The Pigeon Project Read Free

flight, as long as your papers are in order.”
    “My papers are in order. Because of my research travels, I have a special visa to come and go as I wish.”
    “The plane leaves in forty-five minutes. We must hurry.”
    MacDonald pushed himself off the bed and stood a moment, wavering, briefly bewildered.
    “My things,” he said, starting for the door.
    Leonid grabbed his arm. “Please, no—”
    “But my journal, the animal test charts, the—”
    “You don’t need them,” said Leonid urgently. “All you need is your head. You can’t risk being seen. If Vasily suspected you were leaving, he might hold you here with a gun—or at the least, he would alert the airport and you would not be allowed to board the plane. Believe me, Professor.”
    MacDonald nodded. He picked up his jacket and began to pull it on.
    “Your travel papers—are they in this room?”
    MacDonald nodded again. He stepped to the dark brown bureau, opened the top drawer, found his passport, his Intourist VIP travel permit, and two books of traveler’s checks.
    Leonid was at his elbow. “I’ll lift the rear window and go out first. It is a short drop. I’ll help you down. The car is parked on the other side of the orchard, just off the highway. Vasily will never know. He will think you are still safely asleep.”
    At the window, MacDonald paused. “Leonid, what will happen to you?”
    “Never mind. I’ll manage. I’ll make up some story. The important thing is to get you out of here, before they come for you. Soon, tonight, you will be in Venice, free. Tomorrow, you will be in Paris. After that, your discovery will belong to the world.”
    MacDonald smiled grimly. “When I was young, I used to pray to God. I hope He remembers now.”
    “Come,” said Leonid, slowly, silently lifting the window. “There is not a second to lose.”
    * * *
    Three hours had passed when Vasily answered the doorbell. He held the front door wide, admitting the five men.
    The one who was obviously the leader, a stocky, uniformed older man of middle height, hatless, black crew-cut hair, close-set eyes, broad nose, thick lips—almost Mongolian features—glanced about the living room and rested his gaze on Vasily.
    “You are Vasily?”
    “I am,” said Vasily almost inaudibly, offering a half bow.
    “Good work. I am Major Boris Kedrov. I have brought along two of our foremost scientists, Grigori Kapitin and Vladimir Petrovsky, of the Sukhumi Gerontology Institute, to ascertain whether this is a legitimate find or some kind of hoax. With us are two of my KGB agents, Yagoda and Shvernik. The professor—he is still asleep?”
    “Yes, sir.” Vasily pointed to the bedroom door.
    “Excellent. Let’s waste no time. Before we rouse Professor MacDonald and confront him, let us be certain that this discovery of his is genuine. What do we have, beyond your suspicions, to prove that the professor has found the secret to the prolongation of life?”
    “His private journal, Major. I spoke of it on the telephone—”
    “Yes, his journal.”
    “It is there on the desk,” said Vasily, “still open to the last entry this afternoon.”
    Major Kedrov sniffed. “Is there anything more—any other evidence?”
    Vasily gestured toward a corridor off the dining area of the living room. “There is his laboratory. There are test animals, mice and guinea pigs. Leonid kept records—”
    “Leonid?” said Major Kedrov sharply. “Who is Leonid?”
    “His laboratory assistant. A young Jew.”
    “Is he on the premises?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Where?”
    “Probably in his room, near my own, just past the kitchen.” He raised his arm, pointing off. “On the other side.”
    Major Kedrov signaled to his men. “Yagoda—Shvernik—find him.” As they hastened toward the kitchen, Kedrov turned to the others. “Dr. Kapitin, you read English, I believe. Have a look at the professor’s journal. Tell me what you think. As for you, Dr. Petrovsky—Vasily will show you the