"Thank you, yes, she is the delight of my grandfather and just as fierce and stubborn as he is, she loves the desert and goes there every chance she can. I do not think any man will tame her except someone like my grandfather, for she is just as strong-willed as he, and he says of her—my grandfather—'Wellahi hadha, beduwi!'"
"Meaning?"
He laughed. "It means, 'By my God, this one is a Bedouin!' "
"How unusual," murmured Mrs. Pollifax, and to Farrell, half seated on the wall and sketching, "I think we should invite Joseph and his sister Hanan to dinner at the hotel tonight; I'd like to meet her."
"So she can ask if you've seen a rodeo?" quipped Farrell. "I've been listening and wouldn't mind meeting her myself." He turned toward them with a frown. "But I thought women and children in the Middle East were—well, cloistered. Kept at home, they used to be, didn't they?"
"Oh yes," Joseph agreed, "but the war in 1979 changed much, you see, the men left to fight, and the women were needed in the police and the army. Some are in the police force still, but you will see some women veiled, the fundamentalists are very strict, but we—we are bedu."
Mrs. Pollifax considered this. "It's true that in Amman I've seen only one or two women in veils."
"In the villages you will see women in very heavy veils, called burqa." Joseph sighed. "We are such a small country, with a king who has survived many crises and many assassination attempts, and there are many, many more Palestinians in Jordan now than Jordanians, and sometimes we fear—"
When he hesitated Farrell said, "Fear what, Joseph?"
"I think it is our one big danger as a country," he said quietly. "That the extreme ones may become powerful and force our women to wear the heavy veils again and all of us to become unfree, when we have become quite free here. Of fear." He stopped, as voices were heard from the interior, and a moment later a guide appeared leading a dozen tourists. Rising, he said, "I will bring from the car the food I brought for you," and with a glance at his watch, "If your friend does not come I will show you this afternoon the citadel and the museums."
Mrs. Pollifax nodded. "And you and Hanan will join us for dinner?"
He bowed graciously. "We would be honored."
CHAPTER 4
There was no Ibrahim. Three tour buses came and went, but there was no solitary stranger looking for Farrell, and soon after noon they left, discouraged, they visited the citadel and two museums out of regard for Joseph, who assumed they were as interested as he was, and returned early to the hotel.
"A great deal of patience is going to be needed," Farrell said with a sigh as they shared the elevator to the third floor. "I confess I very much hoped he'd be there."
Mrs. Pollifax said philosophically, "At least we should go home with rather nice tans from so much sun at the castle, and tomorrow afternoon we visit Petra. Do we visit Petra even if Ibrahim comes?"
"We play everything by ear, Duchess. Have to.
Going to nap, or shop, until dinner with Joseph and his sister?"
Mrs. Pollifax laughed. "No . . , finally I shall write Cyrus." Fumbling in her purse for the key to 308, she opened the door as Farrell continued down the hall to room 310, a moment later Mrs. Pollifax gasped, "Farrell!"
He turned. "What is it?"
"My room's been searched!"
"Nonsense," he said, joining her in the doorway. "Why on earth would—" and then, "Good God!"
Together they stared at the contents of her suitcase spilled out on the floor, her carry-on bag turned upside down on the bed and emptied. Farrell said in a dazed voice, "Damn clumsy job!"
"Very rushed job," she agreed.
"But out of all the rooms, why yours, and in a hotel like this one! Who would do this? Is anything missing?"
"Nothing at all," replied Mrs. Pollifax, after a glance at her clothes scattered across the floor.
"There might be some reason for my room being searched," said Farrell, looking baffled. "That is, if someone—heaven forbid—knows why I'm here, but why your room?" Seeing her face, he said, "Duchess, what's the matter?"
She had abruptly sat down on the bed, looking stunned, she said in a shaken voice, "Oh Farrell."
"Oh Farrell, what?" he demanded. "Don't look like that, you scare me, are you sick?"
"Farrell, there is someone—was someone—who knows my name and that I'm in Amman."
"Of course—Cyrus, also Carstairs."
She shook her head. "Neither of them would have asked for a Mrs. Pollifax last evening at the desk downstairs."
He said impatiently, "No, but you said—"
"I know what I said," she told him, "but this—" She gestured toward the spilled contents of her carry-on bag. "It's too ridiculous, and yet—yet I did tell him my name."
"Who?"
"Mr. Nayef."
Farrell sat down beside her on the bed. 'Take a deep breath and enlighten me, will you? Who is Mr. Nayef?"
"He sat next to me on the plane, he talked and talked to me—about Jordan, because he said he was Jordanian—except that he was getting off at Amsterdam, he introduced himself, and I introduced myself."
"And?"
"And he said his firm in Amsterdam makes curios to sell to tourists in Jordan, he wanted me to buy one, even showed me one from his attaché case, a carving of the Urn Tomb at Petra, and told me he'd be happy to sell it to me at a discount, but I firmly said no."
Farrell sighed. "I'm listening but I'm not following any of this."
"That," she said, "is because you haven't seen what I found in my carry-on bag last evening." She shrugged off the knapsack on her back, unzipped it, lifted out her box of writing paper, and handed him the plaque. "He must have slipped it into the bag while I was in the lavatory. When I unpacked yesterday I nearly threw it away. This is what he wanted to sell me. ... I thought it was a gift."
"Hmmm," murmured Farrell. "Did he think you were traveling alone?"
She thought back to that conversation on the plane; it seemed a very long time ago. "He asked me if I was traveling with the tour that was making so much noise, do you remember them? I said no...." She frowned. "Yes, and then he asked if I had friends in Jordan, and when I said no he said something about how brave we American women are, and how free."
"Innocent Tourist traveling alone . . . Good God, Duchess, what did you get yourself into? All very well to think it a gift, but it sounds more likely he planted something on you, the oldest trick in the book."
"But what? And how?" she asked. "Drugs? Diamonds? It's just a plaque, it's only seven inches long, and how can anything—"
Scowling, Farrell interrupted her. "Let's first get everything straight, Duchess, he talked for an hour or two, you had dinner side by side, and then you went off to the lavatory, leaving your carry-on bag behind?"
She nodded. "Yes, after taking out the smaller bag that held only what I'd need for the night. Toothpaste, cold cream, washcloth, toothbrush .. ."
"You were gone long enough for him to do this?"
She said ruefully, "It wouldn't have taken more than a minute, he need only have leaned over and down, unzipped my bag and quickly shoved the plaque to the bottom, zipped it up again, and put on his earphones to hear the movie." She added bitterly, "And he got off the plane at Amsterdam."
"Yes," pointed out Farrell, "giving him plenty of time—hours!—to fax or telephone to Amman, giving someone your description and your name, after which that 'someone' tried every three- and four-star hotel in the city to learn where you were staying."
She said dryly, "Whoever they are, they must be surprised to discover that I'm not traveling alone after all."
Farrell nodded. "Which—unfortunately—brings me into the picture, too. Let's look at this, Duchess, I mean really look at it."
She handed him the plaque, and he carried it to the window. "Rather nice carving," he said, "but somehow it looks cheap as hell."
She nodded. "Because it's mounted on that cheap unvarnished plywood."
"The plywood,
yes .., which I'd guess to be at least three-quarters of an inch thick." Holding it closer to the light, "Now this is suspicious, Duchess, come and see, there's a thin line, barely visible, but I do believe we have two rectangles of plywood glued together."
She said tartly, "Then it's high time we learn what I smuggled through customs into Jordan. Have you a penknife, or do we bash this against the wall and split it open?"
"I've a penknife on my key chain," he told her. Reaching into his pocket, he brought it out and carefully inserted the tip into the line on the wood at one end, then at the other, and finally attacked the center. "Glued only around the edges," he said, and as he pried apart the two layers, they stared at what lay inside. "At least not diamonds or drugs," he said.
The center had been hollowed out just enough to conceal a key wrapped in tissuelike paper. Handing Mrs. Pollifax the key he held the paper to the light, and they both examined it.
"Arabic," she pointed out. "The words, at least, the lines form a diagram, or is it a map?"
"It's certainly no grocery list, Duchess, but heaven only knows what it is."
"Heaven and Mr. Nayef, who obviously wants it back," lamented Mrs. Pollifax, and added with a sigh, "I should have traveled in those bag lady clothes, he'd never have dared to play such a trick on me." She thought about this, frowning. "Does it occur to you, Farrell, that customs would never have found this plaque suspicious? I'm thinking it had to be Mr. Nayef himself who didn't dare go through customs."
"Persona non grata, you mean?" Farrell made a face. "So what do we do with this diagram and key? We sure as hell don't need complications on this trip, Duchess."
With an ironic smile, she said, "I think we already have complications, Farrell. If this is why my room was searched, it's only by the purest coincidence that I tucked the box of writing paper and the plaque into my knapsack this morning. Do you think they'll give up finding it now?"
"I wouldn't bet on it," he said dryly. "I just wish we could get the Arabic words on this diagram translated so we know what the devil we've got on our hands."
"Ask Joseph?"
Farrell gave her a reproachful glance. "When we know nothing of him, or he of us? Unfortunately the logical thing to do would be to turn it all over to the police, but I have the strange feeling we'd never get to Karak castle on time tomorrow—we'd have to go through channels ad nauseam—and my top priority is Ibrahim, remember?"
"You're right, of course," agreed Mrs. Pollifax, with a sigh. "In the meantime, I'm wearing Cyrus's money belt, so why don't I tuck the key and diagram in with my traveler's checks?"
Farrell nodded. "Good idea, at least for the moment."
"So what is our plan of action now?"
"What we do first," said Farrell sternly, "is trade rooms. If they managed to get into this room once, they can do it again, and I insist you move into 310; number 308 is no longer impregnable."
"Farrell," she began in protest.
"I insist," he said. "Pack up your suitcase, I'll bring your knapsack and carry-on. Joseph and his sister must be waiting for us in the lobby by now, and we don't want to keep them waiting."
Reluctantly, Mrs. Pollifax crammed her clothes into her suitcase and carried it next door to room 310. Farrell, behind her, gathered up his own gear; they exchanged keys, and after leaving Farrell's suitcase in 308 they headed for the elevator, the dissected Urn Tomb under the pillow in room 308, and the mysterious key and diagram secure in the money belt Mrs. Pollifax wore around her waist.
CHAPTER 5
Already Mrs. Pollifax had begun to regret so rashly inviting Joseph and his sister Hanan to join them for dinner, the events of the past hour had been unsettling; she would have liked to find the manager of the hotel and complain indignantly about her room being entered, but since nothing had been stolen it would only make her conspicuous, she was furious at Mr. Nayef, too, who had flagrantly used her, so that she could foresee becoming a burden to Farrell, who had enlisted her only as his "cover," as he put it, and certainly without expecting the intrusion of a Mr. Nayef.
Her spirits lifted, however, when she saw Joseph and his sister waiting for them in the lobby, her spirits had a long way to rise, but it was a relief to see a new distraction far more pleasant than a burglary, and this was Hanan.
Joseph's sister Hanan, age eleven, stood very straight and small beside him, and not at all self-conscious among the well-dressed tourists, she wore a traditional long and shapeless brown dress, quite drab, enlivened by a huge white chiffon kerchief draped around her shoulders, but instead of the usual sandals—and Mrs. Pollifax did a double take at this—she wore a magnificent pair of white cowboy boots emblazoned with red stars, her hair was cut short, with tight black curls like a cap framing a childish round face. Bright dark eyes searched the faces of everyone who emerged from the elevator, and when her brother pointed out Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell, she smiled eagerly, her teeth very white against her tan skin. Mrs. Pollifax found herself scrutinized with a keenness that she did not expect from an eleven-year-old child, but later she would learn that Hanan judged camels with just that intense and careful scrutiny.
"This is Hanan," said Joseph unnecessarily.
"How do you do, please," Hanan said gravely, shaking hands with each of them, and then, confidingly, "Did you know they sell maps in the shop here?" She held up two. "Of Amman and of Jordan—and the desert."
Farrell said, "You don't have maps in school?"
"Oh yes, but nobody can take school maps home, these are mine" she emphasized, hugging them with ardor.
"I'm wondering how you learned such excellent English," said Farrell.
Hanan beamed at him. "My grandfather learned it when the English were here—with Pasha Glubb—and my father and mother speak it—Youseff best of all— and we began studying it in fifth grade last year."
"Amazing," commented Mrs. Pollifax. "But let's continue this in the dining room, I hope you're as hungry as I am."
They proceeded to the dining hall, where Hanan's eyes widened as they passed the long line of buffet tables, with their silver tureens and exquisitely arranged platters of food. "Hilweh!" she murmured. "So beautiful."
It proved a very interesting dining hour. Even before the waiter arrived to inquire if they wished bottled water, Hanan's maps were spread out across the tablecloth and the cutlery, nearly upsetting a vase of flowers. Farrell found himself explaining longitude and latitude, and Hanan was enchanted to learn that, in southwest Asia, Jordan was located at 29°11'-33°22' north and 34°59'-39°’8' east—she liked numbers, she insisted on pinpointing precisely where her grandfather was camped during this month of tishreen al-awal—October—and wanted them to know that she possessed a camel of her own that was pure white.
"In Amman?" teased Farrell.
"In Amman?" She eyed him appraisingly. "My camel is with my grandfather in the desert." To Mrs. Pollifax, she added eagerly, "Please, I would like you to see my camel. Of course I wish for a horse, but not yet, my grandfather says."
"You're wearing cowboy boots," Mrs. Pollifax reminded her.
She nodded. "My grandfather had them made for me in the souk. For me" she emphasized.
"Yes," agreed Mrs. Pollifax. "That's very important, isn't it, that they're yours."
It was established that neither Farrell nor Mrs. Pollifax had personally visited a rodeo, but this was forgiven by their young guest. Once the maps were folded up, they moved on to the buffet tables to choose from the lavish display of foods. Mrs. Pollifax, returning to their table with Joseph, said, "What will happen to Hanan, to such an independent child, Joseph? She's very unusual. I had thought that girls in your society were never allowed to be alone with a man, for instance, yet—"
"But she is not alone, I am her brother," he said, and then, with a sigh, "She came late to our family, you know. I am twelve years older, for instance, and she has had much more attention and free-ness. Yet I do not think she will grow up to teach, like my sister, or work in an office. I think she m
ay probably marry her cousin Qasim; she amuses him, and Hanan admires his horses, he is sixteen and soon, I think, he may join the badiya, the Desert Patrol, because just like Hanan he says the city suffocates him, he needs the space of the desert and the sky."
"I would like to see that desert," she said. "Is it sand and dunes?"
Joseph laughed. "In places, yes, but in the deep desert, the Suwwan, it is all—what is your English word, flint stone? No, never much sand. Stones, gravel. . ."
"And space and sky," she said, nodding.
"Yes."
Hanan returned with Farrell, her plate full of desserts: pastries, cakes with candied frosting, and two cherry tarts with whipped cream; she ate contentedly while Farrell and Joseph planned their next day's ventures, beginning, of course, at Karak castle.
"But if you remain long at the castle," pointed out Joseph, "you will not have much time to see Petra. Which is special, you know, and important that you see. Unless you stay overnight near Petra? There is a good hotel, the Yaybat Zaman Hotel, at Wadi Musa."
"But it depends," interrupted Mrs. Pollifax. "If we meet Ibrahim tomorrow? If he comes?"
Farrell nodded.
"Perhaps he would like to see Petra, too," suggested Joseph politely. "I would charge no more for three people."
They exchanged glances but said nothing, and there was silence until Hanan said, "If you drive south tomorrow, Youseff, you could leave me at al Qâtrâna."
"This is only Monday. School tomorrow," Joseph told her sternly. "Friday is no school, maybe Friday."
"But Youseff, you know Awad Ibn Jazi has promised—" She finished in Arabic, but Joseph was adamant. "School, " he repeated.
"And who is Awad?" asked Farrell, smiling.
"He was once a police officer in the Desert Patrol, the badiya" explained Joseph.
Hanan nodded. "And he has promised to show me an old, old fort in the desert, half buried now, that only the badiya know about, awad knows everything— how the smugglers come in from the border and where the hawks nest, he is older even than my grandfather—but he has no camels," she added regretfully.
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