CHAPTER 1
Carstairs was seated at his desk at headquarters, yawning over an intelligence report laden with statistics, when Bishop opened the door and announced that John Sebastian Farrell was asking to see him.
Startled, Carstairs said, "Our Farrell?"
"Ours once, yes."
"Good heavens! Perhaps we can persuade him to— send him in, Bishop."
"No, you can't persuade me to sign up again," said Farrell, over Bishop's shoulder, and he walked boldly in, as insouciant as ever. "I've come for information, as well as to rob you of one of your more valuable commodities, so to speak."
"You terrify me," Carstairs told him with a smile. "Damn good to see you again, Farrell. I'd like to think your art gallery in Mexico City has begun to bore you—I have my fantasies—but pull up a chair and I'll ask Bishop to bring some coffee."
"I've already asked for coffee," Farrell told him, seating himself in the chair next to his desk. "Cheeky of me, of course—and I should have telephoned first, but after flying up from Mexico City yesterday to New York, and this morning from New York to—" He stopped as Bishop brought in two coffees and placed them on Carstairs's desk. "Thanks, Bishop."
"Go on," said Carstairs.
Farrell smiled pleasantly. "I'm here to ask if you've heard of a man named Antun Mahmoud. Publishes some sort of newspaper—in Arabic—in Manhattan."
Carstairs gave him a long look and said curtly, "Yes, but I'm surprised that you've heard of him."
"Is he reliable? Can he be trusted?"
Carstairs's eyes narrowed. "I'd like to know first just how you've heard of him."
"That sub rosa, hmmm?" murmured Farrell, looking pleased. "It explains what struck me as a bad case of paranoia."
Carstairs said sharply, "You've met the man?"
"Yes, last night in Manhattan, as soon as the plane landed, I called the number he'd given me."
"If you could enlighten me as to what this is all about..." began Carstairs.
Farrell said simply, "It concerns Dib Assen."
"Dib Assen," repeated Carstairs, startled. "You were friends, I know. I read of his death, was it a month ago? 'dissident iraqi author dies in prison.' "
Farrell nodded. "I'd known him for years, ever since he came here to lecture at Columbia on Islamic culture, art, and literature, we kept in touch, and God knows I tried to persuade him to move to America before it was too late, but he only laughed at the idea. However, I did extract one promise from him, namely to let me know if I could be of help in any way and at any time."
Carstairs's brows lifted. "And?"
Farrell said quietly, "There is a manuscript—safely hidden away before he was arrested. One of his friends in Iraq pledged to him that the manuscript would be smuggled out of the country to me, and only to me personally, should he die. To be delivered to his publishers."
"I see," murmured Carstairs.
"The friend's name is Ibrahim—no last name—and I was contacted by these people in Manhattan—this Antun Mahmoud—to say that Ibrahim hopes, Insha'-Allah, to meet me in Amman, Jordan, between the tenth of October and the thirteenth, and this is the seventh."
Carstairs whistled faintly. "Doesn't give you much time."
"No," agreed Farrell, "but you can imagine his difficulties in getting out of Iraq. Presumably it means he's made it."
"Presumably, yes," said Carstairs. "And you want to know if these New York people can be trusted."
"Definitely. If you could know what I had to go through, being interrogated by this Antun Mahmoud, not to mention where he took me! The most godawful place in the most godawful neighborhood. I also gave him rather a lot of money to arrange things."
Carstairs smiled. "He can be trusted, yes.... I won't tell you the position he held in Iraq before he fled the country, but he's important enough to still be a threat to them. In fact, since he came to the United States, we know of two assassination attempts on his life. ... Saddam is not forgiving! The newspaper that Antun Mahmoud and his group publish is a monthly newsletter for fellow exiles, we believe their closest connection is with the Arab Organization for Human Rights. I must admit that we envy their news-gathering sources." He shrugged. "Once in a while they feed us information, but they'll have nothing to do with us in general, and we respect their resolve."
"Well, that's a relief," said Farrell. "But I have to add my second reason for being here. I insisted to them that I have 'cover.' They don't much like that, but something about this feels as shaky as—well, Jell-O. Especially when, at the last minute, it was pointed out to me that I'd have to keep returning for three or four mornings to the same meeting place."
"What meeting place?"
"They will give me that information tomorrow night, but I mean: if Ibrahim's late, a solitary American tourist hanging around some obscure corner of Amman? Damned conspicuous!" Watching Carstairs, he said firmly, "I insisted on a companion, an Innocent Tourist, eminently respectable, a woman, for instance, who wears outrageous hats and knows karate."
Carstairs grinned. "I see. Mrs. Pollifax, of course."
"Yes, do you mind? I mean, old chap, she does work for you, technically. I'd like to borrow her. If, of course, she can leave with me tomorrow night for Jordan, following that final briefing by Antun."
"Jordan," mused Carstairs. "This Ibrahim has a terrible desert and dangerous borders to cross. Did whatever message reached Antun say that the man hoped to reach Amman by the tenth, or that he was already there?"
Farrell sighed. "I believe the word was 'expected.' I might also add that Antun Mahmoud's not at all happy about the Duchess—Mrs. Pollifax, that is—going with me; he insists on meeting her, too, before plane-time, which is nine p.m, tomorrow."
"She can't be seen entering their place," Carstairs pointed out sharply. "Even I don't know where they are just now."
Farrell nodded. "I'll think of a disguise of some sort, and thanks."
Carstairs flicked a switch on his intercom. "Bishop—"
"Yes, sir?"
"Get Mrs. Pollifax on the phone, Farrell hopes to borrow her if she's available."
Bishop's voice was cheerful. "She ought to be available, sir, I spoke with her only a few days ago. You recall young Kadi Hopkirk?"
"Indeed yes."
"Cyrus is introducing her to bird-watching; I believe they're still at the Cape. Cape Cod."
"Mrs. Pollifax too?"
"She said she doesn't enjoy crouching in marshes for hours, not after her experience in Albania."
Farrell chuckled. "Lake Scutari ! I was with her, you know, we spent an entire night floating around that damn lake, clinging to a log."
Over the intercom Bishop laughed. "And she still smelled of goat in spite of it. Come to my office and we'll see if she's at home."
As Farrell rose from his chair, Carstairs said curtly, "Just a minute."
Farrell waited, brows lifted questioningly.
"I think we'd like to see that novel by Dib Assen if you get hold of it."
Farrell smiled. "I thought history was your passion. I didn't know you read novels."
Carstairs hesitated. "There's one thing I guess you'd better know before you go charging off on this quixotic mission of yours, a word of warning, so to speak."
"Yes?"
"Until a few years ago Dib Assen not only wrote his novels, he did some work for us."
Farrell's jaw dropped. "I don't believe it."
"Try. I'm certain your friend Antun Mahmoud doesn't know, but it may—just may—have been learned in Baghdad. It could possibly be why he was imprisoned this time—he's been arrested before—but this time not released, they had time to make him talk, didn't they?"
Farrell winc
ed. "And you're trying to say . . ."
Carstairs nodded. "I'm trying to say that his novel may not be entirely a novel. If so—and there are many ifs here, Farrell—there could be others interested in it if Assen was forced to talk before he died, or if somehow it became known that a man is smuggling some of his papers out of Iraq. Still want to hazard your mission?"
Farrell said flatly, "I owe Dib Assen, I've told you that, but whether I should take the Duchess—"
Carstairs said dryly, "You'll need her more than ever, I'd say. Who on earth would suspect her! She can also keep an eye on you. . . . Now go and see if Bishop's reached her on the phone—and good luck to you."
When the phone rang Mrs. Pollifax was seated at her desk writing a letter, a lost art form that she still cherished and which was certainly practical in this case, when the letter was addressed to an old friend in Europe named Robin Burke-Jones and she had so much to say, the mail that she received from exotic out-of-the-way places of the earth mystified the postman, and it would have shocked him to learn that when she'd first met Robin he was a jewel thief, and that his talents were now devoted to Interpol. Mrs. Pollifax, with her prize-winning geraniums, her lectures at the Garden Club, her marriage to Cyrus—a retired judge—was the last person to be suspected of consorting with thieves, spies, and murderers.
Which, of course, was why she had proven of considerable value to Carstairs of the CIA.
She was just addressing the envelope when the phone rang, and picking up the receiver, she was astonished to hear Farrell's voice. "Duchess," he said, "I need you. I'm calling from Carstairs's office, and he says I can borrow you if you're free to fly to Jordan tomorrow night."
"T-tomorrow night?" she stammered. "Jordan? The Jordan that's in the Middle East?"
"I know it's sudden," he said, "but if you're free to go with me tomorrow, I can be with you this afternoon and explain why—if you'll just say you're free for about five or six days."
She said doubtfully, "I'm free, yes, but what—"
"Good. Brew some coffee for me, I'm flying back to New York where I'll rent a car and arrive about two o'clock."
He hung up, leaving her dazed, curious, interested, and then oddly excited. Jordan .., the Middle East? What did she know about the country except that it was surrounded by Israel, Syria, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia, where all sorts of dramatic events appeared to happen? A lunch, however, remained a necessity, and leaving her envelope unstamped she proceeded to postpone looking at maps and made sandwiches.
She had accomplished a great deal when Farrell drove up to the house and climbed out of a shiny red car. Still the same ex-CIA adventurer, she thought, regarding him with affection as he bounded up the steps toward her: a little too handsome for his own good, his tanned face a shade more hardened since that first meeting some years ago, when—on her first assignment from Carstairs and fresh from her Garden Club—she had been appalled to find herself tied back to back with such a man in a dim shack in Mexico.
"Come in and talk," she told him, giving him a hug. "Although why you need me—"
"As cover," he told her, with the flash of a smile. "You're not insulted that it's nothing more dangerous? My intuition tells me it's a damn good idea, but ‘ don't know why."
"Then you're turning into a Carstairs, it must be contagious," she said. "He seems to operate most of the time on intuition. But why the Middle East? And if you're still not with the CIA—"
"No, but I needed some information from Carstairs, and I still feel obligated to clear it with him when I want to borrow you, he sends greetings."
"But your art gallery in Mexico City?"
He made a face. "Since the peso plummeted I've placed it on hold, and my going to Jordan has nothing to do with the CIA, it's a debt of honor to an old, very good friend."
'Tell me," she said, bringing him coffee and a tuna fish sandwich.
He was silent a moment, and then, "Okay, it's like this, Duchess. I have a friend—had a friend," he amended. "He came to the United States some years ago to lecture on the Middle East at Columbia, he was a scholar, gifted and intelligent, and an Iraqi. In those days Saddam Hussein had only begun rearranging the country and seemed of little importance. My friend lectured on Islam and the Arab world, its literature, drama, culture, art, and its escape from the Colonial powers."
"And you met him in New York."
Farrell nodded. "We became friends, good friends.
I'd done some intelligence work in the Middle East, I was quite frank about that, he returned to Iraq to continue writing the books he wanted to write." He hesitated, and then, "Only two of his books have been published in this country, angry ones. Have you heard of the author Dib Assen?"
Mrs. Pollifax frowned. "Dib Assen ... I don't think—" She gave a start. "No, wait, I did read a book, Plague of Demons, a devastating satire on life under a nameless dictator, and it was written by an Iraqi. Quite unforgettable. Could that have been Dib Assen?"
Farrell nodded. "That was Dib Assen, yes. His second novel published in English was titled Instruments of Torture, supposedly about a love affair but actually a dangerous piece of political work."
"Go on ..."
"We corresponded. I'd written him of my worries for him after he was first arrested and released, he said he wrote what he must, and he continued, much of his later work being circulated underground in manuscript form. By then I had promised—pledged to him—that if ever he needed help, he could depend on me."
Mrs. Pollifax nodded. "And now he needs help."
"No, unfortunately, because he's dead," Farrell told her bluntly. "The London papers carried the most extensive obituary; his death was reported as a heart attack, and they uncovered the fact that he died in their vilest prison, the Ba'thi Iraq. Do you believe he died of a heart attack?"
"No, poor soul," she said. "Not if he continued writing books like Plague of Demons."
"He never stopped," said Farrell, "and now there is one last manuscript, apparently hidden away just before his arrest, a friend of his in Baghdad was given my name long ago, and he promised to deliver the manuscript to me, trusting no one else. This courageous friend of his is named Ibrahim. No last name, and for me this is a responsibility, Duchess, a grave and important one, a debt of honor. I can't fail him."
"But—how on earth were you contacted?" she asked. "How did you hear of and from this Ibrahim?"
Farrell grinned. "You'll have to meet the people arranging this trip and pass their inspection, Duchess, there are Iraqi exiles in Manhattan who somehow, through mysterious channels, pick up bits and pieces of news and publish a newsletter, and it was through them that I heard of this Ibrahim, they don't relish at all my insistence that you accompany me, the plane leaves tomorrow at nine p.m., and we have an appointment to meet them earlier. To collect tickets, added information, and for them to check you out, so to speak."
"Of course I'll go," murmured Mrs. Pollifax. "I'm not sure how to reach Cyrus by phone; I'll have to leave a message at his motel. Six days, you think? What will I need to bring?"
"Only yourself, looking as innocent and touristy as possible, and your passport—if you'll give it to me now, I'll stop at the Jordanian Consulate in New York and have it visa-stamped; you'll need that for entry."
Recovering her passport from a desk drawer she handed it to him, and he opened it and grinned. "Emily Reed-Pollifax . ., we still assume some responsibility for this marriage, you know, after all, if we'd not sent you off to Zambia—just think!—you might never have met your dashing Cyrus Reed."
"That," said Mrs. Pollifax with a twinkle, "is why I still send you a fruitcake every Christmas."
Farrell laughed. Tucking away her passport he hesitated and then added apologetically, "There's one other matter.... It's unfortunate, but where I'm taking you tomorrow evening for inspection you'll need to go in a suitable disguise."
"Disguise!" she exclaimed. "Are you serious? In New York City? Good heavens, why?"
"To protect them, not
us, Duchess," he said. "There are political assassinations even in New York: someone pushed in front of a subway train, hit by a car, or shot in an alley with all ID removed, they're frequently watched."
She said in horror, "By the CIA?"
He shook his head.
"The FBI?"
He said gently, "No, Duchess, by them."
She wanted to say, But this is America, Farrell, but caught herself in time, realizing that America was no longer immune to terrorism and bombs.
With a glance at his wristwatch Farrell put down his cup of coffee and rose. "I'll meet you tomorrow at Grand Central station," he said quietly. "By the information booth at four-thirty p.m, the plane leaves at nine." Leaning over he kissed her cheek. "Thanks, Duchess, and remember me to Cyrus."
Before she could ask any more questions, he had picked up his briefcase and was at the door. "Remember, four-thirty p.m, tomorrow," he said, the door opened and closed behind him, and he was gone, leaving her to meditate upon a world gone mad and a mysterious Iraqi exile whom she was to meet tomorrow.
But this was today, she must at once devise a message for Cyrus that wouldn't worry him, and dare she mention Jordan, when he had always longed to see its ancient city of Petra? She must pack clothes and call Mr. Lupacik about looking after the house while it was empty. .., she sighed, and then realized that at last she could wear—and at this thought she brightened—her daring new hat with its garden of pink and yellow roses.
CHAPTER 2
The sign over the shop read wilkins refining company, inc., a shabby sign on a shabby Manhattan street. On the window below, a second sign in gilt letters promised HIGHEST PRICES PAID FOR GOLD AND SILVER.
The bag lady, pushing a wire grocery cart full of plastic bags and empty cola cans, glanced up at the sign and hesitated; the man following her at a distance quickened his step, reached her side, opened the door to the refining shop, and held it wide, the man, the cart, and the woman disappeared, swallowed up by the dark interior; the door closed behind them, leaving the street empty.
Once inside the dark shop Mrs. Pollifax relaxed her grip on the cart and said crossly, "I can't help but worry about lice, Farrell. This is the most embarrassing disguise I've ever worn, I feel I should apologize to every genuine bag lady in the city."
Mrs. Pollifax Innocent Tourist Page 1