it?”
“Yes, that is it.”
The shopkeeper tugged nervously at his bow tie. “You want me to telephone San Lazzaro and—what? Ask to speak to my nephew? Ask him if anything unusual is happening?”
Jordan nodded. “Something like that. If he can talk, find out if MacDonald is actually being confined there. If your nephew knows about this or confirms it, find out if he has access to the prisoner or if he knows anyone on the island who has access to him. From then on, we can play it by ear.” Jordan briefly placed an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “This would be an important favor, Sembut. We know it’s a long shot. But we can’t think of anything else. And—well—you never can tell.”
Alison edged forward. “Mr. Nurikhan, we’d be most grateful.”
The Armenian shopkeeper made a motion of surrender. “I will try. You both come with me.”
He led them between tables crowded with glassware to the rear of the shop and into the cubicle that served as his office. He flicked on a lamp, settled gingerly behind a rolltop desk, and drew the telephone toward him. Jordan and Alison hovered close by.
The shopkeeper raised his head, his eyes meeting Jordan’s. “If what you have told me, Tim, is true, this will be difficult.” He shrugged. “Let us find out.”
He lifted the receiver off the telephone, and with care he dialed a number.
He listened. “It is ringing,” he said. He waited.
He was alert. Someone had answered the phone.
“Hello,” he said in English. “This is Sembut Nurikhan in Venice. I—” He paused, listened. “Ah, yes. It is good to speak to you too, Vartan. I am calling to have a word with my nephew, with Padre Pashal, if I may. I want to discuss his father with him… Thank you. I will hold.”
The shopkeeper cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and addressed Jordan. “That was a friend of Pashal’s. He has gone to the refectory to fetch Pashal. At least, they are answering the phone.”
He now held the receiver tightly, pressing it to his ear.
Suddenly, the shopkeeper sat up. “Ah, it is you, Pashal. How are you?”
As his nephew, on the other end, answered, Nurikhan signaled Jordan to listen with him. He held the receiver back a few inches from his ear, took Jordan by the sleeve, and pulled him down behind him, so that Jordan’s own ear was near the receiver and within hearing of the voice.
“As long as you are well, Pashal,” the shopkeeper was saying. “I’ll tell you why I call. I have been discussing your father with Dr. Scarpa. A new cardiac treatment has been recommended. I thought I would come over to San Lazzaro tomorrow so that we can talk about it.”
Jordan could hear the young voice on the other end—tinny, anxious. “Impossible, Uncle Sembut. The abbot is allowing no visitors tomorrow or the following day. When it is possible to visit, I will call you.”
“No visitors tomorrow,” repeated Nurikhan. “I have never heard of such a thing before. Why is this?”
The distant voice dropped. “I cannot talk about it now.”
Nurikhan cast a sidelong glance at Jordan, who nodded. The shopkeeper nodded back and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Perhaps I can talk about it. You need only confirm if I am right or tell me if I am wrong. I have heard—from someone—you are holding a prisoner on San Lazzaro.”
There was a silence on the other end. Then Pashal uttered one word. “Yes,” he said.
“A British professor?”
“Yes.”
“Do the police know about this?”
“Yes.”
“You mean they are part of it?”
Pashal’s voice was reluctant. “Yes.”
“A moment, Pashal,” said Nurikhan. “Do not go away.” He covered the mouthpiece with his free hand, and looked up at Jordan. “You heard, Tim. It is as you guessed. What do I say next?”
Jordan was ready. “Ask—ask your nephew if the prisoner is accessible to him or to one of his brothers.”
The shopkeeper removed his hand from the phone and spoke into it. “Is
“Yes, that is it.”
The shopkeeper tugged nervously at his bow tie. “You want me to telephone San Lazzaro and—what? Ask to speak to my nephew? Ask him if anything unusual is happening?”
Jordan nodded. “Something like that. If he can talk, find out if MacDonald is actually being confined there. If your nephew knows about this or confirms it, find out if he has access to the prisoner or if he knows anyone on the island who has access to him. From then on, we can play it by ear.” Jordan briefly placed an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “This would be an important favor, Sembut. We know it’s a long shot. But we can’t think of anything else. And—well—you never can tell.”
Alison edged forward. “Mr. Nurikhan, we’d be most grateful.”
The Armenian shopkeeper made a motion of surrender. “I will try. You both come with me.”
He led them between tables crowded with glassware to the rear of the shop and into the cubicle that served as his office. He flicked on a lamp, settled gingerly behind a rolltop desk, and drew the telephone toward him. Jordan and Alison hovered close by.
The shopkeeper raised his head, his eyes meeting Jordan’s. “If what you have told me, Tim, is true, this will be difficult.” He shrugged. “Let us find out.”
He lifted the receiver off the telephone, and with care he dialed a number.
He listened. “It is ringing,” he said. He waited.
He was alert. Someone had answered the phone.
“Hello,” he said in English. “This is Sembut Nurikhan in Venice. I—” He paused, listened. “Ah, yes. It is good to speak to you too, Vartan. I am calling to have a word with my nephew, with Padre Pashal, if I may. I want to discuss his father with him… Thank you. I will hold.”
The shopkeeper cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and addressed Jordan. “That was a friend of Pashal’s. He has gone to the refectory to fetch Pashal. At least, they are answering the phone.”
He now held the receiver tightly, pressing it to his ear.
Suddenly, the shopkeeper sat up. “Ah, it is you, Pashal. How are you?”
As his nephew, on the other end, answered, Nurikhan signaled Jordan to listen with him. He held the receiver back a few inches from his ear, took Jordan by the sleeve, and pulled him down behind him, so that Jordan’s own ear was near the receiver and within hearing of the voice.
“As long as you are well, Pashal,” the shopkeeper was saying. “I’ll tell you why I call. I have been discussing your father with Dr. Scarpa. A new cardiac treatment has been recommended. I thought I would come over to San Lazzaro tomorrow so that we can talk about it.”
Jordan could hear the young voice on the other end—tinny, anxious. “Impossible, Uncle Sembut. The abbot is allowing no visitors tomorrow or the following day. When it is possible to visit, I will call you.”
“No visitors tomorrow,” repeated Nurikhan. “I have never heard of such a thing before. Why is this?”
The distant voice dropped. “I cannot talk about it now.”
Nurikhan cast a sidelong glance at Jordan, who nodded. The shopkeeper nodded back and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Perhaps I can talk about it. You need only confirm if I am right or tell me if I am wrong. I have heard—from someone—you are holding a prisoner on San Lazzaro.”
There was a silence on the other end. Then Pashal uttered one word. “Yes,” he said.
“A British professor?”
“Yes.”
“Do the police know about this?”
“Yes.”
“You mean they are part of it?”
Pashal’s voice was reluctant. “Yes.”
“A moment, Pashal,” said Nurikhan. “Do not go away.” He covered the mouthpiece with his free hand, and looked up at Jordan. “You heard, Tim. It is as you guessed. What do I say next?”
Jordan was ready. “Ask—ask your nephew if the prisoner is accessible to him or to one of his brothers.”
The shopkeeper removed his hand from the phone and spoke into it. “Is
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