Mrs. Pollifax and the Whirling Dervish

by Dorothy Gilman

  Mrs. Pollifax ... He shook his head over this, amazed at learning she was one of Carstairs' agents and was doing a job for Atlas now as well. He still found this hard to believe and yet he conceded that if she'd fooled a professional like himself then it was always possible that she might fool the people hunting for her. He thought the odds against this were as high as Tizi Pass but it was his job now to ferret out a way to reduce those odds.

  He left wondering, too, which Max Janko had been killed in Erfoud.

  14.

  As the first fingers of light reached them Ahmad opened his eyes, rubbed them, saw Mrs. Pollifax and sat up smiling. "Good day," he said. "We go now in truck?"

  "And a good day to you too," she replied, amused. "Will you have an orange?"

  "Please thank you," he said. "We go soon in truck?" He stretched out his arms to embrace an imaginary steering wheel and made engine noises . . . Brummmmm, brummmm, brummmm.

  "Very soon," she assured him. "Have an orange first. Do you go to school, Ahmad?"

  "Madrasa," explained Max.

  He nodded vigorously. "One time, yes."

  "What does that mean?" she asked, and Max set out to inquire. After an animated conversation, with Ahmad bursting into laughter at Max's occasional errors in pronunciation, it was established that Ahmad had gone to school for one full year and one half. "But it was Q'oranic school," said Max, "which is not quite the same, since they almost exclusively teach the Koran there. But he says he can print his name and do sums on the abacus, and from his father and from tourists he has learned some French and English, and when he grows up he would like to be a truck driver. Like me," he added with a roguish grin.

  "I hope he drives a newer truck," she said tartly. "How far now?"

  "Not far, a couple of hours—Imh' Allah. Your guidebook says Zagora is a hill town with a fortress—let's hope not too big a hill—and Ahmad reminds me that his aunt lives on the other side of Zagora, which pleases him because he can stay with us longer."

  When she climbed into the truck beside Ahmad he again tucked his hand into hers, trustingly and confidingly. She realized how much she would miss him once he'd been delivered to his aunt. She also wondered what lay ahead for him, uprooted now as he was, and how long it would be before his father came for him. Worst of all she wondered if his father would come for him at all. It was possible that his remaining behind in Ourza-zate might doom him if already he'd been betrayed.

  Stop, she told herself sternly, there's work to do, and who's to know what will haffen to any of us?

  They set out for Zagora with some optimism but today the truck asserted itself. After an hour of driving the radiator boiled over and it was necessary to sit and wait a long time for it to cool. Following this the gasoline gauge turned out to be unreliable, as they discovered when they came to a sudden halt and found the tank empty, after which they spent half an hour prying open the rusted lid on the spare tank for which Omar had bargained. They had expected to reach Zagora by late morning: it was the middle of the afternoon when they found their way to the road leading up from the main street to the hotel.

  "Rather neatly removed from the life of the village," murmured Mrs. Pollifax, "but it did say on the back of the photograph 'Sidi Tahar Bouseghine, seller of fine carpets near entrance to Hotel X, Zagora.' "

  "His name interests me," said Max, "because Sidi means 'sir' or 'lord' in Morocco, which has to mean he's a sharif." He pulled over to the side of the road and parked so that they could appraise the situation, and Mrs. Pollifax saw that neither the directions nor her memory had failed her: the final approach to the hotel was lined with small souks, five on either side of the road. These had been kept at a discreet distance from its front entrance but they were near enough to give any tourist who cared for a walk the feeling of running a gauntlet.

  "What's a sharif?" she asked.

  "Descendent of Mohammed, or Ali. What does he look like?"

  "Quite Biblical," she told him, remembering the picture. "A turban covered his hair but his beard was white. Not a long beard but enough to give him the look of a patriarch. He didn't realize a photo was being taken of him, he stood in the sun with his arms crossed, watching something or someone, and scowling a little. His face was very dark against the white of his beard, and weathered, but definitely he was not a man to forget, once seen. He had—" She searched for the right word. "He had presence. "

  Like Cyrus, she thought, smiling.

  The hotel stood at the top of the road, crowning it, and was surprisingly palatial for such a provincial town so near to the desert. It was surrounded by gardens, and in the parking apron stood two tour buses, a petit-taxi and a Land Rover with a UK license plate. Seeing this Max backed their truck down to a point below the souks, which proved a reminder to her that as natives they would not be welcomed into this pocket of luxury. He said by way of explanation, "Let's wait here a few minutes and see how things look."

  A concierge wearing a long green apron walked out of the hotel entrance, looked up at the sky, turned and went back inside. She said, "There certainly aren't many people to be seen."

  "No. Siesta time perhaps?"

  "This will make us conspicuous . . ."

  "Yes, rather."

  She said uneasily, "I count ten shops, five on each side of the street, which means a lot of reconnoitering."

  "Yes," he said, looking troubled.

  I'm nervous, very nervous, she thought, it really is like Russian roulette now. They had come so far—somehow—and now they were very near to the end and the odds had increased against them with each hour and at every stop. Time was their enemy now, as well as the police, and possibly one of these last two informants.

  Max interrupted her thoughts. "Why don't I do the reconnoitering? I can peer inside each souk and look for a man with a white beard, and when I find him—"

  If, she thought tiredly.

  "—you can join me and see if he's the Sidi Tahar Bouseghine in your photograph."

  "And would you go as Max or as Bashir?"

  "Good question." He was silent, and Ahmad turned his head to look at each of them in turn, puzzled by the doubts he sensed.

  "We appear to have reached a nadir," said Mrs. Pollifax.

  Max sighed. "You're right. A cold night spent in a truck and a diet of snacks slows the brain. I'd better go as Bashir, I guess. It doesn't seem possible they'd be circulating a description of me but there's no point in taking chances. No more tourism for me, I'll stay Bashir."

  "Take Ahmad with you," she suggested, and smiled down at his eager face. "He'll be excellent cover."

  "Cover?" teased Ahmad, with his shy smile. "Like a blanket?"

  "Yes, because you'll help Max look Moroccan."

  "Not like nasrani," Ahmad said, nodding wisely. "You are frightened, madehm?"

  "This kid is too wise," growled Max.

  "We're nervous, Ahmad," she told him.

  "Oh . . , kay. We go?"

  Max grinned. "Yes, Ahmad, we go."

  They climbed out of the truck and Mrs. Pollifax sat and watched them as they crossed the street to begin their search among the shops on the left. Five times they vanished briefly, not lingering, and five times reappeared. Before approaching the shops on the opposite side Max returned to say with cheerful efficiency, "Two black beards, one moustache and one clean-shaven, no Sidi Tahar."

  She gravely thanked him and they left to reconnoiter the remaining five souks. It was when they emerged from the last one, the one nearest to the truck, that Mrs. Pollifax saw Max smiling. He lifted his fingers in a V sign as he walked toward her with Ahmad at his side.

  Excitement and anxiety converged uncomfortably. "You found him? Someone?"

  "He certainly answers your description," he told her through the opened window. "Tall and lean, white beard, dark face—sells carpets, too. Come and see."

  "Is he alone?"

  "Shop looks as empty as a robin's nest in winter. He was in the middle of the room tying up a rug, and no
customers . . . Come on, we can warn him, carry Ahmad to his cousins and be in Rouida by night."

  "Wonderful," she said, and climbed down from the cab. The}' walked to the souk with its open door, and she stopped on the threshold to look inside. There was a dim anteroom with racks of leather purses and belts but beyond this lay a large room with a skylight that illuminated carpets hanging on the walls in all shapes, sizes, colors and patterns. Under the skylight a bearded man in turban and white djellabah stood examining a small rug; he proceeded to roll it up and when he tucked it under one arm she clearly saw his face and recognized it. Her sense of relief was profound: they would meet with no crisis here, they were home free.

  "Yes," she whispered. "Oh thank God yes, he's; just like his photograph."

  "It's Sidi Tahar—it really is?" asked Max, and his voice reflected the same sense of deliverance that she was experiencing.

  "Yes." Turning to Ahmad she said, "Wait outside for us, we'll not be long."

  He looked anxious. "But madehm—"

  Max spoke to him in Arabic, and then to her. "I've told him we have business to transact here and he must wait outside."

  Ahmad looked sad but he understood authority; he also understood business; he said he would wait outside.

  As they entered the souk Sidi Tahar looked up from his work, rose slowly to his feet and began walking toward them, looking very hard at them both, and with such obvious interest that Mrs. Pollifax put a hand to her veil and pulled it aside, smiling and exposing her very American face. "Sidi Tahar Bouseghine," she said.

  Max added swiftly, "We're here to say to you hadha el-husan arej, the horse is—"

  Before Max could complete the words, without any change of expression, Sidi Tahar said in a low voice, "Go, go quickly! Leave at once—flee!"

  Astonished, Max said, "But the—"

  "Something's wrong, Max," she told him sharply. "Quick, the door—let's gol"

  But already it was too late. The anteroom through which they'd entered had not been empty after all; somewhere among its shadows a man had been concealed who emerged now, looking pleased. "So—you are here at last!" he said with the triumphant air of a stalker who has netted his prey.

  They had found their imposter but unfortunately he had also found them.

  15

  He stood at the edge of the anteroom, a fleecy white djellabah tossed like a shrug over a business suit, a city man very out of place among the carpets and adobe walls, thin-faced with a trim moustache and olive skin. He said, "It has been tiresome waiting for you."

  "I beg your pardon!" said Mrs. Pollifax stiffly. It was too late to veil her face again but too soon to entertain the thought of defeat.

  His face hardened. "You are the American woman wanted by Security and your name is Pollifax. We know all about you." Reaching under the folds of his djellabah he drew out a pistol, and with the gun in his hand he walked to the door where Ahmad lurked on the threshold. He said curtly, "Yimshee! Go away," and slamming the door in his face he slid the bolt across it.

  And now Mrs. Pollifax felt the first flicker of fear.

  "Oh God," groaned Max.

  Sidi Tahar, standing next to her, said gently, "He has been here for three weeks. I'm sorry."

  "Yes," she said and added wanly, "We were tired and careless. And you—has he tried to hurt you?"

  He understood. "Only a little," he said in a low voice. "I have been the honey to catch the flies, kept in sight so my neighbors wouldn't wonder at my absence. I did not see why until now, but now . . ."

  "Now it's the storage room," said their captor, overhearing his last several words. "To be locked up while I call the police who will be most pleased to end their hunt. You," he said sharply, jabbing a finger at Mrs. Pollifax's chin, "you admit you are the American lady who shot and killed Mr. Max Janko near Erfoud? Confess—this is so, is it not?"

  "No it isn't. I didn't kill him, absolutely not," she said truthfully enough.

  He snorted indignantly. Turning to Max he said, "And you —who are you? What's your name?"

  This was a kinder surprise, his not knowing Max. Trying to look a little stupid Max said, "Bashir Mahbuba," and added a few words in Arabic.

  "Yes, but you spoke English before, I heard you," the man said accusingly.

  Max shrugged. "English I speak, also French. I give ride to this lady who was in great distress by the road and asks to be lifted to a town. There had been an accident, she said." He added words in French that Mrs. Pollifax didn't understand, inquiring politely at the end, in English, "And your name is—?"

  Their captor brushed this aside impatiently. "The name Saleh will do, but I can tell you that this lady's distress is now yours. Come, the souk is closed, we hide you away in another place. Tahar—?" He waved his pistol toward the far end of the shop. "You know the way, open the door."

  With a shrug Sidi Tahar walked toward a wall hung with carpets and pushed aside a rug of exquisite symmetry in colors of red, gold, cream and indigo. Behind it lay a door, and when it was opened Mrs. Pollifax saw that it led outside to a short path of sandy soil that ended at a small and windowless hut of adobe. The building sat very precisely behind the souk but it did not stand alone; a cluster of buildings had taken root in the rear of each of the five shops, and around them had sprung up a labyrinth of walls and alleyways.

  She thought, There are three of us and only one of him; if it should be possible—f lease may it be possible—we could send this man crashing to the ground, we could— But it was useless to speculate because Saleh maneuvered them with cunning, pressing the gun into the small of her back on the quite accurate assumption that neither of her companions would attempt a rash move that would see her killed.

  But really, she thought crossly, / grow very tired of guns stabbing my back, it begins to be monotonous and it certainly alarms all my spinal discs.

  The door to the hut had an unattractively repressive iron door. After another harsh command Sidi Tahar opened it and the three of them were pushed inside. "Here you stay," Saleh told them. "I call Security, and then—then you will see."

  He did not explain what they would see and she was grateful for that because the small dark room into which they'd been shoved was dire enough. It was like a cell, lighted only feebly by a square hole in the ceiling that was covered with an iron grate. The floor was of hardened earth, with a pile of old carpets heaped in the corner, beside which stood a bucket, a clay pitcher, a pillow, a book and a dish.

  "You've been kept here.5" she asked Sidi Tahar, with a nod at the carpets.

  "Bismallah, yes. For many nights."

  She said with feeling, "While all the time—oh, Sidi Tahar, no one gave a thought to your being taken captive and then kept on display in your shop—business as usual—while the imposter hid and waited. Max and I should at least have—" She turned to find Max looking wildly around the room; she said anxiously, "Max?"

  He swallowed hard. "I think—I think I've picked up a small case of claustrophobia . . . That damn elevator shaft—" He sank down on the pile of carpets, white and trembling, his head in his hands. "I think I'm going to scream," he said desperately. "I know I'm going to scream, I've got to scream, got to . . ."

  Sidi Tahar went to him and placed a hand on the nape of his neck. In a soft voice he said, "You must breathe deeply, very long deep breaths, can you do this?"

  Mrs. Pollifax stood and watched as Max began an effort to battle his hysteria.

  "Now you must close your eyes," said Sidi Tahar calmly. "Close your eyes and picture the desert . . , the desert where space is limitless, the horizon a straight line far, far, far away . . , can you feel it? Perhaps it is the Grand Erg, the sand desert where the shadows are full of color and the sand is golden and there are dunes swept into hills as rounded as the breasts of a woman. The sky overhead is blue and there is freedom—vast freedom—and space," he repeated almost hypnotically. "Space . . , freedom . . , sun . . , sky."

  Max jerked once in resistance but at the
softness of Sidi Tahar's voice he quieted; she saw his eyelids flicker and his body relax. "There is peace—Allah's peace," murmured Sidi Tahar, watching him intently. Abruptly Max yawned, with a sigh he stretched out on the carpets and closed his eyes and Sidi Tahar removed his hand from his neck.

  She looked at him with interest. "Did you hypnotize him, Sidi Tahar?"

  He smiled. "I only spoke to the terror in him, gentling it. A memory returned to your friend and became his master, but memory is only illusion. Who is he, by the way? He spoke to me the right words when you entered my souk, but where do you come from, you are both Americans, aren't you? How did you get here? And Saleh spoke of someone dead in Erfoud?"

  She sighed. "Does it matter, any of it? How long do we have before the police come, minutes? an hour?"

  He said gravely, "I see that you do not know how it is in our mountain villages. Saleh would not approach the gendarmes here, for the local people are my friends and majlie. He will have to go to the hotel to use their telephone and call Ourzazate." His eves smiled at her. "And it would be fortunate if this would be a day the telephone does not connect to the world—this occurs very often. Now speak, tell me who you are and how you happened to walk into my souk today."

  She said slowly, "There began to be suspicions in faraway places that something was wrong." She stopped and looked around the room uneasily. "Can we be heard?"

  He shook his head. "I have spent many hours here. While Saleh slept on my bed in the souk I read my Koran, meditated, prayed, and grew to know this room very well, because," he explained with a wry smile, "I examined each brick in these walls in hope of getting out to warn friends of what had happened. No, we are not being heard, this I know. You say that somewhere it was understood that something had gone wrong?"