"Hanan," Joseph said firmly, "if you have finished eating, we must go. You have school tomorrow, and our new friends have much else to do."
Unfortunately, thought Mrs. Pollifax, too much to think about as well.
Hanan at once rose from her chair. "Ashkurak, " she told them. "Thank you." And, shyly, "I like you very, very much, you will come and see my camel?"
"If we can," Farrell told her.
"We'll certainly try," promised Mrs. Pollifax.
"It has been a privilege," Joseph said, beaming at them, and politely bowed. "We thank you. Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock we meet again?"
They assured him they would be ready at eight o'clock, but as they lingered over their coffee, neither of them spoke; Mrs. Pollifax guessed that Farrell, too, was wondering what might have happened by tomorrow at this hour.
CHAPTER 6
Bishop arrived at work that Wednesday morning to find Carstairs visibly upset and swearing softly under his breath. Seeing Bishop in the doorway he growled, "You might as well come in and let me vent my spleen on you."
Bishop closed the door behind him, sat down next to Carstairs's desk, and said cheerfully, "Be my guest. What's happened now!"
"What's happened now," said Carstairs testily, "is that I've just had a call from John Stover at the FBI, and—as you may have noticed—I'm furious. Possibly he is, too, but he's better mannered."
"So what's happened?" asked Bishop patiently.
"They learned yesterday—from an informer, mind you!—that Suhair Slaman managed somehow to slip through passport control and customs and spend three days in the United States, a terrorist like Slaman could have blown up who knows what in three days!"
Bishop winced. "How on earth did that happen? He's on every list, and his photograph is posted at all the airports."
Carstairs said bitterly, "He came without his usual beard, as well as under another name, and obviously with an exquisitely forged passport."
"They've learned that much already?"
Carstairs nodded. "The FBI's had their sketch artist draw Slaman sans his beard, and the print is being circulated—too late, of course, damn it, they believe he flew out of Kennedy on the eighth."
"Two days ago," murmured Bishop. "Bound for where, and on what airline?"
"No idea yet, but they've found a security guard at Kennedy who recalls the face; he studies passengers who come through security pretty thoroughly, he thinks it was the eighth."
"But no idea what name he traveled under?"
Carstairs sighed. "No, but they're combing the passenger lists of the airlines, beginning with the Middle East flights, and showing the new sketch to all the stewardesses. Unfortunately, like birds on the wing, they have to wait for said flight attendants to come back on their return flights, so it's going to take some time. My own instinct is to begin looking for what mayhem he left behind him. Obviously something discreet, or we'd have read of it in the headlines."
"He may have been simply a courier," pointed out Bishop. "Delivering or collecting money."
Carstairs didn't bother to comment on this; any man with Slaman's penchant for murder would never tolerate being reduced to the status of courier, he said instead, "It had to be of some importance, whatever brought him here, there are extremists who rigidly live by the book and remain harmless, there are angry extremists who join groups and who simply protest, parade, and heckle, and then there are the Suhair Slamans, so full of hate they have to kill at the first signs of stability anywhere. Destroy, murder, undermine, upset.., and clever, damn them."
"Didn't he use to live in Jordan?"
"Yes, but he'd never dare to set foot there again." He was silent a moment, and then he nodded. "If Suhair Slaman was in the country for three days and left on the eighth, then he would have flown into New York on October 4 or 5. I want newspapers, Bishop ... New York, Chicago, Washington, Los Angeles .., covering those three or four days. I doubt they've been microfilmed downstairs yet, so you'll need a cart. Let's see if anything surfaces."
Bishop said doubtfully, "You really think—"
"I don't think anything," Carstairs told him, "but a man like Slaman does not fly to the United States without some sort of mischief in mind. If it was to confer with someone, then we're out of luck. If it was to do what he does best—assassinate—there could be a report in the obituary columns, or in the news, however small."
"It's a long shot."
Carstairs said wryly, "Isn't everything?"
Bishop grinned and left, not too inspired by the thought of checking out four or five big-city newspapers when there were more important jobs waiting for him on his desk. When he returned he was even less sanguine because the time period included Sunday editions, triple in size.
Carstairs, however, was prepared to work with him, ignoring his own pressing work too, which surprised Bishop, but there was no reining in Carstairs when his curiosity was aroused. Tangents, thought Bishop, forever going off on tangents.
They set to work, beginning at the back of each newspaper, giving special attention to reports of any violence, as well as current obituaries. It was the October 8 Washington Post that brought an "Ah ..." from Carstairs.
It was no more than eight lines of print under a modest heading of mugging ends in death. It had occurred in Washington on Massachusetts Avenue at eleven p.m., and it sounded like the typical robbery that had led to the victim resisting, and paying for this with his life, there had been no witnesses; cause of death was a knife slash to the throat, the report ended with the news that the man had been identified as Brahim Zayyad, who worked at the Jordanian embassy.
Carstairs read it again and frowned. "Interesting," he murmured.
"Do we stop work?"
"It's interesting, but we continue." Nevertheless Carstairs reached for a pair of scissors and neatly clipped the item out of the paper. "Let's see how many more news clippings we can add to this one."
But in the end there were no others, and Carstairs picked up the phone and put in a call to Detective-Lieutenant Gavin of the District of Columbia police.
"Carstairs here," he told him, when the connection was made. "I'm rather curious about the so-called mugging and death of a Jordanian embassy worker on the seventh."
Gavin's hesitation was interesting. "They've asked for as little publicity as possible," he said. "The deceased didn't work at the embassy, you see, he was a visitor. Member of the military—a colonel, actually— sent over to beef up security at the embassy, inspect and strengthen it, he was due to return next week to Jordan."
"I see," said Carstairs. "Any idea what was stolen?"
"They admit only to a missing wallet."
"Think this was political?"
"Could have been," acknowledged Gavin. "It certainly upset them at the embassy, we were asked to treat it as a mugging, and for all we know that may have been what it was, anything in this for us?"
Carstairs sighed. "Wish I could say yes, but for the moment I'm dealing only in hunches. Thanks, Gavin."
When he'd hung up Bishop said, "Do we give this hunch of yours to the FBI?"
Carstairs smiled. "You know what they think about my hunches.... Let's sit on it and see if they learn anything more about Suhair Slaman."
"You mean if Stover deigns to share it with us," said Bishop. "He doesn't have to."
Carstairs was optimistic. "He worked with us on the Bidwell case, and we handed that one to him, he owes us."
It was late afternoon when they heard from Stover again. "Thought you'd like to know," he told them. "A Roberta Murshid, flight attendant on Royal Jordanian Airlines, has recognized our man Slaman from the beardless print, he sat in the last row of the plane on October 8—seat 42F—where the last-minute people usually end up. Fortunately he booked the flight himself and not through a travel agency, which simplified matters, the airline was very cooperative: the person occupying seat 42F was listed as a Mr. Nayef; he had a ticket to Amsterdam and would have left the plane there."
/> "Intriguing," said Carstairs. "Now I'll add what occurred to us after your call this morning," and he spoke of their discovery in The Washington Post's October 8 edition.
Stover whistled through his teeth. "Another hunch of yours, Carstairs? He could have settled in Amsterdam for the moment; we'll have to see what we can turn up on a man named Nayef."
Carstairs hung up, looking thoughtful. "Amsterdam," he mused. "One has to wonder .. , for instance, if he was behind the mugging on Massachusetts Avenue, it strongly suggests that he's focusing on Jordan, he has connections in Syria—we know that—and Syria's next door to Jordan, he need only land in Amsterdam, hop on the next plane for Istanbul, and from there catch a direct flight to Damascus."
Bishop nodded. "Trouble?"
"What worries us—most" said Carstairs, frowning, "is too damn many people over there in Jordan who resent King Hussein signing the peace treaty with Israel, he's got powerful enemies in his Islamic opposition party who feel betrayed. It's a difficult time for him." He sighed and shook his head. "This definitely needs reporting at once to our office in Amman. Make a note of it, Bishop, as for us—"
"Yes?"
"As for us, it's time to get back again to today's work. Off with you!"
CHAPTER 7
On their second morning at Karak castle Joseph cheerfully entertained them with stories of his grandfather, who had known the Englishman John Bagot Glubb who formed the Arab Legion that became the first Jordanian army, after this Joseph became very serious, very pedantic, as he visibly changed into his Lecturer role and described Petra, which they would visit in the afternoon. Mrs. Pollifax exchanged glances with Farrell and he winked at her, but he too rearranged his face, acquiring an expression of equal gravity as he listened. "What do you mean, Petra was 'lost'?" he asked.
"For hundreds of years no one knew it was there, no one remembered. Long, long ago it was a very busy caravan stop on the way to Damascus, the Spice Routa that continued through the desert to Damascus and Aleppo. You will see why it was forgotten: a canyon, very deep and surrounded by mountains, hidden away with only one entrance, unless a person climbed one of the mountains and looked down on it. Only the Bedouin knew of it and camped there all those years, until an explorer named Burckhardt discovered it again in 1812."
"Is there still only one entrance?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.
"Oh yes, that is by way of the Siq, which is over a mile long, a narrow passage through the rocks, very winding and in places completely overhung by the walls on either side."
"Quite an adventure, Duchess," said Farrell.
"There was once a flood in the Siq," added Joseph solemnly, "and many people drowned. It is so narrow, you see, and the water swept down from the mountains—very tragic—but now the water is diverted and there is no danger of that."
"Reassuring," said Mrs. Pollifax dryly, she was watching a flock of birds drifting lazily on the wind; Cyrus would know what they were, she thought, and then they flew off to the south, disappearing.
In midmorning Joseph brought out slices of the flat round bread that Jordanians called khobz and a jar of the thick yogurt she so liked, he spread the yogurt across the bread, which he then rolled, tubelike, around the yogurt, and after presenting this to her he made one for Farrell and for himself. Mrs. Pollifax carried hers to the wall and looked down, seeing that three tour buses had arrived; they could soon count on groups of tourists wandering out onto their gallery. If yesterday was a sample, the three of them would be regarded with much curiosity while they listened to the guides speaking in Arabic, German, or English; at seeing them, the polite ones would appear almost apologetic at intruding on their privacy, while several people would want to see what Farrell was sketching, and it would all be quite tiresome.
Unfortunately only one passenger car arrived, a rusty red sedan, and although she and Farrell watched it with great hope, the two men inside did not get out, and after an interval the sedan drove away.
By 12:15 they knew there would be no Ibrahim on this second morning, either, and Mrs. Pollifax saw that Farrell was looking grim, and as they descended the narrow dark stairs and left the castle, he was oppressively silent, his brows drawn together. In silence they drove through the town of Karak, but when they reached the Desert Highway Mrs. Pollifax's attention was diverted by a rusty red sedan that pulled out of a dusty side road and fell in behind them, the same car, she realized, that had parked at the castle and then driven away, and the same dark outline of two men in the front seats, she wondered, with a flare of hope, if one of them could be Ibrahim, perhaps not sure of Farrell yet, or possibly unprepared to find him with a guide and a woman. Yet neither of the occupants of the car had entered the castle, she remembered, so how could they have inspected Farrell or known that he was accompanied by two people? Her glance moved to Joseph, and she saw that he was looking into his rearview mirror; their eyes met, and she understood that he too was noticing the car behind them as they drove south to Petra.
She did not turn to look again, nor did she nudge Farrell, but she remained aware of Joseph's frequent and interested glances into the mirror, she gave her attention instead to the countryside, with its fertile fields of rich brown earth and the many greenhouses lining the road, as well as signs advertising nabil FOOD PRODUCTS, ARAB BANK, KUMHO TIRES, GOODYEAR, and Firestone, and then the road turned upward and stony mountains lay ahead.
They wound their way down the road into Petra to meet with lines of parked tour buses, as well as a post office, a Tourist Police Station, a shop selling film and T-shirts, and a number of tourists mounting horses.
"Horses!" cried Mrs. Pollifax in horror.
Farrell grinned. "Didn't you know? Horses, yes. Or you can walk down the Siq—a long walk—"
"Or there are horse carts," emphasized Joseph.
Horse carts sounded cowardly, but Mrs. Pollifax admitted to feeling unnerved at the prospect of climbing on a horse, she was remembering her experience in Albania on a donkey, and a runaway horse in China from which she'd been thrown, breaking her wrist.
Patiently Joseph explained that each horse was led on a rope by its owner, usually a Bedouin with family nearby.
"Led?" she faltered. "Slowly?"
"Slowly," he said firmly. "Come—I show you. Each horse is numbered. You like this one? This is number 24, and it will be this same horse number 24
that will meet you later down in the canyon, after you have seen Petra, and at whatever hour we choose."
She eyed with suspicion the man waiting stoically beside horse number 24, a black horse with a jolly red saddle blanket, the man looked experienced, if tired, he wore a white headscarf or kaffiyeh, secured by a black woven cord called an aigal, dull gray trousers and jacket, he had a scrawny mustache under a somewhat bulbous nose, a lined but patient dark face.
"And his name?" she asked. "He won't allow the horse to gallop?"
Joseph laughed. "His name is Mohammed, and since Mr. Farrell grows bored with sightseeing I will ask Mohammed to meet us with the number 24 horse down there—" He pointed in the direction of the Siq. "—in one hour. To bring us back here."
Allowing herself to be persuaded, Mrs. Pollifax mounted, the horse seemed extremely broad and very high, and as they moved ahead toward the dark cleft of the Siq she devoted herself entirely to not falling off, which felt only a matter of time because the horse swayed from side to side, with odd small lurches, as she and Mohammed entered the dim passageway Farrell passed her, waving, and then Joseph. High above she could glimpse a slit of blue sky framed by the towering rock walls; ahead the passage narrowed as it slanted downward. Behind her came the sudden clattering of hooves, and two local boys galloped past at high speed. Show-offs, she thought indignantly, as they continued, however, she began to catch the rhythm of the sways and various lurches of the horse and to feel almost swashbuckling, and just as the passage threatened to become claustrophobic, it widened, the slope leveled, and she saw sunshine ahead.
They emerged at last into Pet
ra, the hidden city, and there, on her left, towered the famous treasury building pictured in Farrell's guidebook.
With difficulty Mrs. Pollifax dismounted, politely thanked Mohammed, and was joined by Farrell and Joseph, at once Joseph proceeded to enlarge upon the facts that he'd already given them. . . , the city had been inhabited by Nabataeans, Greeks, Romans .., the camel caravans that had long ago passed through with their cargos of spices had often been plundered by the Nabataeans .., the Queen of Sheba herself had passed this way, and traces of habitation had been found dating back to 10,000 B.C. .. . But what most interested Mrs. Pollifax was the fact that no building in the canyon of Petra was free-standing; all had been carved into the face of the sandstone cliffs, she stared in awe at the height of the El Khazneh, or treasury building, and tried to picture workmen risking their lives a hundred feet above the earth to carve ornamented columns out of solid rock. How many had fallen to their deaths? If it was now a romantic corner of the world to visit, she doubted it was a romantic place to live thousands of years ago: there would have been plunder, wars, virulent diseases, bad plumbing, droughts, and floods. Yet obviously there was this great hunger for beauty: to honor their gods, to honor their ancestors, to assert and honor themselves, and all of this hidden away in the desert, a secret. Mrs. Pollifax enjoyed secrets, having experienced a hidden life of her own after beginning assignments for Carstairs about which—still—so few knew.
If there was an Urn Tomb they did not find it, but there was a sufficiency of tombs. Entire rock faces were pitted with entrances, which, after much climbing up and down, proved to be either burial chambers or caves where the Bedouin had once lived.
But Farrell, only a pseudo-sightseer, grew restless, and her number 24 horse and Mohammed were waiting, except that when they reached the mounting platform and a horse was led up for her, it was not Mohammed leading it but a young man in blue jeans with a red scarf tied around his head.
Mrs. Pollifax Innocent Tourist Page 5