Except what was normalcy, she wondered; in Mr. Carstairs’ world she was not even overdue yet, and certainly he had no idea that in cabling Dr. Belleaux her identity and description he had signed her death warrant for so long as she was in this country and at the mercy of Dr. Belleaux’s considerable resources. She was neatly trapped indeed. Each new detail that Dr. Belleaux learned only inflamed his desperation as well as his ambitions: he must find them. They could escape him for the moment by going to the Turkish police and appealing for help, but this would at once cancel all hope of Magda fleeing the country; she would again become public property to be schemed over, fought over, questioned, requestioned and exploited. But even worse. Mrs. Pollifax suspected that by surrendering to the police they would become sitting targets for Dr. Belleaux instead of moving ones. It would take time and patience for their shocking charges against Dr. Belleaux to be investigated and proven, and while facts were checked they would be confined to some small area accessible only to the police, many of whom had already been charmed by that genius of criminology Dr. Belleaux. What would the headlines be then, she wondered: Mysterious Explosion Wipes Out Political Prisoners? or Fire Sweeps Wing of Prison, Five Dead? It was too risky to contemplate.
In any case, without passport and wanted for Henry’s murder, Mrs. Pollifax could certainly not leave the country herself now. Her hopes had to be concentrated exclusively on Magda. If Magda could somehow be spirited beyond the border then she at least would be free—and she could communicate with Carstairs.…
She said, “How far are we from the nearest border, Colin?”
“Which one?”
“Any—except Russian,” she amended.
Sandor answered. “From Greece about two hundred and fifty kilometers. From Syria maybe three hundred.”
Mrs. Pollifax shook her head. “Too far. Where is the nearest airport then?”
Colin looked at her in dismay. “I believe there’s one at Kayseri, about fifty miles south of us. But surely—”
“Do you think they’d dream of our risking an airport?”
Colin said, “No. Yes. Oh I don’t know!”
She pointed out gently, “Every day that goes by will give Dr. Belleaux a better chance to find us. It’s Time that’s our worst enemy, but if we move boldly—”
Sandor turned and looked at her with interest.
“But that’s such a reckless gamble,” protested Colin. “What if it shouldn’t work?”
Sandor grinned. “She’s okay—she’s got the crazy spirit. Except wotthehell I never expect it from such a person.” He looked at Mrs. Pollifax appreciatively and his grin deepened.
Abruptly the van began a wild braking, jumped and came to a grinding halt. Uncle Hu slid open the window that in this van separated the cab from the rear. “Radiator,” he said, gesturing ahead.
Thick clouds of vapor curled up from the hood of the van, obscuring the road. “She’s boiled dry,” he added unnecessarily.
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Pollifax, and she too crawled to the door of the van to follow Colin and Sandor outside.
“It will take time, maybe half an hour,” Ramsey said, meeting them there. “Can’t put cold water into a hot radiator or she’ll crack, you know.” He disappeared into the van and handed out sterno, pans and water jug. “Set it up, Colin,” he said. Nodding pleasantly at Mrs. Pollifax he held out his hand. “How do you do. Hugh Ramsey’s the name.”
“Emily Pollifax,” she said briskly, shaking his hand.
“That woman in there who was drugged—she hurt, too?”
“Bruised mainly. Still unconscious.”
“Might as well leave her inside then. Turkish?”
“Uh—” Mrs. Pollifax opened her mouth and then closed it. “European,” she said weakly.
Ramsey nodded and began pouring water carefully into two pans. “Damn nuisance, this,” he said in his mild voice.
Colin drew out his gun. “I’ll take a look at the road behind us,” he said, and moved off toward a cluster of rocks and disappeared, soon to appear on top of the largest one. “No one on the road for miles,” he called. “Where are we, Uncle Hu?”
His uncle shouted back, “We passed through Osmanpasa and crossed Kizil Irmak. Must be about forty miles out of Yozgat, sixty from Kayseri.”
Mrs. Pollifax was looking at the sun that hung suspended over the range in the south, possibly the same mountain range she had seen from Ankara the evening before. A curious lavender and gold light bathed the wild land around them, the beginnings of a dusk that would suddenly terminate in darkness. They could ill afford this stop, she thought, and hoped the gypsies were not far ahead. “Do you see any signs of a gypsy camp?” she called to Colin.
He turned and looked in the other direction. “No.”
The first two pans of water were boiling. Ramsey and Sandor carried them carefully to the front of the van, opened the hood and the radiator, and poured the hot water inside. Ramsey put his ear to the radiator. “So far so good,” he said, returning to pour more water. “Drink some while we have it,” he told Mrs. Pollifax, handing her a cup.
“Do you know about an airport at Kayseri?” she asked him hopefully.
“Oh yes, there’s an aerodrome there. They’ve limited service, but in summer there are several flights a week to Ankara and Istanbul.”
Colin had climbed down for a drink of water and he joined them now, explaining, “Mrs. Pollifax is determined to get our passenger”—he jerked his head toward the van,—“moving toward England.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax firmly, and asked, “Is it true—absolutely true—that if we succeeded in getting her to Kayseri she would show her passport there, but only there, no matter how many changes she made en route out of the country?”
Both Colin and his uncle nodded. “Quite right,” Ramsey said. “She’d go through Passport Control and Customs at Kayseri, but at Istanbul she’d be considered In Transit and would be issued an In Transit card during her wait in the air terminal. This she’d give up as she boarded her plane for London or Paris or whatever.”
Mrs. Pollifax’s interest increased. This was it, of course—if it could be done. If they could get Magda to Kayseri. If she could walk through Customs without being challenged and stopped. There would be that one terrifying moment of inspection, but if she passed …
Watching her Colin said indignantly, “Mrs. Pollifax, you don’t even know the plane schedules!”
His uncle Hu startled them both by saying, “I’ve got one in the van. I try to keep very up-to-date on plane, train and boat schedules, especially in summer when everything opens up in this part of the country. The water’s hot—pour it in, will you? I’ll go and look.”
A fresh batch of water was on the fire when he returned carrying a shoebox stuffed with folders. “I’ve got it,” he said, waving one. “It’s the Van-Istanbul flight, Turkish airlines. Three days a week, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays departing Kayseri eight o’clock in the morning and arriving in Istanbul at eleven, with an asterisk denoting that this plane makes connections with the noon flights to Paris and London.”
“Well!” said Mrs. Pollifax, delighted. “I believe I’ll go inside and see if Magda’s stirring yet.”
“Take her some water,” Colin suggested.
“You’ll need a flashlight inside,” contributed Ramsey, and crawled in ahead of her. Colin and Sandor followed and they all surrounded Magda, who remained inert.
Mrs. Pollifax felt her pulse. “She seems all right,” she said doubtfully. “She just doesn’t wake up.”
Colin said peevishly, “How you can even think of her taking a plane in a day or two!”
Uncle Hu said firmly, “If she can swallow water we must give her some before she becomes dehydrated. I’ll hold her up. Give me the cup of water, and Colin shine the flashlight on her face.”
Magda was lifted, still encased in her rug and still inert. The flashlight was turned on and Uncle Hu leaned over Magda with the cup.
The cup suddenly slipped from his fingers to the floor.
“What is it?” gasped Mrs. Pollifax, who could see Ramsey’s face. “Colin, he’s ill—do something!”
Uncle Hu shook his head; his face was white. “Who is this woman?” he demanded in a shaken voice.
“It’s Magda,” said Mrs. Pollifax, regarding him with astonishment. “We’re taking her to the gypsies.”
He shook his head violently. “Where did you find her? Where does she come from?”
They stared at him stupidly.
His voice rose. “Don’t you understand I know this woman? She was supposed to have died in Buchenwald twenty-six years ago!”
Mrs. Pollifax said blankly, “Magda?”
“Not Magda!” He leaned forward and peered into the flashlit face. “I tell you she’s Alice. Alice Blanche.”
Something stirred in Mrs. Pollifax’s jaded mind; a face, a recognition, a memory. Alice Blanche … but Blanche meant white in French, didn’t it? Alice White—Alice Dexter White.… “You know her?” she faltered.
He nodded. “During World War Two, when I escaped from prison camp. She hid me for three months in Paris—occupied Paris. She—I—” He hesitated and then said simply, “She was very beautiful and very brave. Reckless, really. I thought she was captured and imprisoned. Charles said so. The Hawk said so. Red Queen said so. You must think I’m talking absolute gibberish,” he said, looking up at Mrs. Pollifax. “She was an agent, you see.”
Mrs. Pollifax nodded. She said quietly, “She still is. That’s why you never found her.”
He said in an appalled voice, “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m very serious. Surely you’re aware that you’ve just helped rescue some rather controversial people from a house in Yozgat, and that we may be pursued even now?”
“Yes, but it’s you, isn’t it? Surely it’s you who—”
Mrs. Pollifax said briskly, “Only superficially. It’s this woman they’re really after, and it’s this woman we must get to Kayseri for a plane out of this country. If you’ve had time for newspapers on your trip you may have read about a certain Magda Ferenci-Sabo.”
He nodded. “Yes, that defecting Communist agent.”
Mrs. Pollifax glanced down at the still-unconscious Magda and said with a sigh, “Meet your defecting Communist, Mr. Ramsey. Now we really must leave before it grows any darker or we’ll never find the gypsies. Is there enough water in the radiator now, Mr. Ramsey?”
“Yes,” said Ramsey, still staring at Magda. “Good God!” he exclaimed again, incredulously, but he turned off the flashlight and followed them out without delay. They poured the last of the boiling water into the radiator. The sun had set with finality while they were inside the van, and twilight was rapidly replacing the long shadows. It would be dark in a matter of minutes.
Darkness came, and nothing existed for them except the twin beams of the van’s headlights on the stony road ahead. Yet lacking darkness Mrs. Pollifax realized they would never have seen the gypsy camp, for it was the light of the campfire that drew their eyes: like an earthbound star it shone at some distance off the main road, made luminous by the opaque blackness surrounding it. Seeing it, Colin’s uncle turned off the road and they bumped and jolted over a cart track of eroded earth and scrub.
“More dogs,” groaned Colin as there mingled with the roar of the van the sound of howling cur dogs.
“Never mind, these are Magda’s gypsies,” Mrs. Pollifax told him warmly. “We’ve found them.” Peering out she saw that there were two fires, one at either end of a camp laid out in a rectangle among rocks and a few stunted trees. Six or eight wagons had been drawn up to this rectangle, and Colin’s uncle drove neatly into the middle before he brought the van to a halt.
“We’re here,” he shouted over his shoulder.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax gratefully, and opened the rear door and stepped down.
Gypsies had appeared like shadows and formed a ring around the van. “Good evening,” said Mrs. Pollifax eagerly. “We’ve brought you Magda, we’re looking for—”
She stopped uncertainly. She realized that the gypsies formed a solid circle around her of folded arms, grim eyes and hostile faces. Not one of them moved but their eyes almost physically forced her to step back in retreat. For one nightmare moment Mrs. Pollifax wondered if they were going to stone her to death. She had never met with such an impenetrable wall of hatred. Something was terribly wrong.
Then from the shadows a voice said, “Good evening, Mrs. Pollifax!”
Dr. Belleaux strolled smiling into the circle of light followed by Stefan and Assim. “You musn’t expect a welcome here, Mrs. Pollifax. I arrived twenty minutes ago by helicopter and warned these people about you.” He said softly, with a helpless shrug, “They already know that you’ve hidden Magda in the van, and that you’ve beaten and drugged her. I’ve told them they musn’t kill you but they are so very aroused, what is one to do?”
CHAPTER 15
For a moment Mrs. Pollifax thought she was going to faint but that would have been too merciful; she did not faint. He had said what, helicopter? It smacked more of black magic against this wild, primitive backdrop of sky and stars and earth lighted by campfires. “It’s not true!” she flung at the gypsies and looked into their high-cheekboned, mahogany faces but her glance met no response. The frozen mute hostility did not waver; she felt whipped and shriveled by their bitter and accusing eyes.
“He lies!” she protested. “You musn’t believe him! We’re Magda’s friends!”
Behind her Colin said in a shaken voice, “I don’t think they speak any English, Mrs. Pollifax.”
“Not at all?” she cried passionately. She swung around. “They must know Turkish then! Sandor—Mr. Ramsey—translate, tell them quickly!”
“Good God, yes,” murmured Uncle Hu, and stepped forward. He began to speak Turkish, and had produced several sentences when Stefan calmly walked up to him and hit him with his fist, sending him unconscious to the ground. At the same moment Mrs. Pollifax heard a startled grunt from Sandor on her right—he ducked his head and ran.
The wall of gypsies shattered. With shouts the men took off after Sandor into the darkness while the women tightened the circle around Mrs. Pollifax, presumably to prevent her bolting too. “No no no!” cried Mrs. Pollifax, impatiently stamping her foot. “Do understand! Magda is our friend, that man lies!”
One of the women spat contemptuously.
“Inglis,” said Mrs. Pollifax in case her baggy pants and shawls confused them. “You must listen to me! We’re all in danger from that man!”
Half a dozen women climbed into the rear of the van. There were murmurs and gasps at the sight of Magda, and then little crooning sounds as she was lifted and brought out. Gently they carried her toward the more distant campfire, with Dr. Belleaux following and speaking to them, obviously pointing out each bruise and cut to them in an effort to whip them into a new fury of hatred.
Mrs. Pollifax looked at Stefan, who looked at her mockingly. She turned and looked at Colin, who was leaning over his uncle. She wondered if Sandor had been caught yet. She wondered how she could possibly make the gypsies understand that if they didn’t act quickly they would all be killed, and their beloved Magda too. She wondered how long it would be before Magda regained consciousness. That was something only Dr. Belleaux knew, and he seemed very confident that Magda’s ability to speak was not an imminent threat.
He was shouting to Stefan now, and to complete the irony he was shouting in English. “Tie them up,” he called. “We can use the helicopter radio to contact the police. They can be here by dawn.”
Police—dawn; what was he planning, she wondered as Stefan pushed them forward. Could Dr. Belleaux really afford to call in the police, or didn’t he plan to be here when they came, or would they all be dead when the police arrived? Certainly by dawn he must expect to retrieve whatever document Magda had stolen from the Communists; if he already had this he would not
be here. Now that he had established himself to the gypsies as Magda’s protector was he counting on this to provide him with the gypsies’ confidence? She was growing too tired to think.
Stefan led them past the second campfire where Magda had been placed between blankets. A dark, tousle-headed boy of nine or ten sat cross-legged beside Magda, watching a woman apply ointment to Magda’s face wounds. The woman looked up at Mrs. Pollifax as she passed and hissed, “Baulo-moosh!” Clearly it was an epithet of the worst kind.
At some distance from the fires their bandaged hands were tied behind them again, and then to the trunk of a stunted, low-flying tree that looked curiously Japanese in its distortion. From here they could no longer see the van or Uncle Hu lying in the dust beside it. They could see one gypsy wagon and the silhouette of a horse grazing behind it in the shadows. They could see the fire and Magda’s blanket-shrouded body, the woman and the boy. Beyond this circle of light the far-away cliffs were etched sharply against the deep blue night sky. The silence of the plain was almost complete except for the sound of the wind and an occasional muffled shout from the men who searched for Sandor.
“Well,” said Mrs. Pollifax dispiritedly.
“Well,” said Colin.
Stefan had disappeared. The boy who had been sitting beside Magda at the campfire arose and walked across the open space toward Mrs. Pollifax and Colin. He chose a position a few yards from them and sat down, cross-legged, to watch them now. He watched without expression, his face impassive. Two young men suddenly appeared and began to search Mrs. Pollifax and Colin. Their faces were dark, swarthy and leanly handsome, their hands expertly light. When they came upon Mrs. Pollifax’s wad of money and unpinned it they shouted and held it high to show the boy, who laughed delightedly. The two young men added Colin’s watch and pen to their treasure and happily walked away.
“A pretty kettle of fish,” said Colin savagely.
Mrs. Pollifax said wearily, “I don’t know how to make them understand. Surely someone here must have heard English spoken once or twice?”
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