Colin interrupted primly. “I say, I resent that very much!”
Sandor was wiping his eyes with a filthy handkerchief. “No offense, I know we’re not in the same league.” He grinned at them both. “So when I picked you up in the cemetery back there—and you let me come along like that—you was really picking me up!” He shook his head admiringly. “I thought I had you two scared to death of me.”
Mrs. Pollifax said soberly, “I don’t think we should stand here talking like this. I think we should leave before someone sees the smoke and comes to find out what’s happened. Colin, do go back and reassure Magda.” Still she remained standing and staring at the smoldering wreckage. “It could have been us,” she said with a shudder. “They intended it to be us. Sandor, you did a remarkable job of driving.”
He was still regarding her with amazement. “That guy Colin had a gun—he had it all the time. And you got gangsters after you—I picked a helluva bunch of people to hitch a ride with!” The expression in his eyes was one of infinite respect. “I know a guy could use you. You want to make some real money? I’ll introduce you when we get to Ankara.”
“I’m not sure Ankara’s a good place for us to head,” said Mrs. Pollifax sadly. “Not now. There may be roadblocks. And thank you but I don’t need any ‘real money,’ I just want to get safely out of Turkey.”
Sandor nodded wisely. “That bad then,” he said, escorting her back to the van. After handing her up to the front he appeared to have reached a decision. “You come to Ankara,” he said firmly. “Ankara’s the place for you. I got good friends there, you hear? A little crooked”—he shrugged and grinned—“but wotthehell, you need help. If anybody can smuggle you into Ankara it’s me, Sandor, and there my friends help you, wait and see.”
Mrs. Pollifax looked into his face and was touched by his concern. “Thank you, Sandor,” she said simply.
From the rear of the van Colin said bitterly, “He probably thinks he’s bringing his pals two bona fide members of the Mafia.”
CHAPTER 9
In Langley, Virginia, it was Tuesday morning, just half-past eight and already over ninety degrees in the streets. Carstairs had arrived in his air-conditioned office high in the CIA building and was sipping a second cup of coffee as he read over dispatches that had come in during the night. He had just lighted a cigarette when Bishop walked in. “Sir,” he said.
“Yes, Bishop, what is it?”
He held out a sheet of paper. “It’s a routine report that arrived at the clearing office a few minutes ago from the State Department. They shipped it up here as fast as they could. It seems that during the night the State Department received an urgent request from Istanbul for the verification of one Mrs. Emily Pollifax, an alleged American traveling under an allegedly American passport.”
“What the devil!” said Carstairs, scowling. He took the sheet of paper and stared at it. It was, as Bishop had said, one of the routine memos that circulated through a number of channels until it ended, heaven only knew where, as a fifth copy of what already had been filed in the Passport Division of the State Department. Its message was innocent enough but reading it Carstairs experienced his first uneasiness.
“I don’t like it,” he said.
“No, sir.”
“I don’t like it at all.”
“No, sir.”
“I see it’s stamped five-fifteen A.M. upon arrival here. What time would that have been in Istanbul?”
“Nine-fifteen last night, sir.”
Carstairs swore. “Only an hour following Mrs. Pollifax’s first attempt to meet Ferenci-Sabo then.” He didn’t understand, of all the people moving in and out of Istanbul, what on earth could have drawn the attention of the police to Mrs. Pollifax? Her passport had been arranged on a top-priority basis and had been processed in less than an hour; had there been something important omitted in the processing? Had it appeared different or even forged to the police? No, that was impossible, he had double-checked it thoroughly himself.
“This is not calculated to induce calm,” he said dryly. “When the police single out one person out of thousands—and that person happens to be an agent of ours—then a certain bleak note enters the picture.” He shook his head. “We can’t contact the Istanbul police, our interest would only produce a reaction that would be the despair of our diplomats—the right hand must never know what the left hand is doing,” he added, and stubbed out one cigarette and lighted another.
But a possibility had occurred to him. “We can’t do anything directly, Bishop, but we can be devious. Contact Barnes over in the State Department. Ask him if he’d mind cabling our consulate over there in Istanbul, in his name, to ask why the hell the Turkish police questioned the legal passport of one of our American citizens. I’ve got a meeting upstairs in five minutes but keep me posted if it lasts longer than I expect.”
“Yes, sir. He’s to make his inquiry routine but ask for immediate information?”
“Right. If the police have gone so far as to question Mrs. Pollifax the consulate ought to know about it. If they don’t know, they’d jolly well better find out. I’m curious to say the least!”
“Right, sir.”
When Carstairs returned from his meeting there was still no word. He sat back and reflected upon Mrs. Pollifax’s schedule. She would have arrived in Istanbul about four yesterday afternoon—at least he knew now that she had arrived safely, he thought dryly. But at nine o’clock, or soon after, the Istanbul police had sent off a cable asking that her credentials be verified by the American government. Routine curiosity? Was the Hotel Itep under surveillance now? Had Mrs. Pollifax been injured, or even killed?
The reply, when it came in from the American consulate, was brief. The Istanbul police had questioned one Mrs. Emily Pollifax for half an hour during the preceding evening but they refused to say why they had taken her to central headquarters for questioning. They had retained her passport for twenty-four hours; upon receiving verification of her identity they were now prepared to return the passport to her. Mrs. Pollifax had not been located yet, however. She was registered at the Hotel Itep but had not been seen there since late Monday evening.
At this Carstairs swore again, briefly but savagely. “Not been seen! Not been located! And she doesn’t have her passport?”
“No, sir,” said Bishop. “They’re still holding it for her.”
“Thank God she’s got Henry with her, but where the hell can she go without a passport?” demanded Carstairs. “Damn it, I’m helpless. I can’t find out one blessed thing without endangering Ferenci-Sabo as well as Mrs. Pollifax, not to mention the goodwill of the Turkish government.”
“There’s Dr. Belleaux, sir.”
He shook his head. “Not yet. I wanted absolute secrecy on Mrs. Pollifax—and I’ve got it, blast it, in fact I’m stuck with it. I’d contact Henry before I risked anyone else—but if Mrs. Pollifax is not in the hotel then it’s not likely he’d be, either. Bishop, someone’s knocking on the door.”
“Yes, sir.” Bishop opened it and returned bearing an inter-service message. “From Barnes, sir, in the State Department. He’s heard from the American consulate in Istanbul again.”
“Again?”
“Yes, sir. He’s scrawled a note here saying he doesn’t know what’s up—or want to—and he’s too much of a coward to phone you with this news.”
“What news?” asked Carstairs in a hollow voice. “Read it, Bishop.”
“Yes, sir. It’s a cable: REGRET INFORM YOU BODY OF AMERICAN CITIZEN HENRY MILES—”
“Body?” echoed Carstairs in a stricken voice.
“Yes, sir. Shall I go on?”
Carstairs nodded, his face grim.
“—OF HENRY MILES DISCOVERED EARLY THIS MORNING IN USKUDAR CEMETERY STOP.”
“Cemetery!”
“ONLY CLUE HANDWRITTEN NOTE APPENDED TO BODY QUOTE THIS IS HENRY MILES HOTEL ITEP STOP POLICE HAVE IDENTIFIED HANDWRITING AS BELONGING TO—” Bishop suddenly stopped and swallowed hard.
—“BELONGING TO MRS. EMILY POLLIFAX, AMERICAN CITIZEN OF—”
“What?” exploded Carstairs.
—“OF NEW BRUNSWICK, NEW JERSEY, AND REGISTERED AT SAME HOTEL.”
“Oh no,” groaned Carstairs.
Bishop nodded. “Yes, sir. Emily is cutting quite a swath, isn’t she? There’s one more sentence, sir—”
“Then finish it,” growled Carstairs.
“WARRANT ISSUED FOR HER ARREST.”
“Good God,” said Carstairs and slumped back into his chair. “Henry dead—our second agent killed inside of forty-eight hours over there; Mrs. Pollifax missing, and not a single word on Ferenci-Sabo.” He sighed and shook his head. “It just about ends our attempt to contact Ferenci-Sabo, Bishop. If Mrs. Pollifax is still alive—and there’s no certainty that they didn’t get her, too—she’s been rendered helpless without a passport. What can she do, where can she go? We’ll have to proceed on the assumption that she can be of no more help to us.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carstairs rubbed his brow. “But we’ve still got to keep that lobby covered every evening until Friday—just in case. Is Hawkins still in London?”
Bishop nodded.
Carstairs sighed. “Apparently it’s like dropping people into a bottomless well to send them to Istanbul, but we must keep trying. Fix up a telephone connection, will you Bishop? I’ll give Hawkins the most superficial of briefings and if Ferenci-Sabo is still alive—the chances grow less every hour—he’ll have to hide her in a cellar somewhere until we can think what to do next. Damn,” he added.
“And Mrs. Pollifax, sir?”
Carstairs nodded. “I was coming to that. Send off a cable to Dr. Belleaux, Bishop. Alert him to the fact that Mrs. Emily Pollifax is one of our people, and may try to reach him, in which case we’d appreciate his giving her what help he can without bringing the roof down upon all our heads.”
“Yes, sir.”
Again he shook his head. “Not much else we can do for her, Bishop.” He added irritably, “Oh, and add a full description of her for Dr. Belleaux so that he’ll know precisely what she looks like, Bishop—and don’t forget that damned flowered hat!”
CHAPTER 10
Carefully Sandor inched the van through streets so narrow the houses could be touched on either side. Frequently their passage was halted by a donkey ambling ahead of them, or by women carrying jugs of water on their heads. There was no coolness in the shade. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and sun and dust lay heavy in the alleys, trapping smells of spices, charcoal, olive oil and manure. Mrs. Pollifax’s impression of their entry into Ankara had been chaotic: they appeared to have approached the city by means of a dried-up river bed over which they had clattered and bumped, half-circling Ankara before darting furtively across one tree-lined boulevard to vanish into the old town. As they climbed higher now in this maze of streets Mrs. Pollifax glimpsed the top of the citadel ahead and then lost it. A moment later the van halted; Sandor wrestled furiously with the steering wheel and backed the van slowly, laboriously, through a hole in a crumbling wall. Bricks toppled and a fresh cloud of dust enveloped them.
They emerged in a courtyard, abandoned except for a solitary goat, tied to a ring in the wall, who lifted his head and brayed at them in protest. An old adobe building opened into the courtyard, its roof open to the sky, its walls giving shade to the few sparse tufts of grass on which the animal fed.
Sandor cut the engine. “We walk now but you wait first,” he said firmly. “I go find Bengziz Madrali. He is receiver of stolen goods—I make sure he receive you now.”
“How long will you be gone?” asked Mrs. Pollifax anxiously.
He shrugged. “I have to find him first, then I know how long I’ll be gone. If anyone comes, hide in the old khan.” He was gone before Mrs. Pollifax could protest.
“What’s a khan?” she asked Colin.
“An inn.” Staring at the gate through which Sandor had vanished he said, “I rather like him but I can’t think why.”
“That’s very reassuring since we’re completely dependent on him for the moment,” Mrs. Pollifax pointed out. “Do you like Magda too?”
His gaze left the gate to sweep the courtyard. “She seems pleasant enough when she’s not drugged. But then she nearly always is, isn’t she?” He brightened. “I say, that looks like a Hittite frieze propping up that door. Hand me my camera, will you?” He began to prowl through the litter around the door, keeping a respectful distance from the goat, who watched him with suspicion.
“How nice to see you again!” Magda said cheerfully, crawling from the interior of the van to sit down beside Mrs. Pollifax on the top step. “Perhaps you can tell me where we are?”
“We’ve reached Ankara.” She noted that Colin had disappeared with his camera into the ruins of the khan and she turned to Magda urgently. “We’ve not been able to talk and you must realize that from my point of view this journey to Yozgat is on faith alone. What is it that we go to Yozgat for?”
Magda hesitated. “I dare not say, not yet at least. But let me tell you this: I go to Yozgat to find the people who smuggled me out of Bulgaria and into Turkey.” She was thoughtful for a moment and then she added quietly, “I do not know how you feel about gypsies. People hate and fear them. Perhaps you are not aware that in spite of—or because of—people’s revulsion towards gypsies they were able to do a number of valuable things for the Allies during World War Two—those who were not wiped out by Hitler.”
“Gypsies!” exclaimed Mrs. Pollifax in surprise.
“Yes. Some are nomadic and wander all over Europe while some have settled down, like the gypsies in Istanbul who live in what is called the Tin Village.” She said almost shyly, “It is with them I hid when I first escaped Stefan and Otto and waited for you.”
Mrs. Pollifax said in astonishment, “Do you mean it’s the gypsies who got you across the border into Turkey?”
She nodded. “To be accepted by them is not easy, the Rom look on gorgios with deep contempt. But many years ago we worked together, I gained their trust, I learned their language, I know a few of them as true friends, and to know a few is to be accepted by them all. Yes, it was with them I crossed the border and it is to the Inglescus that I entrusted everything when I realized I was being followed. They promised to wait for me at Yozgat for a few days before they continued south to their rendezvous, a wedding later in the summer.”
“But this is remarkable,” said Mrs. Pollifax, delighted. “You have your own private underground!”
Magda’s smile deepened. “You put it well. But please, you will remember the name Inglescu if anything goes wrong with me? Find them and say Magda sent you. They will understand.”
“But can they be trusted with what you left them?”
“Yes,” she said flatly.
“I can’t help wondering why you suddenly left your old life. You understand that I was told the whole story about you. Did they find this out?”
Magda smiled. “No, they discovered nothing. I decided to retire.”
“Retire!” cried Mrs. Pollifax.
“Yes, retire.” At the expression on Mrs. Pollifax’s face she burst out laughing. “But did you never think of people like me wishing to retire? I will no doubt be a shock to them—agents are not supposed to survive as long as I, they are supposed to die violently and early. But me, I have just gone on surviving—such an embarrassment!—and without even paying dues to the Social Security.”
“What will you plan to do?” asked Mrs. Pollifax eagerly.
Magda shrugged. “I bring my own social security with me, as you will see. I have no plans except I wish to live a quiet life now, I want to plant flowers and watch them grow, feel sun on my face, think good thoughts, have real friends. I am tired of violence, of uncertainty and betrayals, of remaining always detached lest someone I grow to like must be
betrayed, or betray me. Most, I am tired of acting the double part. This is how it began, I was an actress on the stage in Vienna, but who would guess I play the roles so long, day and night, on and on.”
Mrs. Pollifax looked at her and was curiously touched. She thought of the Times biography which could not know or possibly describe—no one could—the complications or dangers which this woman must have met and mastered with intelligence and courage, and always alone. But she thought the story was written clearly in the lines of Magda’s face: Those are good lines, she thought, lines of humor and compassion and deep sadness. And I heard her laugh—how did she escape corruption from all this? Her hand went out to touch Magda’s hand and squeeze it. “There is one thing,” she said quietly. “Something that complicates our getting to Yozgat and to the gypsies.”
“Yes?”
“Before I left Washington I was given the name of a man in Istanbul to whom we could appeal for help if we needed it. A very reliable person whose name is Dr. Guillaume Belleaux.”
“Yes?” said Magda with interest. “But that is reassuring.”
Mrs. Pollifax shook her head. “The house in which you were drugged last night—the house to which Stefan and Otto took you—turned out to be the home of Dr. Guillaume Belleaux.”
Magda’s lips formed an O and her eyes widened. “Mon dieu but that is not reassuring! So this man is—but is he aware that you know this? Did he see you?”
“Yes to both questions.” Mrs. Pollifax shook her head wryly as she recalled her exit from Dr. Belleaux’s house and the face briefly glimpsed across the livingroom. “He may not have seen Colin, no, but he and I looked at each other across the room. Briefly but memorably.”
“Then he is the one behind all this—he too plays the double game!” Magda reached out and gently touched Mrs. Pollifax. “It is a lonely business, this, is it not? I’m sorry. My God I’m sorry. But we must stay alive a little longer to annoy him, yes?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax but she winced a little as she reflected upon the odds: they did not speak Turkish and they were moving deeper and deeper into Turkey’s interior; the police, Stefan and of course Dr. Belleaux were looking for them. She did not even know if Sandor would return, and without him they would be almost completely helpless. She thought that he would come back but he was, after all, a man of doubtful character. Still, it was his temperament, not his character, that was in their favor: she was trusting to his curiosity and to his Machiavellian nature to bring him back, if only to arrange what would happen next.
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