B

tiny lines? He must try.
    His pen touched the narrow strip of paper, and he began to write: Am British scientist illegally imprisoned on San Lazzaro by Communists .
    He paused, considering what to say next, finally framed it in his mind, and resumed his miniaturized writing. The message was complete. He reread it. Not quite complete. He must give some indication of why he was a prisoner, why the Russians wanted him, why at any cost he must be saved. There was barely room for a hint, space for no more than six to ten words. He sought them, found them, and meticulously fitted them, into the last blank space on the strip of paper.
    Now, quickly, he folded the strip once, then again, then a third time. He stuffed it into his shirt pocket with the rubber band.
    From his lunch tray, he tore off a corner of bread, broke it into crumbs. Rising, trying to show no signs of anxiety, he approached the window where the alerted pigeons were waiting. As he had done yesterday, and the day before, he put his right hand through the bars of the grille, spilled a few of the crumbs onto the ledge… Immediately, two of the pigeons went for the food, and a third crowded in to join them. The fourth pigeon, a fat dark gray one, was watching his hand. MacDonald moved his hand toward the lone pigeon, offering his palm of remaining bread crumbs. The pigeon strutted toward his hand, hovered over it, suddenly darted its beak toward the crumbs and began to eat them.
    Cautiously, MacDonald slipped his free left hand through the next pair of bars, lowering it over the occupied pigeon.
    For a moment, MacDonald held still, motionless. Then in a flash he dropped his left hand toward the pigeon, grabbed it about the back of its head and its breast. The startled bird was all motion, trying to squirm loose, get away, but MacDonald had its wings pinned down.
    Swiftly, he drew the pigeon into the room, held it with its bottom up and its flailing claws exposed. With his right hand he dug into his shirt pocket, pulled out the rubber band and the tightly folded message.
    The next and last was the most difficult part—securing the paper slip to one of the pigeon’s legs—but he applied himself to it with grim concentration. He managed to roll the paper around the pigeon’s leg without dropping the rubber band. Then he got the elastic around it, doubling it up and twisting it until it looped tighter and tighter around the paper and the pigeon’s thin leg. At last, the message held fast.
    For a fleeting second, MacDonald contemplated his handiwork. He now had a carrier pigeon. He prayed it was a San Marco pigeon. But would anyone in a million years—let alone two days—notice it, retrieve it, act on it? The odds mocked him. It was the most futile endeavor he had ever undertaken. But one thought buoyed his spirit. Minutes before, the world had been blind and deaf to knowledge of his discovery and incarceration. With this winged creature, the word would go out of his cell for the first, the last, the only time.
    Gripping the squirming bird, MacDonald strode back to the window. He held the pigeon high, then pushed it out between the bars, preparing to cast if off into the free air. From the corner of an eye, he saw a movement on the ground below. It came from one of the khaki-clad carabinieri guards. The guard was lifting his rifle.
    MacDonald’s heart hammered. With a gasp, he threw his arm forward in a pitching motion, opening his hand, releasing the pigeon. The bird dipped, flapped its wings, rose, and was airborne to the northwest. Below, the guard had whipped his rifle to his shoulder, was aiming, training his gun on the lofting pigeon.
    The rifle rang out.
    Almost simultaneously, the pigeon seemed to have exploded in midair, a flurry of feathers and wings. The bird shuddered, wobbled, began to sink, beating its wings weakly. It was dropping fast when it disappeared from MacDonald’s sight.
    MacDonald looked down at the guard once more. The Italian was waving