You came to see me?”
“Yes. I must speak to you, Sembut. I’m sorry to delay you, but I need your help. This is an urgent matter.”
“Of course…” His magnified eyes strayed to Alison.
“Sembut,” said Jordan, “I want you to meet a dear friend of mine from New York, Miss—Dr. Alison Edwards.”
“My pleasure,” said the shopkeeper gallantly, shaking her hand. “Well, come inside where we can talk.”
“Thank you,” said Jordan.
He and Alison waited for the Armenian to unlock the front door, and then they followed him into the glass shop. Nurikhan locked the door from the inside. He apologized for the lack of lighting. “I do not want customers to disturb us. Do you want to sit down?”
“Not necessary, Sembut. Let me get right into it.”
“Please.”
“Something bizarre happened to me today at Quadri’s, after I finished breakfast…”
As briefly as possible, Jordan recounted the events of the day from the time that he had found Professor MacDonald’s note tied to the dead pigeon’s leg to the time that Dr. Alison Edwards had arrived from Paris and authenticated the note.
As he listened, the Armenian proprietor’s face, usually phlegmatic, plainly reflected his astonishment.
“And so,” Jordan concluded, “the Mechitarist monks have Professor MacDonald a prisoner on San Lazzaro, and they are sending him back to the Soviet Union the day after tomorrow. Now you know the situation.”
The proprietor searched Jordan’s face. “You are, as you Americans say, pulling my leg, are you not?”
“Why would I, Sembut? No, every word I have told you is true. They’ve kidnapped and are holding this man.”
The proprietor’s skepticism was evident. “I cannot believe this. There must be some mistake. I am at San Lazzaro often to see my brother’s boy, Pashal, and I know all of the monks. They are gentle human beings, recluses, concerned only with the Lord. They would kidnap no one on earth. They would not imprison another soul.”
“Wait, Sembut,” Jordan interrupted. “I’m not saying the monks had anything to do with this. I suspect it was all done by the local Communists, who control the police, as a favor to their comrades in Russia. Dr. Edwards and I don’t know exactly what happened, but we strongly suspect the Communists here wanted a place to hide Professor MacDonald until he could be sent back, and they selected San Lazzaro because it is isolated, not often visited, and they forced the abbot and the few resident monks to cooperate. You know how dependent the abbot is on the city administration.”
“That part is true,” agreed the shopkeeper. Most of his initial skepticism had vanished. “But why on earth would anyone want to arrest and hold a man you call an eminent British-American scientist?”
In relating the story, Jordan had purposely not uttered a word about Professor MacDonald’s specialty and his momentous discovery. He hesitated. Instinct told him not to speak of it now or ever, unless he had to do so. He glanced at Alison and thought she knew what he was thinking and agreed with it. Jordan decided to answer his friend’s question as ambiguously as possible. “They are holding Professor MacDonald because he has made some secret discovery in the field of biology. The Russians want the professor because they want his finding exclusively for themselves.”
Sembut Nurikhan appeared satisfied. “And me? Where do I fit in this story?”
“Someone has to free the professor. We can’t go to the carabinieri. They are probably working hand in hand with the KGB as comrades. We can’t ask for outside intervention, because the moment the Communists learned of it, they would remove the professor from San Lazzaro to God knows where. Our only hope is to get some friendly monks on the island—or one monk—to act mercifully and help the prisoner escape. I know none of the monks well enough. Then I thought of you…”
“You want my nephew Pashal to help. That is
“Yes. I must speak to you, Sembut. I’m sorry to delay you, but I need your help. This is an urgent matter.”
“Of course…” His magnified eyes strayed to Alison.
“Sembut,” said Jordan, “I want you to meet a dear friend of mine from New York, Miss—Dr. Alison Edwards.”
“My pleasure,” said the shopkeeper gallantly, shaking her hand. “Well, come inside where we can talk.”
“Thank you,” said Jordan.
He and Alison waited for the Armenian to unlock the front door, and then they followed him into the glass shop. Nurikhan locked the door from the inside. He apologized for the lack of lighting. “I do not want customers to disturb us. Do you want to sit down?”
“Not necessary, Sembut. Let me get right into it.”
“Please.”
“Something bizarre happened to me today at Quadri’s, after I finished breakfast…”
As briefly as possible, Jordan recounted the events of the day from the time that he had found Professor MacDonald’s note tied to the dead pigeon’s leg to the time that Dr. Alison Edwards had arrived from Paris and authenticated the note.
As he listened, the Armenian proprietor’s face, usually phlegmatic, plainly reflected his astonishment.
“And so,” Jordan concluded, “the Mechitarist monks have Professor MacDonald a prisoner on San Lazzaro, and they are sending him back to the Soviet Union the day after tomorrow. Now you know the situation.”
The proprietor searched Jordan’s face. “You are, as you Americans say, pulling my leg, are you not?”
“Why would I, Sembut? No, every word I have told you is true. They’ve kidnapped and are holding this man.”
The proprietor’s skepticism was evident. “I cannot believe this. There must be some mistake. I am at San Lazzaro often to see my brother’s boy, Pashal, and I know all of the monks. They are gentle human beings, recluses, concerned only with the Lord. They would kidnap no one on earth. They would not imprison another soul.”
“Wait, Sembut,” Jordan interrupted. “I’m not saying the monks had anything to do with this. I suspect it was all done by the local Communists, who control the police, as a favor to their comrades in Russia. Dr. Edwards and I don’t know exactly what happened, but we strongly suspect the Communists here wanted a place to hide Professor MacDonald until he could be sent back, and they selected San Lazzaro because it is isolated, not often visited, and they forced the abbot and the few resident monks to cooperate. You know how dependent the abbot is on the city administration.”
“That part is true,” agreed the shopkeeper. Most of his initial skepticism had vanished. “But why on earth would anyone want to arrest and hold a man you call an eminent British-American scientist?”
In relating the story, Jordan had purposely not uttered a word about Professor MacDonald’s specialty and his momentous discovery. He hesitated. Instinct told him not to speak of it now or ever, unless he had to do so. He glanced at Alison and thought she knew what he was thinking and agreed with it. Jordan decided to answer his friend’s question as ambiguously as possible. “They are holding Professor MacDonald because he has made some secret discovery in the field of biology. The Russians want the professor because they want his finding exclusively for themselves.”
Sembut Nurikhan appeared satisfied. “And me? Where do I fit in this story?”
“Someone has to free the professor. We can’t go to the carabinieri. They are probably working hand in hand with the KGB as comrades. We can’t ask for outside intervention, because the moment the Communists learned of it, they would remove the professor from San Lazzaro to God knows where. Our only hope is to get some friendly monks on the island—or one monk—to act mercifully and help the prisoner escape. I know none of the monks well enough. Then I thought of you…”
“You want my nephew Pashal to help. That is
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