Mrs. Pollifax Innocent Tourist

by Dorothy Gilman

  "But where's Mohammed?" she asked. "This can't be number 24!"

  Joseph laughed. "Never mind, it's your horse, see? Number 24 definitely—all bedu have relatives!"

  It was easy, mounting from a platform. Farrell and Joseph mounted behind her and rode ahead while she plodded along at a sedate pace, more confident now about riding as they entered the Siq and began the slow climb upward out of the canyon.

  They had reached a point where the passage narrowed when the young man leading her horse stopped, the horse stopped, too, and Mrs. Pollifax, hoping he understood English, asked, "What is it?"

  He turned and looked up at her, smiling. Dropping the lead rope he pointed, still smiling, and feeling rather cross, she said again, "What is it?"

  He brought out a knife and, walking to her side without a word, reached up to her knapsack and prepared to calmly cut it free from her shoulders.

  She stared down at him in astonishment, and then, "Stop that!" she cried angrily. Freeing a foot from its stirrup she kicked him; at once he dropped his knife and seizing her foot pulled her off the horse, she landed on her knees, with no regard for her as a human being he picked up his knife and resumed slicing away at the thick strap of her knapsack, his attention completely concentrated on removing it.

  She stumbled to her feet, the Siq was empty of people: there was no clatter of hooves and no voices. Erect at last, Mrs. Pollifax braced herself, managed to step an inch or two away from him, and furiously delivered a quick and incisive karate chop to the young man's jaw, with a gasp he sank to the earth.

  Mrs. Pollifax slung the knapsack over her arm, one strap dangling, and was now faced with the urgent problem of climbing back on the horse, she placed one foot in a stirrup, jumped, wrestled her way across the back of the horse, found the reins, and nudged the creature with her knees, he began walking, then broke into a gallop, and Mrs. Pollifax, badly placed and insecure, lost the reins, fell forward with both arms around the horse's neck, and in this manner raced out of the Siq, rather like a cork out of a bottle.

  Farrell, waiting for her, said, "What on earth!" His eyes narrowed as he saw her flushed face and the knapsack hanging from her arm by one strap, helping her off the horse, he said, "Duchess, what—?"

  "Where's Joseph?"

  "Walking toward us right now."

  "Someone must have been bribed," she gasped.

  "Farrell, he had a knife, a knife, and he wanted my knapsack."

  Farrell's lips tightened. "The one item not in your hotel room when it was searched. Where is he now?"

  "Still back in the Siq, probably regaining consciousness. Farrell—"

  "No police," he said flatly. "Let's go. Go fast," and to Joseph, "We'd like to leave now, Joseph. Mrs. Pollifax’s horse ran away with her and she's upset."

  "Yes, of course," Joseph said, looking at her curiously, and they walked toward the car, Mrs. Pollifax limping a little from her fall, she climbed into the taxi with Farrell beside her and with the knapsack on her lap, and Joseph started the car.

  As they left Petra behind them a dull red sedan appeared again, with only one man in it now, and devotedly followed them—at a distance—all the way back to Amman.

  It was late when Joseph left them at the hotel, and while Farrell headed for the dining room, promising to keep it open for her, Mrs. Pollifax hurried upstairs to change into clean slacks and to rinse the dirt from the knees of those she'd worn at Petra.

  When she entered the dining room fifteen minutes later she was surprised to see that Farrell was not alone, with him at his table was a man in a black silk suit, with dark hair and a mustache flecked with gray, talking eloquently with a flutter of hands to make a point, as she approached, Farrell rose; his companion looked startled, turned, and gave Mrs. Pollifax a glance that she interpreted as unwelcoming, or at least annoyed.

  "My traveling companion," Farrell said, alluding to Mrs. Pollifax but not giving her name. "A second American for you to meet—before you return to your table."

  A not-so-subtle hint, thought Mrs. Pollifax, wondering how long the man had been there, and she sat down in the third chair. Farrell had already visited the buffet and his plate was heaped with food: stuffed grape leaves, chicken, eggplant, and hummus, he said, "This is Mr.—"

  "Names are so unimportant," the man said, with a smile.

  "He has been instructing me," said Farrell, "in Islamic literature."

  "How kind of you," responded Mrs. Pollifax.

  The man nodded. "Yes, novels are fairly new to us Arabs, but we have some very fine novelists now, the women authors—" He shrugged. "—tend to write tragedies and whine about oppression, but we also have fine writers who propose an Islamic political system and ideology, such as in Egypt—" He named two authors.

  "Rejecting the modern," said Farrell, nodding gravely.

  "Rejecting all Western influences," he said, correcting him. "Quite unlike old-fashioned, European-tainted writers, such as—perhaps you are familiar with the work of Dib Assen?"

  Mrs. Pollifax gave Farrell a quick glance, thinking this a somewhat strange coincidence.

  Farrell repeated the name doubtfully. "I may have read something of his published in English, the name is vaguely familiar, he's an Iraqi, isn't he?" To Mrs.

  Pollifax he said, "But you've not visited the buffet yet!" Rising he added, "I'll go with you, ‘ want to look over the desserts," and to the stranger, "Nice to have talked with you, I wish you a pleasant evening."

  The man was being dismissed, he looked angry for a moment, and then smiled charmingly and rose. "I will leave you to your dinner. You two are related?"

  "Cousins," said Mrs. Pollifax firmly, and as they approached the buffet, "And where did he come from? I thought it interesting, his mentioning Dib Assen."

  "Too interesting," Farrell said. "He's watching us, by the way, he's with two other men; I can't tell whether they're watching us, too. I recommend the stuffed grape leaves, by the way." He looked troubled, and she hastily selected her entrée, while he chose a cake, and they returned to their table in the corner.

  Farrell, as if aware of being watched, pasted a smile on his lips, but his voice was grim. "He simply came over and very cordially asked if I was American and if I was enjoying my visit here, and he sat down, he also managed to ask tactfully—one might say artfully— what brought me here. But his eyes didn't smile."

  "Yours aren't smiling now," she pointed out.

  "No, he hoped I had an excellent guide who was also able to tell me of the rich Islamic culture, above all Arabic literature, and if you don't mind skipping dessert I think we need to talk, there's something I'd better tell you—and tell myself, too."

  This was mysterious. "Let's go now," she said, and recklessly slipped her stuffed grape leaves into her napkin, and then into her purse. "I'll finish my dinner upstairs."

  They rose silently in the elevator and entered her room. "All right, what is it?" she asked.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Something Carstairs told me when I visited him and that I took very lightly, he was so bloody casual about it—it came out just as I was leaving his office, like a throw-away line, he said that others might be after Dib Assen's manuscript, too."

  "Others? Why?"

  "Because it might not be just a novel. Because, damn it, Carstairs said that Dib Assen had done some work for him. For Carstairs . . . For the CIA."

  She, too, sat down on the bed and stared at him. "Good heavens, Farrell, why didn't you tell me this before?"

  "Because I didn't believe it—or didn't want to," he said bitterly, "and may I be damned for that, too."

  "But—why?" she faltered. "Why wouldn't you believe Carstairs?"

  He said savagely, "Pure vanity. Dib Assen knew that I worked for Carstairs—we were that close, he'd known about me for years, yet he never confided in me, never told me he knew Carstairs. Obviously he never trusted me enough, and that hurt."

  She looked at his contorted face and said gently, "But Farrell, you
didn't live in Iraq."

  "I know." His face was in his hands. "I know, I know, at least what this chap in the dining room has done for me .., he's reminded me of what Carstairs told me, and what I tuned out, he's put me on alert. But it doesn't explain him or the attack on you at Petra."

  "Or the dark red sedan following us," she pointed out.

  "No," he said, lifting his head, "but for pete's sake let's tomorrow take that key and plaque to the police, turn it over to them, and let them worry about it."

  "Agreed," she told him, and smiled. "Farrell, you're tired. I recommend a very hot shower, a room-service snack, and a good night's sleep because we leave for Karak castle again in the morning."

  He sighed. "Yes, for the third time, damn it, and still no Ibrahim."

  At this same hour, in a different section of the city, Joseph was saying to his brother in a troubled voice, "I need your advice, Mifleh."

  They sat on the balcony of the Jidoor house, the street below them dark except for a dim light still shining in the fruit stall across the way; the remaining stores were closed and padlocked behind shutters of steel. It was quiet except for a murmur of voices from downstairs: their mother, father, sister, and the television news.

  "Shu hada?" asked his brother.

  Joseph scarcely knew how to begin: Mrs. Pollifax and Mr. Farrell were Americans and very kind, as well as interested in him as a person, he and Hanan had shared a wonderful dinner with them at the hotel, and he was sure that both were good and respectable people, but he had his reputation and his future to consider, and he was quite aware that for the past day the same rusty-looking red car seemed always behind them at a distance; he could see this from his rearview mirror, as well as the shape of the two men inside. Joseph was ambitious, his dream was to one day own a proper tour bus, with brochures to place in hotel lobbies and distribute among travel agents, all of them advertising Jidoor Tours. Mrs. Pollifax and Mr. Farrell would leave Jordan in a few days, but this was his country, and his home, and if there was trouble what would happen to him?

  After a glance at his face, Mifleh rose, left, and returned with two warm beers .., imported Amstel beers, too, these his brother could afford because he was in the Public Security Force; he'd had a year of military training and had then attended the Royal Police Academy in Amman. Now he was in the Department of Criminal Investigation, still new and unseasoned but definitely a member of the metropolitan police.

  "I hear you have two rich customers this week," Mifleh said.

  Joseph said bluntly, "We are being followed, Mifleh. Today, by the same car."

  His brother's eyes narrowed. "Followed? You are sure? A police car?"

  "They're usually white, aren't they? That's what I want to know—do the police ever drive a rusty dark red sedan?"

  Mifleh shook his head. "Not likely, Youseff, unless it's undercover police. But this is strange, I agree. Did you take note of the license number?"

  Joseph shook his head. "Too far behind us— always."

  "Do your two customers know they're being followed?"

  Joseph considered this. "I don't know, Mifleh. Once in a while Mrs. Pollifax turns to look behind us—I see this—but it is usually when I have pointed out a mountain or a mosque to see. But there is something more, Mifleh. . . , we visited Petra today. You know how the horses are always led down into the Siq and back later. On our return I rode ahead with Mr. Farrell, we waited at the top, at the visitors bureau, and Mifleh—suddenly her horse galloped out of the Siq—galloped, with her hanging around his neck—and she was alone, no man leading the horse, her face very flushed and hair untidy, she and Mr. Farrell spoke together quickly when she dismounted, and then Mr. Farrell said sharply, 'Let's go, Joseph.' "

  "And you left?"

  Joseph nodded. "But there was one other thing I noticed as we got into my car, she had worn a small knapsack on her back—it is popular these days, you know. Now she was carrying the knapsack, and one of the straps had been cut. It looked like a knife had sliced it away."

  Mifleh whistled softly through his teeth.

  "And the dull red car followed us back to Amman, but with only one man in it, not two."

  "I am glad you told me this," Mifleh said. "I understand none of this, but it is strange, I agree. ‘ hear that Hanan had dinner at the hotel with this woman and liked her?"

  Joseph nodded.

  "Because of the dinner at the hotel?"

  Joseph shook his head. "Oh no, really liked her, Mifleh. Hanan is eager on Friday to show Mrs. Pollifax her camel, if it can be arranged."

  Mifleh grinned. "Then she must like her very much."

  "Yes."

  Mifleh considered this, and then said, with a rueful smile, "Strange as it may be, Youseff, I trust our little sister. Has Hanan ever been wrong about a camel, a horse, a person? You remember how overjoyed we were when our father brought home the man from Egypt who had ordered ten fine expensive rugs to be shipped to him? Only Hanan disliked him and distrusted him—and the man never paid for the rugs our father sent—never, and it cost him dearly."

  "I remember," said Joseph.

  Mifleh finished his beer and rose. "I will ask questions about any of our cars following two Americans named Pollifax and Farrell. I am glad you spoke of it." He reached out and touched his arm. "I know you want your tour bus, I'll do what I can."

  With relief, Joseph nodded. "Shukram, Mifleh. You can do this without them knowing? I don't want to lose them, Mifleh, Mr. Farrell is paying more than I dreamed of asking, and they are both kind. Not like the others."

  'Trust me, brother," said Mifleh, and Joseph was content.

  CHAPTER 8

  The next morning they once again set out along the Desert Highway for Karak and its castle. Farrell's sketchbook was filling: tired of scenery, brown hills, rocks, and patches of green, he had begun sketching Joseph's men in their habergeons and gauntlets and spurs, not copying them, but drawing them in a procession mounted on warhorses with flags flying, he is good, really good, thought Mrs. Pollifax, the lines of his sketches fluid and spontaneous as he brought the medieval world back to life in pen and ink, she had already expressed the hope to Farrell that he would sign one and allow her to buy it from him; Cyrus, she thought, would be especially fascinated.

  As they drove south she said in a low voice to Farrell, "And what have you decided about the Man in the Black Silk Suit last evening?"

  "I don't know," admitted Farrell. "There was an official air about him.... I would say that he was Someone, with a capital 'S.' "

  "But how would anyone know about you?"

  He sighed. "Only by searching Dib Assen's files and papers at his home in Baghdad. Only through knowing—or learning—that he once had a friend named John Sebastian Farrell, the other possibilities I prefer not to think about."

  She nodded. "Torture, you mean. But if that was the case, then the Man in the Black Silk Suit would have to be—" She glanced at Joseph in front of them. "—have to be not Jordanian but from another country."

  He nodded.

  "And suddenly they find that a John Sebastian Farrell has arrived in Amman." She thought about this. "In fact they just may know more about you than about Ibrahim, are we being followed?" she asked.

  He turned and looked behind them. "Yes."

  "Surely not by the Man in the Black Silk Suit," she told him. "Not after the attempt on my knapsack yesterday and my room being searched."

  Farrell grinned. "You mean your friend Mr. Nayef."

  She said bitterly, "Yes, with his advice on what to see in Jordan and his souvenir company in Amsterdam, blast him, we'd better be sure they follow us this afternoon to the police station in Amman so they'll stop all this nonsense."

  They were silent for the remainder of the trip, thinking their own thoughts, each wildly hoping, too, that this third visit to the castle would produce Ibrahim at last, the only variety on the way was a long stop for dozens of sheep crossing the highway, with a shepherd in a long gray robe seated on
a donkey overseeing their passage, the dull red sedan also stopped, but at a discreet distance, and once they passed through Karak and neared the castle the car disappeared, no doubt to wait for their departure and resume following them again.

  A sleek black sedan was parked at the castle, and a tour bus had just arrived and was spilling out people in pairs. "We'll avoid them," Joseph said, after one long and envious glance at the bus. "The guide will lecture in each of the rooms, and—"

  Farrell, his eyes on the sleek car next to the bus, interrupted him. "Good-looking Volvo. Someone else is here, let's look."

  They entered into the darkness of the stables and toiled up steep narrow stairs, Joseph leading with his flashlight, and Mrs. Pollifax following with her pocket flash. Dust made her sneeze, and she was glad to see light ahead.

  "A shortcut here," said Joseph, as they emerged on a long outdoor gallery.

  "Fresh air at last!"

  "Yes, we go down here, past these rooms to a staircase, quite hidden, and thus up to your favorite sketching place, Mr. Farrell."

  "Good," said Farrell. "But tell me, just how was the castle captured by Saladin in “89? By siege?"

  Mrs. Pollifax smiled. Farrell's interest in the castle had been blossoming, whereas hers had begun diminishing after two long mornings here. Leaving them behind she walked ahead, stopping to peer into one of the rooms on her left, lit only by a slit in the wall, its earthen floor bare, and again she wondered who could have found such a tomblike space a home, without venturing inside she proceeded toward the last room, more intrigued by the view from the parapet than by where she was going, when suddenly a man literally burst out of the room ahead, his face half-hidden by his loosened kajfiyeh, but his mouth discernible and open in a silent scream, he scarcely noticed her and she hugged the wall of the parapet to let him pass. It was as he raced past her that she saw the blood freshly smeared on the sleeve of his gray robe.

  Without hesitation Mrs. Pollifax turned to the room he'd just left to see what had distorted that half-hidden face, the room was completely dark; Mrs. Pollifax turned on her tiny pocket flash and gasped as it shone on a man who lay sprawled on his back against the corner wall, empty eyes staring at the ceiling.