But for how long could she hold out against torture, she wondered now, as she objectively examined a situation that was more hopeless than she'd realized. Simon had announced that they would stay in this hut until dawn, and soon he would come back primed by Amy to hit her harder, and with whatever fresh suggestions Amy had made after they passed beyond hearing. Twenty hours lay ahead of travel, alternated with torture, and at the end of them she was to be killed.
And no one but herself would ever know why. As a bona fide hostage there had always been hope, because many hostages survived, but she saw now that it was going to be Mrs. Lovecraft who survived this particular ordeal. She could even guess at a scenario: after she had been killed tomorrow night there would be Sikota to smuggle Simon, Reuben and Mainza out of the park by some clever means, and then, following a suitable length of time, Amy Lovecraft would stumble out of the bush in a state of hysteria. There would be a few artful scratches and bruises, a terrifying tale of how Mrs. Pollifax had been murdered while attempting to escape. And who would not believe her? Amy would be a heroine.
And for so long as these wrists of hers remained bound, thought Mrs. Pollifax, that scenario was going to proceed very smoothly toward her murder and Amy Lovecraft's elevation to sainthood. She minded this very much, but even more, she realized, she mourned the comfortable illusion that she'd just lost of having a confederate of her own here, however unstable. Until a moment ago she'd believed they were three men against two women. Now there were suddenly four people against one—and she was the one—and it felt lonely.
The tarpaulin opened—Mrs. Pollifax could see the dark sky and the stars beyond it—and Mrs. Lovecraft tiptoed back to her sleeping bag. She had just settled into it when someone outside gave a startled cry.
Simon called, "Ssh—no, leave the lights. Reuben?"
"Here, Simon."
"Be silent. Wait."
The shout did it; Mrs. Pollifax rose from her sleeping bag and went to the tarpaulin, leaving Amy to her own dissembling, which consisted of sharp gasps and, "What's that? What woke me?" Ignoring her Mrs. Pollifax pulled back the flap and looked out. The lanterns were still lighted under the tree, but Simon and Mainza stood rigid now, both staring out into the bush. Following their gaze Mrs. Pollifax saw a large shape moving through the grass toward the camp, too tall to be a lion, too slender to be an elephant. The apparition moved steadily and noisily toward them, a bulky, man-shaped silhouette against the night sky, and then as it drew closer the farthest projection of the light picked out a pair of ragged sneakers, then a pair of bluejeans followed by a sweater and jacket until it reached the face of Cyrus Reed.
She had to be dreaming, thought Mrs. Pollifax.
He came to a stop and stood there, looking big and wondrously normal and not at all ruffled. "Hello," he said amiably, blinking at the sudden brightness. "Saw your lights. Damn tiresome wandering about out there in the bush. Mrs. Pollifax around somewhere, and Mrs. Lovecraft?"
CHAPTER
10
Standing just behind Mrs. Pollifax, Amy said furiously, "Oh, the fool!" and then she recovered herself and added with less heat, "Now he's a hostage too!"
"Yes," said Mrs. Pollifax dazedly, "but how do you suppose he ever found us?"
Reuben turned and saw them and waved his rifle menacingly. Mrs. Pollifax dropped the tarpaulin and retreated to her orange crate and sat down to wait, her heart beating very fast, her thoughts in a turmoil. Several minutes later the tarpaulin lifted and Cyrus stepped inside the hut with his wrists tied together. He stood in the improvised doorway, blocking it completely, and Mrs. Pollifax thought that she'd never been so glad to see anyone before in her life. His glance took in Amy Lovecraft, lingered a moment without expression on Mrs. Pollifax's torn lip, and en he said in his mild voice, "Damn good to see you."
"Oh Cyrus," she said simply, "how on earth did you get here?"
"More to the point," interjected Amy sharply, "did you come alone?"
"Sorry about that," he told her. "No U. S. Cavalry racing to the rescue but there should be soon. Chanda's gone to get help."
"Chanda?" said Mrs. Lovecraft incredulously.
Cyrus nodded, looking pleased. "Damn clever boy, Chanda, or ba na mdno, as he puts it in Bemba. Damn clever at tracking too. We were only half an hour behind you. Slowed us down a bit, that false turn off the road you made, but it took Chanda only a few minutes to look over the signs and guess the trick. Learning a lot on this safari," he said, smiling at Mrs. Pollifax.
"But tell us how you got here," cried Amy, looking as if she wanted to shake him. "You can't have walked, and the Land Rovers—they said the Land Rovers—"
She had almost given herself away there, thought Mrs. Pollifax, watching her.
"Oh, yes, all the tires were slashed," Cyrus told her cheerfully, "but these ruffians who carried you off didn't realize there were spares in the storage hut. Julian took off in a great hurry for Chunga in one of the cars. Wanted to radio the police, he said . . . organize search parties. Seemed a damn shame nobody thought of following you while the trail was hot. / thought of it, and Chanda thought of it, so we had a little talk and stole a Land Rover."
"Just like that," said Amy with a hollow laugh. "How —how original! Then you've brought a Land Rover here?"
"Not exactly here," he conceded. "Got mired in a swamp piece of land half a mile away. Thought we'd have to sit there until dawn, the two of us, but then we saw the light here. Chanda gave me escort—just to be sure I didn't tangle with any lions—and then took off into the night for Kafwala."
"On foot?"
"On foot," nodded Cyrus, giving her a curious glance. "Something wrong?"
"No, not at all, but what a story," said Mrs. Lovecraft. "Then Chanda will be coming back with help very soon?"
Mrs. Pollifax wanted to cry out, Don't say any more, but she sat helpless and irresolute, not wanting Amy to learn that her connivance was known.
"Afraid not soon," confessed Cyrus. "Not that many spare tires. Julian's got four on his Land Rover but he's down at Chunga camp now. Other four are on the Land Rover stuck out there in the bush. Only a matter of hours, though."
"How—how comforting," said Mrs. Lovecraft, attempting another brittle laugh.
If Amy was laughing, Mrs. Pollifax was struggling against tears. Her emotions had never felt so battered; at sight of Cyrus her spirits had gone skyward, but now they were plummeting as she realized with a sense of horror what his arrival meant for him. She was touched by his courage, appalled by his recklessness and comforted by his reliable and enormous presence. At the same time—just to complicate the tangle—she wanted to laugh at the comic note he was introducing into the situation. For instance, he was blocking Simon's entrance into the hut now, which became more and more obvious from the rude noises outside. Cyrus turned, looked down, said, "Oh—sorry," and Simon emerged from behind him looking very much like an angry puppy riding herd on a Saint Bernard.
Simon said sharply to Mrs. Lovecraft, "Out—quickly. I separate you now. Into the other hut."
Mrs. Pollifax had wondered how they would confer about this development, and she thought that Simon managed it very convincingly; in turn, Amy Lovecraft managed to look convincingly frightened as she walked out ahead of him. As soon as the tarpaulin fell in place behind them Mrs. Pollifax whispered, "Be careful what you say, he's really taking Mrs. Lovecraft out to confer with her."
"Confer?" said Cyrus, staring at her in astonishment.
She nodded. "When Amy thought I was asleep she walked out and began talking to them about me. It turns out that she's in charge of the whole thing, except for someone called Sikota in Lusaka."
"Good God," said Cyrus, looking appalled. "And I was about to ask if we ought to worry about her being taken off alone like that. Glad you told me. Damn glad I came."
"Yes, because if Chanda hurries—how long do you think it will take him to reach Kafwala on foot?"
Cyrus shook his head. "Too long," he said uneasily.
"And they'll know it. Shouldn't have told Amy about Chanda."
"But how could you have not told her when you thought she was a hostage too?" protested Mrs. Pollifax. "And they would have insisted on knowing how you found us, Cyrus. If you'd refused to tell them they would have followed your tracks to the Land Rover."
"Shouldn't have mentioned there being so few spare tires, either," Cyrus said gruffly. "Very bad. Who's this Sikota chap you mentioned?"
"He must be the man who delivered a ransom note to the television station in Lusaka at the same time we were captured. They talked to him by radio," she explained.
"Oh?" said Cyrus, digesting this. "Pity Julian couldn't have known that before he went dashing off to get the news out. Done better, I'm thinking, to have followed you."
"As you did," she said, smiling.
"Yes." He gave her a thoughtful glance. "Suppose you realize these are the same three men we saw at Lufupa camp this noon. Which of them hit you?"
"It doesn't matter, Cyrus."
"Try hitting you again," he said sternly, "and they'll have me to deal with."
She said unsteadily, "You should never, never have come after us like this, Cyrus. It was madness."
"Only thing I could think of to impress you, my dear."
"Impress me!"
"Well," he said with a boyish grin, "couldn't believe you'd give me a thought, coping with this bunch of hoodlums. Rather hard to overlook if I'm here. Too big."
She began to laugh, which tore open her cracked lip again and sent a stab of pain across her cheekbone, but it was amazing how much better she felt for it, and almost light-hearted. It fortified her for Simon's reappearance.
He walked in and gave Cyrus a nasty glance. "We do not wait for dawn to leave," he said coldly. "Because of you we go now."
"Afraid of that," sighed Cyrus. "Sorry, my dear."
"It's all right," she said, but of course it wasn't. For just a few brief moments there had been a flicker of hope that Chanda might be able to bring rescue before dawn. And really it was so unfair, she thought helplessly, to see all of her plans to uncover Aristotle aborted like this. By now, back at camp, who knew what arrangements were being made to assassinate some unknown and unknowing victim?
"Mainza—" Simon's voice brought her back to the present, and she realized that her worries over Aristotle were a luxury just now. She had to resist distractions; her life and Cyrus' life depended upon it.
"Mainza, remove all but this lantern."
Mainza nodded and began rolling up the sleeping bags. "And while the car is being packed, we begin again," Simon told her, looking grim. "Sit, please, and you—" He pointed at Cyrus. "You will stand in the corner over there where I can observe you."
"Think not," said Reed mildly. "Bigger than you are. Don't plan to budge an inch."
Simon gave him a long, measuring stare. "You prefer that we shoot you instead?"
Cyrus shrugged. "No need to, you know. Only came to keep the ladies company. I'll stand where I am and watch—like a UN observer," he added helpfully.
Perhaps it was Cyrus' size or his mildness or a lingering sense of authority from his years on the bench, but it became obvious now to Mrs. Pollifax that Simon didn't know how to handle him. Cyrus was large, he was amiable and he exuded kindness, but he had an air about him of being immovable. Simon eyed him with resentment and then apparently decided to ignore him because he turned away and gestured Mrs. Pollifax to sit down.
"As I started to say, we begin again." He was forced to step back as Mainza passed him, his arms filled with sleeping bags. When Mainza had gone he sat down on the other box. "Now you will tell me exactly how you met this Mr. Farrell."
"Farrell?" said Cyrus, lifting an eyebrow in surprise. "So that's it!"
"Yes, Farrell," Mrs. Pollifax said, nodding, and then, "all right," and began her story again. She explained about the house in New Brunswick, New Jersey, her son Roger and the soapbox car, but this time she embellished the story with small artistic details. She added a soapbox derby in which Roger won a first prize of five dollars, and she gave Farrell a mother who played the piano and a father who owned a department store. "And then the father died," she added, tiring of the story. "That's when they moved away."
Mainza tiptoed in again and then went out with the remaining sleeping bags and a lantern. Simon did not comment on her story. He drew out the four photographs again and held up the lantern for her to examine them by. "Which?" he demanded, handing them to her. "Perhaps it will improve your memory if I tell you that your life depends on it."
Mrs. Pollifax examined them one by one, frowning appropriately while Simon studied her face. She noticed that numbers had suddenly appeared in pencil on the bottom corner of each photograph; Mrs. Lovecraft's idea, no doubt. "I don't recognize any of these men," she said again with finality.
"Mind if I look?" asked Cyrus, and when Simon only shrugged he took the pictures, glanced through them and shook his head. "Absolutely impossible," he said flatly. "None of these men could have lived next door to Mrs. Pollifax."
"I may ask why?" Simon's voice was biting.
"Look at her, look at them. Tough-looking chaps. You think she'd know such a person? None of them," he added with authority, "built a soapbox car in his life."
Smiling at him, Mrs. Pollifax thought, You dear man, there are so many things you don't know about my friends, but you've become one. Solidly.
Simon leaned closer to her. "1 do not believe you understand me. If you remain stubborn we kill you— like that," he told her, snapping his ringers. "We kill this man too."
"Stay as stubborn as she pleases," said Cyrus. "Why this passion for having Mr. Farrell identified?"
"So we will know which of these four men he is," he said, exasperated. "Ah—Mainza, the Land Rover is ready?"
"Everything is inside, Simon."
"Then we go. Take them out, Mainza, I'll bring the lantern and tarpaulin. As for you," he told Mrs. Pollifax, "we talk again, but if you do not talk for me, Sikota is the man with a genius. For him everyone talks."
They climbed into the Land Rover. Apparently Amy's role of innocent hostage was to be continued because she was led out of the second hut by Reuben, her wrists still bound, and inserted between Mrs. Pollifax and Cyrus on the rear seat. A rope was threaded through each of their bound wrists and secured to either side of the car, giving them a primitive check against falling; evidently some rugged driving lay ahead.
Amy spoke only once. She turned her flawless profile to Cyrus and said coolly, "It was terribly sweet of you to come, Cyrus, but I hope you'll realize what you've done. Now we're both hostages to Mrs. Pollifax. They'll kill us first to persuade her to talk, and believe it or not this woman seems very willing to sacrifice us. She doesn't give a damn at all."
"Ha," was Cyrus' only response.
The Land Rover started with a jolt, and following this, in proportion to the distance they covered, all sense of time diminished for Mrs. Pollifax. It was not that the Land Rover drove so fast but that a relentless speed of fifteen miles per hour over rough ground abused every bone in the body. The headlights had been taped so that only the immediate ground could be seen, and frequently the Land Rover swerved to avoid a rock, and once a startled wild beast. At some point during the first hour— she supposed it was an hour—Cyrus observed that they were heading west, and then after an interminable length of time he announced that they seemed to be veering south, but except for these comments no one spoke. Mrs. Lovecraft remained silent and Mrs. Pollifax reflected that if Kafue Park was half the size of Switzerland, this gave Simon a great deal of space in which to maneuver, and any search parties vast difficulties in finding them.
It was kinder not to think of Aristotle. She began to think instead of how far she could go in protecting Farrell's life from whatever dangers these people represented, and she thought the dangers must be considerable if they would go to such lengths as an abduction. But there was Cyrus' life too ... He had wandered after her,
heroic and innocent, and it was unthinkable that he might have to pay for it with his life. She felt responsible for him even if he would snort indignantly at such an idea. How could one choose? One could say that Farrell was the younger, with more years ahead of him to live, but balanced against this was the fact that Farrell had survived to his forty-some years by outwitting just such people as Simon, and how could she assume that he wouldn't survive her identifying him? And on that score there rose the doubts—oh God, the doubts, she cried silently, those niggling, poisonous doubts that were perfectly logical but which she would do well to face now, and with honesty. Chance had brought her and Farrell together once in a very rare intimacy, but there was no overlooking the fact that their values had been different even then, and that four years had intervened since she'd known him. He might be smuggling drugs, or involved in something equally abhorrent to her. She could vividly remember her shock at first meeting him—that hardbitten face and those mocking eyes . . .
She discovered that she was smiling as she remembered those first reactions of a refugee from the New Brunswick, New Jersey, Garden Club. What a sheltered life she’d led before she met him, and how she must have amused him! It was preposterous to think he could change that much. He was a man who'd not broken under torture, and when he believed he was going to his death his first thoughts had been of her. No, she couldn't betray him, she simply couldn't . . .
She realized that she couldn't betray Farrell and that she absolutely couldn't sacrifice Cyrus. She was going to have to wait and trust to her instincts hour by hour, and in the end—if they weren't found in time by a search party—there might be no choice at all, or very little, because even if she identified Farrell it might not save Cyrus' life. She would simply have to wait, and in the meantime, just because it was night and she was cold and hungry, she mustn't lose hope. In fact, if she could just get these ropes off her wrists, the bush country of Zambia would ring with her shouts of Ki-ya.
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