Mrs. Pollifax paid his mockery no attention. "What are some of the rum things you've done?"
"Good heavens, should you be interested? I hope you're not planning to write a book on your travels." He was still grinning at her.
She considered this seriously and shook her head. "No, it had never occurred to me, although I'll be very interested in seeing Cuba. You still believe it's where they're taking us?"
Farrell said irritably, "By all rights its where we ought to land, but it's taking us a hell of a long time to get there. Sorry —what were you asking?"
"You were going to tell me what a rum life consists of."
He grinned. "You don't think I'd dare give you an unlaundered version, do you? After all, I've bummed around Mexico since '45, ever since I was discharged from the Marines, and that's a long time. I used to run a charter boat out of Acapulco—at least until I lost the boat in a poker game. I've given painting lessons to debutantes—you may not believe it but I do occasionally move in the best circles."
"As well as the worst?" asked Mrs. Pollifax, hoping he wasn't going to disappoint her.
"As well as the worst. For a year I smuggled guns in to Castro before he won his revolution. Rather a good friend of mine although I've not seen him lately," he added with a roguish glint. "And I might add modestly that women constantly fall at my feet. I have that effect on them."
Mrs. Pollifax could not allow this weakness in her sex to go undefended. She said very blandly, "Like the Chinese woman you were going to take to the theater tonight?"
Farrell gazed at her for a moment and then said frankly, "Duchess—and I hope you don't mind my calling you that— you interest and surprise me. I've decided you're not a member of the D.A.R. after all."
"No, I've never joined that one," mused Mrs. Pollifax. "Do you think I should? But I am a member of the Garden Club, the Art Association, the Woman's Hospital Auxiliary, the—"
"Good God, spare me," he said, throwing up his hands. "If General Perdido knew these things he'd turn pale."
"General who?"
He turned his glance to the window. "Just someone I know." He leaned forward. "We're still flying very high but I thought I saw some lights down there." He added savagely, "You do understand what you've gotten yourself into, don't you? You do know what the odds are?"
Mrs. Pollifax blinked. She thought of expressing ignorance of what he meant, but to feign innocence indefinitely was tiresome. She said very quietly, "Yes."
"Yes what?" he demanded.
She did hope he wasn't going to shout at her. She added with dignity, "I am quite aware that I have been abducted by dangerous people, and that it's possible I may never see Mexico City again."
"Or your Garden Club or your Hospital Auxiliary or your Art Association," he told her flatly. "It doesn't bother you?"
Mrs. Pollifax wanted to tell him that of course it bothered her. She had enjoyed herself very much in Mexico City and she had enjoyed being a secret agent and now she would like very much to be flying home to New Brunswick, New Jersey, to bandage her torn wrists and soak her bruises in a hot tub. There was, after all, a distinct difference between nearly deciding to step from the roof of an apartment house and in having such a decision wrested from her by men who appeared to be quite brutal. She did not want to die in a strange country and she did not labor under any illusions about Mr. Carstairs or her country coming to her rescue. If life was like a body of water, she had asked that she be allowed to walk again in its shallows; instead she had been abruptly seized by strong currents and pushed into deep water. It was a lonely situation, but Mrs. Pollifax was well acquainted with loneliness and it did not frighten her. What did frighten her was the thought of losing her dignity. The limits of her endurance had never been tested, and she had never met with cruelty before. If her life had to end soon she only hoped that it could end with dignity.
But she saw no point in saying these things to the man who shared her predicament and who must also be thinking of these matters. He had more to lose than she; his life was only half completed and he would be thinking of the women he would never make love to again, and the children he would never have. A pity about the children, she mused . . . but in any case she must be very careful not to display any unsteadiness; it was the very least that the old could do for the young. "There's no point in your being angry at me," she said calmly. Her gaze fell to the seat beside Farrell and she gasped. "Look —my purse! They haven't taken it away, it's squashed down between your seat and the next."
"Thoroughly searched, of course," he said, handing it to her. "What's in it?" He leaned forward to watch as she opened the clasp.
She, too, felt as if she were opening a Christmas grab bag. "It's a good deal emptier," she agreed, peering inside. "Yes, they've taken things. Oh dear, my aspirin's gone," she said mournfully.
"Extremely suspect."
"And they've taken Bobby's pocket knife—he's my eleven-year-old grandson," she exclaimed.
"No, they wouldn't approve of that at all."
"But the Band-Aids are here, and my wallet and coin purse and lipsticks—oh, and look," she cried happily, "they've left me my playing cards!" She greeted them as old friends, slipping them tenderly out of their box.
"Small comfort," growled Farrell.
"Oh, but you don't know how comforting they can be," she told him with the enthusiasm of a convert. "I already know twenty-two games. It's true there are fifty-five more to learn—I have a book on it, you see—but it's so relaxing and it will give me something to do." She was already laying out cards in a circle on the seat beside her for a game of Clock Solitaire. "They left the chocolate bars too," she said absently. "You can eat one if you'd like."
"You're not particularly hungry, either?" he asked.
She shook her head, her eyes on the cards.
He said in a funny voice, "We ought to be hungry, you know. We ought to be terribly hungry."
Mrs. Pollifax put down a card and looked at him. "Why, yes, that's true, we should be," she said wonderingly. She frowned. "I had breakfast, and then that man's tea, and nothing until night, and then I had only a slice of bread and a stale tortilla—I ought to be ravenous."
He hesitated and then said quietly, rolling up his sleeve, "I'm wondering if you have needle marks on your arm, too."
"Marks?" faltered Mrs. Pollifax, and stared in dismay at the arm he showed her. There were several angry red dots there, and a faint outline of gum where adhesive tape had been affixed and then removed. It was all the more unnerving to Mrs. Pollifax because she had been idly scratching at her arm since she awoke. She slipped out of her jacket and stared at her arm. "What are they?" she asked at last.
"I think we've been fed intravenously."
"Intravenously 1" she gasped. "But why?"
'To keep us alive." He leaned forward and said in a low voice, "That's not all, there's something else. The plane I heard landing back there in Mexico was a propeller job. The plane we're traveling in now is a jet."
In astonishment Mrs. Pollifax took note of the sound of the engines. "Why so it is!" She stared at him with incredulous eyes. "Wh-what does it mean, do you think?"
He said quietly, "I think we've been unconscious for a longer time than we realized. I think we've been unconscious for a whole day instead of a few hours. I think this must be another night, and we met yesterday in that shack, not today.
I think they must have landed us somewhere during the day where they switched planes and took the precaution of feeding us intravenously so that we wouldn't die on their hands."
Mrs. Pollifax put down her cards with finality. It was not difficult to follow his reasoning to its obvious conclusion. "But jets travel very fast," she said, her eyes fastened on his face. "And if we have been traveling for such a long time—"
He nodded. "Exactly. I don't think that you are going to see Cuba after all."
"Not see Cuba," she echoed, and then, "but where . . . ?" On second thought Mrs. Pollifax stifled this que
stion; it was much better left unsaid. Instead she said in a voice that trembled only a little, "I do hope Miss Hartshorne is remembering to water my geraniums."
Eight
It was still night when they began their descent through the clouds—through the very stars, seemingly—and Mrs. Pollifax felt a flutter of excited dread such as she had often felt as a child when the dentist beckoned her into his office, saying it was her turn now. She pressed her face to the glass, staring in amazement at the unearthly convolutions and formations below.
"Mountains," said Farrell, frowning. "High ones, some of them snow-covered." His gaze went from them to the stars, assessing, appraising, judging, his eyes narrowed.
Mrs. Pollifax watched him hopefully, but he did not say what he was thinking or on what continent such mountains might be. The flight continued, with Farrell's glance constantly moving from earth to sky. "We're going to land," he said suddenly.
Mrs. Pollifax leaned forward. A scattering of lights increased in density, the plane wheeled and began its approach to the runway. Mrs. Pollifax braced herself—there were no seat belts on this plane—and suddenly the earth was rushing past her with dizzying speed, they touched land and taxied to a very bumpy stop. Mrs. Pollifax gathered up her playing cards and put them in her purse. The door to the cockpit opened and two men they had not seen before walked in, one of them carrying a revolver. The other drew out keys and unshackled their ankles. Both were Chinese. The door was pulled away and by gestures it was indicated that Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell were to get out This was accomplished only with difficulty because there was nothing more than a wooden ladder propped against the side of the plane, and for illumination a flashlight was shone on its rungs. Mrs. Pollifax descended into an oppressively warm night that gave the feeling of new heat lying in wait for sunrise. The two men waiting for them at die bottom of the ladder were not Orientals and she saw Farrell stare intently into their faces. To Mrs. Pollifax they looked—perhaps Greek, she decided, recalling an evening spent in Miss Hartshorne's apartment viewing slides on Greece; at least to Mrs. Pollifax their skin had that same similarity to the skin of an olive, moist and supple and smooth. She saw Farrell glance from them to the mountains behind the plane and then again at the stars in the sky. She said anxiously, "It's not Cuba, is it."
He shook his head.
"Do you know—have you any idea where we may be?"
His eyes narrowed. He said grimly, "If my guess is right, Duchess—I hope to God it's not—I should now turn to you and say, 'Welcome to Albania.' "
"Albania!" gasped Mrs. Pollifax, and peering incredulously into his face she repeated blankly, "Albania?"
"Albania."
"But I don't want to be in Albania," Mrs. Pollifax told him despairingly. "I don't know anything about Albania, I've scarcely even heard of the place, the idea's preposterous 1"
"Nevertheless," said Farrell, "I think it's where we are."
A long car, once black but nearly white with dust now, drew into the periphery of the flashlights and they were ushered to its door and prodded into the rear. "A Rolls," Farrell said out of the corner of his mouth, and Mrs. Pollifax nodded politely. The two men with Grecian profiles climbed in and sat down on a drop seat facing them, guns in hand, and the car began to move at reckless speed over incredibly bumpy ground. Mrs. Pollifax clung to its sides and longed for an aspirin. The headlights of the car illuminated the road onto which they turned but the road held as many ruts as the airfield. They appeared to be entering a town, and presently they were threading narrow streets where garbage flowed sluggishly in gutters. They passed cobbled alleys and shuttered cafes and what appeared to be a bazaar. They met no other cars and saw no people. Even the homes that showed briefly in the glare of the headlights looked inhospitable, their rooftops barely seen over the tops of high walls that surrounded them. The walls were guarded by huge gateways with iron-studded doors—clearly not a trusting neighborhood, thought Mrs. Pollifax—and then they had left the town behind. Looking out of the window at her side Mrs. Pollifax. saw the mountains again silhouetted against the night-blue sky; not comfortable-looking mountains at all, but harsh craggy ones with jutting peaks and cliffs and towering, rocky summits. The mountains, decided Mrs. Pollifax, looked even less hospitable then the homes. It was toward these mountains that they appeared to be heading.
Their guards stared at them impassively and without curiosity. Mrs. Pollifax turned to Farrell and said, "But why Albania? Surely you're wrong!"
"Well, this isn't Cuba."
“No,” responded Mrs. Pollifax sadly, "it isn't Cuba."
"I thought at first these mountains might be the Himalayas, but this isn't China. The mountains aren't high enough, there aren't enough of them and the whole topography is wrong."
"I shouldn't care at all for China," Mrs. Pollifax agreed.
"One has to think of the few parts of the world where the Red Chinese are welcome. There aren't many, you know. That town we passed through was definitely not Chinese, it was Balkan in flavor. These mountains must belong to the Albanian Alps, and certainly these men are Europeans."
Mrs. Pollifax nodded. "I thought they looked Greek."
"If this is Albania then Greece is only a few hundred miles away," he pointed out. "You saw how primitive the airport was, and you see how primitive the country is. If we're in Europe there's no other country but Albania where the Red Chinese can come and go at will."
"I didn't know they could come and go anywhere in Europe," said Mrs. Pollifax indignantly.
"It happened about 1960," he mused, his brow furrowed. "Until then Russia was Albania's big brother and pretty much in control of the country. Then Stalin was denounced—that was a surprise to the world, you must remember that. It rocked Albania, too—they're Stalinists here, you see. I don't recall the details, it happened at one of their Big Party Congresses, but there was rather ugly name-calling, with China and Albania siding against Khrushchev. Russia punished Albania by withdrawing all its aid, all its technicians, all its military, and China very happily moved in to help. The chance of a lifetime, giving Red China a toehold in Europe."
"I didn't know," faltered Mrs. Pollifax. 'The very idea— and to think that I subscribe to Time magazine. I really must stop skipping the Balkan news. But why bring us here? Why go to such a great deal of trouble?"
Farrell gave her a quick glance and looked away. "Perhaps they feel we're worth the trouble," he pointed out gently.
"Oh," said Mrs. Pollifax in a small voice and was silent
The car had been climbing steeply for the past twenty minutes on a road that appeared to be carved out of the side of the mountain. On the left the car lights picked out weird rock shapes, on the right side nothing, and Mrs. Pollifax had a terrible suspicion that there really was nothing there, and that any nervous turning of the wheel would send them hurtling through space into the valley. Higher and higher they climbed until at last the car came to a stop and their two guards came to life and jumped out. They spoke rapidly to the driver in a strange, oddly nasal language, and gestured to Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax to leave the car. Once outside they found themselves in a vast basin of desolate gray rock, and noting this, Mrs. Pollifax realized the darkness was dissolving and that dawn must be near. Another day, she thought wonderingly, and suddenly, quite absurdly, recalled her son Roger telling her to wire him if she found herself in a jam.
"This is extremely sticky jam I'm in," she reflected. "Treacly, oozy black raspberry, I think. And no Western Unions."
One of the guards had disappeared behind a rock. Now he reappeared leading four donkeys, and to Mrs. Pollifax's consternation the man signaled that she mount one of them. "I can't," she said in a low voice to Farrell, and to the guard she said in a louder voice, "I can't."
"I believe you're going to have to," Farrell pointed out in amusement.
She eyed the animal with distaste and in turn it eyed her with suspicion. Farrell moved forward to help; it was only with his intercession that a truce wa
s accomplished between the two, and this was mainly because, once upon its back, the donkey could no longer see Mrs. Pollifax. When Farrell and the guards had also mounted donkeys they formed a procession and moved on.
The wilderness path along which they moved was desolate beyond belief. This was a country where all life had been extinguished, to be supplanted by rocks of every color, shape and formation. The air was thin but only a little cooler than the valley. There was no shade of any kind. Slowly, as they traveled, the sunrise spread a golden light across the valley and Mrs. Pollifax could look down upon green slopes and occasional trees, but the rising of the sun brought warmth as well, followed by heat, and between this and the donkey Mrs. Pollifax was soon extremely uncomfortable. Horseback riding had never been her m6tier, and sitting sidesaddle on a donkey was taxing; it took a great deal of energy simply to keep from falling off, and the donkey moved with unexpected lurches. They had traveled for perhaps an hour when Farrell said suddenly, "Psst—look."
Mrs. Pollifax reluctantly lifted her eyes. They had left behind the bleak gray rocks and cliffs of the first leg of their journey and had come out upon a small plateau literally carpeted with stones. The ground was like a brook bed that had been emptied of silt and water—the stones were scattered everywhere in such profusion that not a blade of grass could grow. The sun beat down mercilessly on the landscape, turning everything into a tawny color of yellow dust. At the edge of the cliff overlooking the valley stood a square, fortresslike building made of stone piled upon stone, with only black slits for windows. It stood at the very edge of the precipice, and after a drop of a hundred or so feet the earth formed a rock-strewn terrace, and below this another, showing tentative signs of green, and then the earth flowed like a green river down to the floor of the valley. As her donkey picked its way over the stones Mrs. Pollifax saw a second, smaller building at some distance from the first, also built of rocks and precisely like the other except in size. If she were a tourist, thought Mrs. Pollifax wistfully, this would be a wild and romantic scene; one could imagine bandit chieftains holing up in these impregnable buildings, completely safe against attack. But unfortunately she was not a tourist, she was an American spy who had been abducted—no, captured, she thought uneasily —and no one on God's green earth knew where she was except the people who had brought her here. For just the briefest of moments she allowed herself to think of her children, of Jane having a safe and happy vacation in Canada, of Roger, who had told her to wire him if she got into a jam. "If it just didn't seem so unreal," thought Mrs. Pollifax unhappily. "I mean—what on earth am I doing here? I'm in Albania—at least Farrell thinks it's Albania." And again she felt it was preposterous, her being in Albania. Why, she didn't even own a passport
The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax Page 6