The Pigeon Project

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Book: The Pigeon Project Read Online Free PDF
Author: Irving Wallace
real concern for your health, you will be escorted outside twice a day to take a walk and enjoy fresh air. Do not be foolish enough to consider another escape. You are on an island, in the midst of a lagoon, and you will be under constant surveillance. Our Italian allies have provided us with eight members of the carabinieri—four in the building here, four on the grounds—to guard you. As for your quarters here, you can see that the two windows are grilled, and both doors are securely locked. Accept your lot, and try to enjoy it. Do not fear what is ahead. If you cooperate, you will become a hero of the Soviet Union. For now, welcome to San Lazzaro. Have a good sleep. I will see you tomorrow.”
    And here it was tomorrow. And he had not had a good sleep.
    Rising from his chair, MacDonald scanned the library room once more. Hanging from the ceiling, an ornate brass chandelier. On either side of the second door, ancient books behind glass. To one side, a white marble bust on a pedestal. Nearby, a showcase containing an 8th-century manuscript of the Koran, a gift to San Lazzaro from one of Napoleon Bonaparte’s scientists. Next, the low-slung cot on which he had slept.
    His eyes went to the two windows. Each was covered by heavy bars. On the ledge of one window, four fat gray pigeons were perched. MacDonald remembered, from his first visit, the density of pigeons pecking at kernels of corn in the Piazza San Marco. These four, he decided, must be on a holiday.
    For want of something better to do, MacDonald went to his breakfast tray, picked up a white roll, tore a piece from it, and broke that into smaller pieces as he walked to the window. The window was on a latch. MacDonald opened it. The pigeons, accustomed to tourists, did not fly off. MacDonald held out a palm filled with bread crumbs, and immediately, the pigeons waddled to his hand and began eating. When they had finished, two of them waddled away, fluttered their wings, and flew off.
    MacDonald inspected the iron bars covering the window, gripped one. It was immovable. Leaning forward, brow pressed against the bars, MacDonald was able to make out a grass yard at what seemed to be the rear part of the monastery. To his right there was a dirt walk leading to three or four steps that went to a small hillock where two uniformed men sat on a green bench beneath a large olive tree. Each wore a white strap from shoulder to hip. Carabinieri. Each held a rifle.
    MacDonald turned away from the window in despair. The place was escapeproof.
    A slight rattle drew MacDonald’s attention to the main door. It was being unlocked, opened, and a tall, thin, boyish-looking monk with a thatch of brown hair entered. He wore a full-length black robe with a narrow leather belt held together by a single pearl clasp. At his neck was an open starched white collar. His black sandals were mesh and sporty. He was not the same monk who had silently delivered breakfast earlier.
    “I have come for your breakfast tray,” he said in English. Reaching MacDonald, he stopped. “I am Padre Pashal Nurikhan,” he said. He appeared eager to offer friendship, to allay MacDonald’s apprehension. “You may call me Pashal. Easier to remember. I am assigned to serve you meals and to take you on your daily walks. If you require anything, you need only ring for me.”
    “I require more information,” said MacDonald, testing the monk. “Where am I? What is this? What is going on?” MacDonald paused. “Or aren’t you allowed to talk?”
    “I can speak,” said Pashal, “but I have not much to tell you. Because I do not know anything, except that I observe you are being held by force. Are you a criminal?”
    “Absolutely not,” said MacDonald indignantly. “I am a scientist, a respected one. I’m British by birth, although an American citizen now. I was undertaking experiments in the Soviet Union when I made a—an important discovery. The Russians wanted it for themselves. I felt it belonged to the
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