"Come along now," said Carstairs, and hung up. As he sat back and lit a cigarette his eyes fell on the calendar and he realized it was now eight days since what he called the "Pollifax Affair" had erupted. Eight days was a long, long time in the life of his department, and he reviewed the facts. They did not cheer him and when Peattie was ushered in he had to forcibly remove the frown from his brow in order to appear civilized. "Good to see you," he murmured, half rising to shake his hand. "Dropping in doesn't inconvenience you, I hope."
"Lord, no. The Operations Department always fascinates me. I suppose I'm hoping you'll drop a few clues about how this is turning out."
"Badly," said Carstairs dryly. "What have you come up with?"
"Yes. Well." Peattie put on his reading glasses. "It seems that General Perdido has been in Peking, yes, but he did not arrive there until August 24, five days after the kidnapping of your Mrs. Pollifax and Mr. Farrell."
"Five days after," mused Carstairs, frowning. "Was anyone with him?"
"No one, he arrived quite alone."
"Hmmm. So presumably Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell were not taken to Cuba and not taken to China, either."
"Also, and this you may find interesting," went on Peattie, "he arrived in China on a jet that collected him in Athens."
"Athens!" exclaimed Carstairs, visibly electrified. "Athens?" He leaned forward and briefly swore. "The Mediterranean —the Balkans—I never thought of Albania, although why on earth he'd take them so far—"
Peattie nodded and went on. "He remained in Peking until the middle of the week, leaving yesterday in a private plane, destination unknown except that a very reliable informant tells us the plane was heading for—care to guess?"
"Albania?"
"Right. But your friends were not with him, and have apparently not been in Peking at all."
Carstairs stubbed out his cigarette. "No, obviously not Albania ..." he repeated with a shake of his head. "Anything else?"
Peattie smiled with the pleasure of someone holding a very interesting card up his sleeve. "Yes, a little something more. I took the liberty of—well, after all, since Albania has become the prodigy of the Chinese Reds it has naturally fallen into my province and so I went ahead, that is—"
"That is, what?"
"I made inquiries. General Perdido did land in Albania last night, his plane came in at Shkoder, whereupon the car that met him took off immediately for the mountains."
"Very interesting indeed," said Carstairs. "So on the twenty-fourth, five days after the kidnapping, the general flies from Athens to Peking, remains a few days and then flies to Albania." He frowned. "It could mean a great deal, it could mean nothing."
Peattie nodded. "We know frustratingly little about Albania since the Red Chinese moved in, but there have been rumors that somewhere in the North Albanian Alps there is a building, a very primitive stone fortress originally built by bandits, where a few very top-secret political prisoners are kept The countryside is almost inaccessible: cliffs, gorges, crags, landslides, you name it, and the mountain people are a clannish bunch. Still, the rumor persists that such a place exists, and it was into these same mountains that the general disappeared."
"Who's the informant?" asked Carstairs idly. "Reliable?"
"An Orthodox Christian priest," said Peattie. "You may or may not know that the churches have been closed and desecrated in Albania. Our friend's mosque, for instance, has been turned into a bar and his own existence is precarious. Not too long ago he was put to work for a month on a road gang that repairs and builds roads in the north, and it's there he heard stories about this place."
"Any chance of pinpointing its whereabouts?" Carstairs was already out of his chair and crossing the room to the wall map.
With a shrug Peattie joined him. "Anywhere from here to there," he said, tracing the line of the mountains in the north. "We know the road ends about here," he added, "but of course that doesn't mean anything, the roads are constantly coming to a crashing halt in these countries and life still goes on, by mule, donkey, bicycle, oxcart, et cetera, et cetera."
Carstairs shook his head. "There's not a chance in the world they could still be alive, not a chance, but is there any way of confirming the fact that they were taken there? That they were killed there?"
"Very difficult making inquiries," Peattie said. "Take weeks, I'm afraid. Foreigners, of course, are immediately suspect and the few allowed into the country as tourists see very little. A good many Albanians are connected with the secret police, by membership, through relatives or marriage —the usual trick, you know, to keep the citizenry terrorized. I'm not sure . . ." He hesitated and then said firmly, "I'm very sure the agents we have over there wouldn't be allowed to endanger themselves for the sake of—"
Carstairs bluntly completed the thought. "For the sake of two agents who have been at the mercy of General Perdido for more than a week. Quite right, I wouldn't allow it myself."
Peattie very pointedly looked away and added, "I think I should tell you that this mountain eerie has a most unsavory reputation. My informant tells us that those who are Catholics cross themselves when it's mentioned. It's spoken of in whispers, and said that no one has ever left it alive."
"I get the point," Carstairs told him harshly, and then, more gently, "I wonder ..."
"Wonder what?"
"I'm curious about that mountain fortress." He got up, excusing himself, and went out to confer with Bishop. He returned a few minutes later. "I had an idea," he explained. "I've asked for a private seaplane to get lost over the Albanian Alps. They should have it there in an hour."
"Reconnaissance?"
Carstairs nodded. "Strictly unofficial, of course—well share any information we get with you people, but if Perdido's going to go on snatching Americans we'd jolly well better find out if he's tucking them in there for the night."
Peattie stood up. "You'll keep me posted then. Good."
Carstairs also stood. "And thank you for stopping in. Let's get together for a drink one of these days."
"Yes, let's," said Peattie with his wry smile. "One of these days or years..."
When he had gone Carstairs went back to his paper work, made a few telephone calls, went to lunch and conferred for an hour with his chief upstairs. It was after two o'clock when he returned to his office to be handed a radiogram by Bishop. It was a report from the pilot of the seaplane that had made a sortie over the Albanian Alps. No building of Carstairs' description had been seen with the naked eye but the reconnaissance photographs would be dispatched as soon as they were developed. What had intrigued the pilot, however, was the activity going on in the area bounded by the Alps in the east, Shkoder in the south and Lake Scutari in the west. He had seen a large number of men scouring the area on foot, a stream of very black smoke rising from a wood—obviously something containing oil or gasoline had been set afire—and an unusual concentration of police launches patrolling Lake Scutari.
Carstairs frowned, wondering what the devil this would mean, if anything. He wished he knew more about Albania, he wondered if Peattie would have knowledge of whether this type of activity was normal or irregular for that country and he was about to pick up the phone when Peattie himself was ushered in again.
"This just came through," Peattie said without preamble. "Something's up all right in the north of Albania. One of our agents broke silence to send it—damned risky of him. Here, read it yourself, it's fresh from the decoding room."
Carstairs picked up the sheet and scanned it. It read:
GENERAL PERDIDO ARRIVED ALBANIA YESTERDAY, MYSTERIOUSLY SHOT AND WOUNDED DURING NIGHT, TODAY DIRECTING LARGE SEARCH PARTY FOR ENEMIES OF STATE ESCAPED MOUNTAIN HIDEAWAY EN CAR, NUMBER IN PARTY UNCERTAIN STOP TWO GUARDS DEAD, ONE ESCAPEE RUMORED AMERICAN, GROUP ASSUMED STILL ALIVE AND HEADING WEST OR NORTHWEST TO COAST STOP
Carstairs leaped to his feet to look at the map. "Whoever these people are we've got to give them every possible help," he sputtered. "If one of them's rumored to be
American there's always a chance it could be Farrell, but even if it isn't these people can give us valuable information. Look at this map, see how damn close they are to Yugoslavia, that's where they'll head, it's their only chance. Bishop," he bellowed into the intercom, "get me Fiersted in the State Department." To Peattie he said, "If Fiersted will clear the way for us with the Yugoslavian Government we can scatter a few of our men along their border to watch for them. We can have men there by midnight—by midnight at the very latest," he vowed.
By midnight Mrs. Pollifax, Farrell and the Genie were no longer adrift upon the waters of Lake Scutari. They were not in Yugoslavia, either. They had been blown by an ill wind in the opposite direction—south, and deeper into Albania— and at the stroke of midnight they were huddled behind a stone wall in the city of Shkoder at the southern tip of Lake Scutari. High above their heads stood the walls of a grim-looking, medieval castle. A fuzzy, heat-stricken pink moon shed a faint light on the scraps of wet paper that had once been their map, and by this light Mrs. Pollifax was trying to make some sense of the lines that had not been obliterated.
"The damn thing looks like a river," the Genie was saying, regarding the water in front of them angrily. "It can't belong to Lake Scutari. There's a current, we felt it, and anything but a real river would have dried up in this heat a month ago."
It had felt like a real river, too; in fact if the moon had not emerged from wisps of cloud their log would have sailed right out of Lake Scutari, past the castle on the hill and down this unidentifiable body of water. They had barely managed to propel the log toward land, and they were now hiding in the shadows of an ancient, cobbled alley while they desperately tried to think what to do. Their log had been lost in the darkness and they were back in the city where they had first met Albania. It was difficult to decide whether they had made progress or not.
"There is a line," said Mrs. Pollifax, peering nearsightedly at the map. "The line goes from Shkoder to the Adriatic Sea but it has no label, nothing says it's a river."
"I copied every single word there was," Farrell informed her stiffly.
"Of course you did, it's just such a small map. But there Is a line, see?" She passed the scrap of paper around, and the two men took turns squinting at the line and pondering its significance. Mrs. Pollifax added hopefully, "The only other lines like that on the map are rivers. It even says they're rivers."
"And this does appear to be a river," the Genie said, nodding. "Even if we didn't expect a river here."
"A very good river, too," put in Farrell.
"But nameless, unknown and confusing," said the Genie.
Mrs. Pollifax took back the wet piece of paper to study again. "There's this to be considered," she told them softly. 'To go by land from Lake Scutari to the coast looks quite a distance, between ten and twenty miles, I'd say, and all of it to be done on foot. This funny line meanders a bit, but his line, if it really is a river, ends at the Adriatic. If one had a boat—"
"If one had a boat, and if this truly is a river, and if it should empty into the Adriatic—"
The Genie broke off without finishing his sentence and they were all silent, contemplating the succession of hazards. "So many ifs," sighed Mrs. Pollifax at last. "A gamble in the most terrifying sense of the word."
The Genie said soberly, "But that is precisely what life is, wouldn't you agree? Everything is a matter of choice, and when we choose are we not gambling on the unknown and its being a wise choice? And isn't it free choice that makes individuals of us? We are eternally free to choose ourselves and our futures. I believe myself that life is quite comparable to a map like this, a constant choice of direction and route." He was silent a moment. "Stay here," he added, standing up. "I will try to find a boat for us."
Mrs. Pollifax nodded, feeling a very deep relief that someone had told her to remain sitting. It was bliss not to move, and even greater bliss to be ordered not to move since this immediately eliminated all sense of guilt and responsibility. She closed her eyes, then opened them to see that Farrell was already asleep and with a sigh she forced her eyelids to remain open, knowing that someone had to remain on guard or all their previous efforts would come to nothing. To occupy herself she began figuring how many hours ago they had escaped. They had left their prison around nine o'clock Thursday night, hadn't they? It had been roughly dusk, or nine of this day, when they had set their log afloat on Lake Scutari. This meant they had escaped only a little more than twenty-four hours ago, which was incredible because it already seemed a lifetime of nightmares. She then began figuring when they or she had last slept and when they had last eaten, but this was even more arduous and numbers kept slipping from her mind and her lids were just closing, her will power diminishing, when she heard the quiet drip-drip of an oar or paddle in the water nearby. She put out a hand to waken Farrell and when his eyes jerked open she placed a warning finger across her lips. They both turned to watch the silhouette of a long boat move across the path of weak moonlight. The boat looked a little like a Venetian gondola, its prow and stern sharp-pointed and high out of the water. A man stood in the center facing the bow, an oar in each hand, but Mrs. Pollifax couldn't be sure it was the Genie until the boat drew in to the shore. She and Farrell went to meet it.
"Come aboard," said the Genie, bowing as had been his custom, and Mrs. Pollifax could even see his old twinkle in the moonlight. The Genie was feeling pleased with himself, and quite rightly, she thought, wondering how he had found the londra and hoping he hadn't been forced to kill for it. She moved to help Farrell—it was necessary for him to sit on the side of the boat and tumble in backward because of his bad leg. She, too, half fell into the boat and lay on the floor too exhausted to move or speak. It was the Genie who was taking over now, it had become his turn, and she lay on her back and stared up at the clouded moon and hoped her turn would never come. The Genie was at work with the oars again, giving the water quick, short jabs. Mrs. Pollifax said in a low, dreamy voice, "You found a boat."
'Tied up, not far away," the Genie whispered over his shoulder. "Sleep a little, the current helps. With this moon I'll keep close to the shore."
Mrs. Pollifax's gaze traveled from him to the shape of Shkoder's castle set high above them, its sides almost perpendicular, the lines of its buildings outlined black against the deep-blue night sky. There was a solitary star, and with her eyes upon it Mrs. Pollifax fell softly asleep. When she awoke both the castle and the star had disappeared and she thought the sky looked a shade lighter. Then she realized that what had awakened her was the sharp crack of a pistol shot from somewhere along the shore. She sat up at once.
"Down," whispered the Genie violently.
Farrell, too, fell back, his eyes alarmed. "But what was it, who is it?"
"Someone on the shore. I think he wants us to stop."
"Are we going to?" asked Mrs. Pollifax weakly.
"I haven't seen him, it's too dark," the Genie said, speaking without moving his lips. "I heard something and glanced toward the shore. I could dimly make out a man waving his arms but I looked away. I am still looking away, I see nothing."
"He may fire again and hit you the next time," Farrell pointed out.
The Genie said pleasantly, "Yes, I know. But we are moving faster now, can you feel it? You mustn't look but the river has been growing wider in the last ten minutes, and the earth flatter. These are rice paddies we are passing now. There is a definite change in the air, too—smell it?"
Both Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax sniffed. "Salt," said Farrell wonderingly. "Salt? Am I right?"
"Yes."
The pistol was fired again and something plunked against the sides of the boat. "Above water line, I hope," said Farrell. "He's a damn good shot in this light."
"He's running away now," the Genie said casually. "He has begun thinking."
"Thinking?"
"That he can't question a man going toward the sea in a boat if the man in the boat refuses to stop. He will either find a boat himself or
find a telephone and talk to people on the coast who will stop us."
"May I sit up now?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.
"Yes, he's gone."
She sat up and looked around her. The darkness was rolling back to uncover a very charming scene of springlike tender green, flat to the eye and stretching as far as the horizon. Ahead—Mrs. Pollifax wondered what lay ahead and beyond. From the boat she could see only a floor of water, a huge ceiling of brightening sky, and a number of birds. "But those are sea gulls!" cried Mrs. Pollifax.
"We've got to know what to do," Farrell said in a brooding, nearly desperate voice. "Where we're going, what we're going to do. My God, to keep playing it by ear—"
"Yugoslavia is north," Mrs. Pollifax reminded him. "We know that."
"But we don't even have a gun that's dry!"
The Genie said, "Yes, we have." The two turned to stare at him and he said, "The guard Stefan, do you remember my taking his pistol? His holster was the waterproof type. Remove it from my pocket and check it. There may be time, too, to clean the others. Know how?"
"No, damn it," said Farrell. "You?"
The Genie shook his head. "Not my cup of tea, I'm afraid. Got the gun?"
Farrell was holding it and breaking it open. "Five cartridges."
The Genie nodded. "And you?" he asked of Mrs. Pollifax.
She began emptying the various pockets in her petticoats. Out came the playing cards and Farrell exclaimed, "Not those! My God, Duchess, I won't be able to see a deck of cards for the rest of my life—if I have a life—without thinking of you."
"Well, that's one form of immortality," she retorted, and drew out the pistol, the magazine clip, the dried shreds of map, the compass. "And if I'm captured again perhaps they'll spare me a few minutes for a game of solitaire instead of the usual last meal or cigarette. That's all I have," she added, gesturing toward the small pile. "No food. Not a crumb."
"That damn lake," sighed Farrell.
"Actually I've stopped feeling weak," said Mrs. Pollifax. "Rather like catching one's second wind, I suppose, except of course we've had drinking water to sustain us."
The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax Page 20