She said quietly, "Of course it's occurred to me, a number of problems have occurred to me."
"Problems?" he mocked. "Problems?"
"You're tired," she pointed out.
"Did you know what you'd be getting into?" he asked indignantly. "Did you have any idea we'd be on the lam, so to speak, and the police after us?"
"Of course not, Bishop told me it was to be a pleasant drive through the real Morocco doing nothing but matching seven people to seven photographs."
"That makes me feel like laughing hysterically."
"Some sleep would be more practical," she pointed out. "Although if you feel like laughing hysterically go ahead, but quietly."
"Oh damn, where's the blanket?" he grumbled, and when she handed it to him he lay down and his eyes immediately closed.
They slept huddled together under the blanket and the tarpaulin, warmed by body heat, and for many hours too exhausted to feel the encroaching chill of a January night in the open. When the cold woke Mrs. Pollifax it was still dark and she realized that Max was no longer lying next to Ahmad.
"Max?" she faltered.
"Still here," came his voice cheerfully from the end of the truck. "Doing push-ups to get warm." He walked back and she saw him silhouetted against the dark sky before he sat down and pulled his share of blanket over his lap. "Oh for a cup of coffee! What time is it?"
"Half-past three."
"You slept, I hope?"
"Gloriously, and now it's suddenly Thursday. We wait for daylight to leave?"
"Think we'd better, don't you? It should be dawn in another hour. We can tell stories."
She smiled. "Do you know a good one?"
He thought a moment. "I don't know whether it's a good one but it's a story that's haunted me ever since I began learning about the Maghreb, its adventurers and history and cultures. It's a story about real people, a vignette that I cherish."
"Tell me," she urged.
"I'm thinking how to tell it," he said, "because it's a matter of defining character before one can appreciate the overwhelming irony and surprise of it. Have you heard the name Lyautey? General Lyautey?"
She frowned. "I think—yes, when I looked over the short history of Morocco in the guidebook it was very prominent."
Max nodded. "He was the first resident-general of Morocco after the French triumphed at last and made it a protectorate in 1912. But he began his career years earlier in Algeria, which was already colonized by the French. Lyautey was the sort of man whose ambitions and talents were larger than any connections he’d had in France, and he quite sensibly chose the Colonial service. He was assigned an outpost in Ain-Sefra, in the Algerian desert, where his job was to prevent the fierce Moroccan tribes from crossing the border to raid his supply lines.
"Okay," he said, settling down to his story. "Picture if you will an aristocratic type, intellectual, an egoist, with no interest in women or the time and patience for friends. Brilliant, of course. Fastidious, forceful, hard on his men, exacting, demanding . . ."
She smiled. "I get the picture."
"Good. And now I ask if you've ever heard the name of Isabelle Eberhardt?"
Again she frowned. "An explorer, wasn't she? Or one of those Victorian women travelers?"
"A traveler certainly, but she was also—" He hesitated. "Also a rebel, an astonishing rebel—to the point of self-destruction, one might say—and eventually an outcast of society. After a visit to North Africa as a young woman it captured her heart and soul and she returned, converted to Islam, married a native of Algeria—you can imagine the furor that caused in the early century—and then left him and began her wanderings. She dressed like a man and called herself Si Mahmoud, becoming a nomad herself and wandering about with the tribes, often scorned by both Europeans and Algerians."
Max stopped and then, "It is said that one night when he was returning to his tent General Lyautey stumbled over a man curled up asleep in a blanket, a man who called himself Si Mahmoud."
"Isabelle Eberhardt!"
"Yes. And learning who she was—she was somewhat infamous by that time—he invited her into his tent and they talked until dawn. It is said that every night following that she returned to his tent and they talked—about what who can tell, this outcast of a woman who had flouted every rule of Victorian society, and this fastidious, seemingly cold and correct man.
"And it has been said," he added, "that in his entire life Lyautey claimed to have found only one-true friendship, and— brief as it was—it was with this woman."
But she had caught the word brief. "Why brief?"
"She was killed in a mudslide some months later in that remote outpost of Ain-Sefra—she was twenty-eight years old."
Mrs. Pollifax was silent, and Max waited for her response. "She must have been searching very hard for something," she said softly. "She sounds a passionate and a troubled woman, but it's as if fate had smiled a little on her, don't you think? As if she was drawn to that village in the desert to die—but first to meet and know this man and to affect his life, and to perhaps—who knows?—be understood for the first time in her own life. What a strange story, Max!"
"I collect strange stories," he said. "I just hope that I'm not going to be a character in one of them before this week ends."
The darkness had thinned enough for her to see the flash of his smile but it was not a happy smile. From the road beyond the olive grove she heard the sound of a truck passing; in another hour it would be daylight and they would again try to reach Zagora and look for informant number six, whose name was Sidi Tahar Bouseghine, and who sold carpets. She shivered, and Max said, "Cold?"
In a small depressed voice she said, "I think I'd better try a few push-ups, too."
13.
Mornajay flew into Marrakech on the afternoon plane, still somewhat annoyed by the interruption of his holiday in Spain but growing increasingly curious as to what he might discover or even manage to accomplish in Morocco. He felt a challenge here that took him back to youthful days when he was working his way up through the ranks of a burgeoning CIA and frequently arrived in unfriendly cities with nothing but the name of a contact who might or might not be helpful or even accessible. He carried with him the list of the seven towns that Carstairs had spelled out for him over the phone, as well as the names of the seven informants, and by drawing discreetly on his considerable resources he had the name of a young chap in Marrakech whom he thought he could question without giving away his reasons for being here. It was one reason why he had chosen Marrakech as his base of operations, the other being its proximity to the land beyond the High Atlas.
He was wearing an immaculately tailored white suit that set off his large head with its mane of thick leonine gray hair, about which he was admittedly vain, and his six days in Spain had given his face a tan that lent a semblance of warmth to his cold gray eyes. It was a full year since an abrupt message from Thailand had removed him from his desk to experience a personal tragedy that had somewhat softened him but he was still a man of ice, only a little less disliked, and only a shade less egotistical. In every official capacity he was Carstairs' superior at the CIA but it was a mark of the change in him that where the Atlas group was concerned he shared authority with four other men.
From the airport he took a cab to the Hotel Mamounia where he'd reserved a room, and this at once lifted his spirits. He had a distinct appetite for luxury and the hotel, recently renovated, was like a journey into the Arabian Nights, with a soupçon of Art Deco to flavor it. Once in his room he made a call to one Kenneth Bartlett, announcing his presence and his visit inside the hour, and following this he ordered a car to rent for his supposed week of sight-seeing. Before taking possession of it he changed into more casual clothes, drew out a small bag into which he packed binoculars, two sweaters, boots, a wind-breaker and wool cap, shaving gear and what in ever}' way resembled a camera but was actually a gun, and a second camera to more conspicuously wear over his shoulder. Carrying his bag he strolled t
hrough the vast lobby with its mirrors, couches and statuary, and after signing papers for the Renault he checked his map and set out to find his contact Kenneth Bartlett.
Since the CIA's presence in Morocco was technically a secret—in general, Congress would not be pleased—he found his man in a dusty office just off the Avenue Mohammed V, on the second floor over an outdoor cafe. The office door bore the usual ubiquitous sign imports. Opening it he was confronted by a clutter of file cabinets and computers, wall maps and books and two desks, only one of them occupied. A closed door led to a second room that he guessed was the Communications Room. Young Bartlett rose from the nearer desk and held out his hand. "Mr. Mornajay, sir, it's a real honor," he said, his freckled face beaming.
Mornajay was pleased that his instincts had proven sound: Bartlett looked not long out of university, untested as yet, and the sort of young man more addicted to statistics and computers than to derring-do. He shook the proffered hand, dropped into the chair next to the desk and repeated with elaborate casualness the fact that he was on vacation, stopping merely to pay his respects and to perhaps receive a few recommendations on where to dine and what to see.
"Well, of course the Djemma-el-Fna," Bartlett said eagerly, "although if you stop to watch anything they want money. It's also where Jenkins"—he gestured toward the empty desk beside him—"had his pocket picked but I can recommend driving past it at night when every stall's lighted by lanterns and it's like seeing a whole field of fireflies in the darkness."
Not entirely statistics, amended Mornajay.
"And of course the Koutoubia—the tower's famous—except you can't go inside."
Mornajay pretended a few scribbles in a notebook and said smoothly, "I see that you've been making the most of your stay here. Did they give you interesting work? Anything exciting going on at the moment:"
Bartlett looked troubled. "Well yes, there's been a sudden flare-up—it's why Jenkins isn't here. It's a little hard to puzzle out, but the police enlisted our assistance, although I'm not absolutely certain it's the police," he emphasized. "That is, if you know what I mean, sir."
Mornajay assured him that he did.
"It seems a man was found dead up near Erfoud in a mosque or behind it. He'd been shot and his car was abandoned there. But he'd been traveling with a woman, an American woman—"
Nothing changed in Mornajay's face to betray his sudden very intense interest. "An American, you say?"
"—and they think she's the one who murdered him. Anyway she's disappeared, which certainly isn't easy to do in Morocco, at least not for an American and a woman by herself, not to mention there not being many tourists in that part of the country. In January, anyway. It's very mysterious, but what bugs me, sir—"
"Any mention of an accomplice? Any mention of the dead man's identity?" asked Mornajay, his voice sharper.
Bartlett shook his head. "No sir, but what bugs me is—well, I insisted on staying here to man the office, so it was Jenkins who went off to confer with the authorities, but what I'd like to ask is, was I derelict in my duty? The police sounded desperate for help but I couldn't understand why—well, I found I just didn't have the stomach for it, helping to hunt down a woman who's American."
"One must of course obey orders," said Mornajay piously, "but in this case I think you were wise to trust your stomach. It's their business. Only when they find the woman does it become our business."
"Thank you, sir," Bartlett said gratefully. "But still it's scary, you know. They've got a nationwide hunt going on for this Mrs. Pollifax."
Mornajay's eyes narrowed. "Pollifax?" Carstairs had spoken of a woman agent but he'd not attached a name to her. "Did I hear you say Pollifax?"
Bartlett nodded. "Odd name, isn't it."
Considerably jarred, Mornajay thought, It couldn't be, no it's impossible, it has to be someone else. He heard Bartlett saying that if she could escape far enough south she might run into Americans, for instance the engineers from Westinghouse who were installing electronics on the wall to keep the Polisarios out of Western Sahara, but that was a long long way from Erfoud.
Mornajay interrupted him. "Have you a description of this woman?"
Bartlett rose and walked over to Jenkins' desk and removed a sheet of paper. "A very thorough description," he said.
Taking care to keep his voice light and disinterested Mornajay said, "One wonders how the police or Moroccan Intelligence can describe thoroughly the appearance of a woman they've never seen."
Bartlett shot him a suddenly shrewd glance but said nothing except, "Here we are." And he read aloud a very good description of the woman for whom they were searching.
Good God, thought Mornajay. It was incredible, of course, but it sounded exactly like the woman he'd met in Thailand a year ago, wandering around the mountains looking for a lost husband, except there'd been not the slightest indication of her being anything more than a tourist. It was inconceivable, it was impossible, but he felt a fierce desire to know. He said, "Longdistance calls go through Rabat, I believe, but have you a direct priority line to Virginia?"
"Yes," said Bartlett, looking surprised.
Mornajay nodded. "While I'm here," he said politely, "I wonder if you'd mind if I make a call about a previous matter I'd like an update on."
"Of course." Bartlett shepherded him into the next room and closed the door behind him. Within a few minutes and without interference Mornajay was speaking to Carstairs.
He said smoothly, "I've reached Marrakech and must ask an important question of you before proceeding further. Of the two—er—friends I'm here to look up, one was a woman whose name you did not mention, and I will not mention it now, you understand? But I must know—was that woman in Thailand a year ago in January?"
He heard Carstairs' sudden intake of breath. "What on earth —as a matter of fact yes, but how would you— Good God," he said, sounding stunned, "you were in Thailand that month, too, are you suggesting you met?"
He did not reply to this. "She was working for you then? She was working for you that entire time?"
"Yes," said Carstairs, "but you're not answering my question."
Mornajay laughed. "Life has its ironies, certainly' I thought her a damn fool tourist, and told her so, and she assumed I was working for the Drug Enforcement Agency. If it's the same one —and I might add that she's very popular at the moment here, if you follow me—then at least I know who I'm looking for and can assess her resourcefulness."
Carstairs said, "The situation's not good?"
"Not good at all. Needle in a haystack and all that."
"What are you going to do?"
"Haven't the foggiest idea," Mornajay told him, and hung up.
Emerging from the inner room Bartlett glanced up from his computer to say, "Get through all right?" When Mornajay nodded he said, "Sir, do you mind my asking a question that bugs me?"
"By all means. Go ahead."
He scowled. "Well, sir, I realize this country's strategic position on the Mediterranean, and I've been told we can't allow the King here to be toppled like the Shah of Iran, which is why we're here and backing him to the hilt, with American instructors training Moroccan pilots in antimissile tactics, and everybody afraid the war will undermine and weaken the King, but it's still rather fuzzy to me why the Moroccans are fighting this war."
"Oh?" said Mornajay encouragingly.
"Yes. I ask people—in cafes and places like that. Moroccans I mean. One of them said the Polisarios are mercenaries hired by Algeria—because Algeria wants a port on an ocean—but that doesn't make sense to me when Algeria has ports on the Mediterranean. Another man said it's because Western Sahara used to be part of Morocco . . ." His scowl deepened as he wrestled with this.
"I think I can do better than that for you," Mornajay said with a tight smile. "Its beginning dates back to 1956 when Morocco achieved its independence from France. In a burst of nationalistic fervor the head of the Istiqlal party, a chap named Allai el-Fassi, announced t
hat Morocco could never be truly unified until it collected unto itself all the countries through which Sultans and Moroccan armies had tramped since the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries." He said dryly, "Considering the hundreds of forays into the desert for gold and slaves, and trading posts set up and abandoned, this embraced quite a bit of territory—for instance, in 1599 Moroccans occupied Timbuktu for a few years but el-Fassi sensibly excluded it because of its poverty and remoteness. He published his map of 'Greater Morocco,' and if people found such extravagant claims laughable at first the King didn't, not with his popularity waning by 1958. Needing a cause he endorsed el-Fassi's so-called claims to a Morocco triple its present size.
"I might add," he said without expression, "that this map of 'Greater Morocco' includes not only Western Sahara but a very large slice of Algeria, the entire country of Mauritania and half the country of Mali. This did not sit well with Algeria, as you can imagine, and it made enemies of them at the time, which is why they've given shelter and aid to the Polisarios. After all, if Morocco takes over Western Sahara, what next?"
Bartlett was staring at him in horror. "But that's insane. You mean that's the reason behind this war that keeps the people so poor here?"
Mornajay lightly patted him on the head. "Never never underestimate the lust for power, my dear Bartlett, it makes pawns of most of us, and is prevalent in many corners of this globe. Now if you'll excuse me I shall begin my sight-seeing, with infinite thanks for your counsel."
Bartlett nodded. "My pleasure. Where do you think you'll head first?"
"Oh, I think while the weather's good I might tackle the High Atlas, drive over it by way of the Tizi Pass, and see Zagora before sampling the fleshpots of Marrakech."
Frowning, Bartlett said, "Tizi Pass was closed yesterday due to snow—although of course it may be open by now." He brightened. "When you reach Ourzazate you'll find Jenkins at the Hotel Riad Salaam if you care to look him up."
This was interesting. "That's where they've centered the hunt?" When Bartlett nodded he decided this was very interesting indeed. He waved a hand in farewell and left. He thought that his visit with this young man had produced a fair amount of useful information that he would presently digest as he drove over Tizi-n-Tichka Pass to begin his own search for Mrs. Pollifax.
Mrs. Pollifax and the Whirling Dervish Page 12