"We've just heard from Intelligence that Suhair Slaman was on a flight out of New York on Sunday using the name of Nayef."
Jafer's mouth dropped open. "Suhair Slaman!" he gasped. "Bismallah, the woman spoke the truth?"
"Apparently, yes," his chief said grimly. "I've delivered personally your report to the director general; now let's see what you have here. . . , the man disembarked in Amsterdam, but there are suspicions that his business in the United States concerned Jordan, and since we know of his involvement in at least two of the assassination attempts on our king, this is bad news. If he left the plane at Amsterdam, he need only have caught the next flight to Istanbul, and from Istanbul a direct flight to Damascus, and in Syria he has many friends. Now where is that souvenir plaque and key?"
Jafer reached into his top drawer and drew out the broken plaque and the envelope labeled "Exhibit 5032." "Here is the key, they tell me it was wrapped in this thin slip of paper that has a date and mysterious lines that look—well, you tell me."
Studying it, his chief said, "I certainly don't like the date written here.. . . Ishreen al awal, talateen ... October 30 ... Have you forgotten? The president of Egypt arrives the twenty-ninth, and on the thirtieth he and King Hussein review the air force training exercises in the company of Quidat al-Am, senior officer of the military services." He scowled at the diagram. "This could tell us something of their plans, perhaps? Jafer—"
The inspector sprang from his chair. "Sir?"
"Call the office of the director general of Intelligence, tell them we've found the key and the plaque mentioned in your report, then meet me in the map room. Call Sadrati in Decoding and bring him with you, and this woman—" He glanced at the report. "—this Mrs. Pollifax, we'll need her, but—no time for that yet, assign two good men to keep her under surveillance as of now, and tell them we want to learn who's in that red car, we want that car, Jafer."
"Yes, sir."
As his chief hurried out of the room Jafer rang Intelligence, and then his assistant, asking for Tuhami and Nâsin, and gave them his orders. "Pollifax," he told them. "P-o-l-l-i-f-a-x. Room 310, Continental Hotel." He added a description of her and of Mr. Farrell and described what he knew of the dark red sedan following Jidoor's taxi, and then rang Sadrâtï in Decoding, after which he hurried to the map room.
"They're stepping up the border patrol," were the first words that met them when they gathered in the map room. "Before sending this over to Intelligence, SadrâtT, see what you can make of these—" He frowned over the slip of paper. "I can only call them scribbles with lines."
Sadrâff found a desk and sat down. Bringing out a magnifying glass, he began studying the tangle of O's that were arranged in an interesting pattern, with three arrows pointing to their center and a horizontal line below, after a long silence Sadrâtï said, "I doubt this is a code. I'm thinking these clusters of circles could be trees or shrubs, the three slanting arrows leading into the center of them the means of entry, and this long line below a road. What are you suspecting here?"
"Something planned for October 30, possibly an assassination attempt," the inspector told him.
Sadrâff whistled softly through closed teeth. "Then I suggest an aerial map. If we could possibly find a similar design of trees, or even small buildings at some important point, with this bottom horizontal line denoting a highway or road—"
"It's worth a try," said the inspector. "But hurry."
They spread out the aerial maps and the three men pored over them. Sadrâff made a tracing of the series of O's, and they moved it about, looking for a match.
"Whoever was to receive this—whoever hoped to steal it from this Mrs. Pollifax," pointed out Inspector Jafer, "would understand precisely what these marks mean, that makes it vital that we interrogate the men who are following her in the red sedan."
"I agree, yes," his chief said grimly, "but they could be only subordinates or mere hirelings."
"At least there's time in our favor," he was reminded. "This is—what, the thirteenth? And the date here for whatever is planned is October 30."
"Nothing is certain when it's Suhair Slaman behind it."
"Suhair Slaman!" exclaimed Sadrâtï. "Merciful Allah, you didn't tell me that. You say there is a woman involved in this?"
Jafer nodded. "An American tourist who happened to be the recipient of this key without knowing it—at least until her room was searched and she realized that she was being followed."
Sadrâtï's gaze was accusing. "You say there is much time between now and October 30, but there is bound to be a day—long before that—when they close in on this woman and demand the key."
"It is our good fortune," pointed out the chief, "that they still believe that she has it."
Sadràfl looked at him in horror. "Mercifully I deal only in codes and deciphering, but do you think any terrorist would believe her when she tells them she doesn't have what they want? You are surely exposing her to much danger!"
"We're not fools," the inspector told him curtly. "If we bring her in too soon, we lose all hope of capturing and interrogating the two men who follow her in the red sedan, we'll be giving her every protection.. .. I've just sent two of my best men to the hotel with orders to keep her under constant surveillance.. .. Now let's get back to the business at hand."
They returned to the aerial map, concentrating on vulnerable sites: on the King Hussein Air Base; the King Abdullah Air Base, and the Palace. But a cluster of trees or buildings placed where any activity would take place on October 30 proved impossible to find on such a huge aerial map.
"It's useless," said Jafer, and his chief nodded. "We have the date, however, and we have this key."
"Not enough," said the chief, "but something, and we have this Mrs. Pollifax, we do, don't we, Jafer?"
"I'll check," he said, and going to the phone, spoke to his assistant. "I can report that my men are stationed at the hotel now, sir. Mrs. Pollifax and her cousin have been out all day, and both of their room keys have been left at the front desk, the dining room opens at seven-thirty and it has been their custom to dine at the hotel."
The chief nodded. "Good, and now you'd better take the contents of the plaque to Intelligence."
When Inspector Jafer had gone, Sadrati said thoughtfully, "Can you really believe, sir, that Suhair Slaman will personally come back to Jordan, whatever is planned? He escaped last time just minutes before arrest, and he's well known to the Desert Patrol, the army, and the police."
The chief gave a bitter laugh. "Hard to believe, yes, but from what Intelligence has learned, he entered the United States last week, spent three days there, and left without being recognized."
This drew a whistle from Sadrâtï "Hada 'atel! This is bad."
"Very bad, and this key? I wish Intelligence success. It will be like—what is that American expression?—looking for a needle in a stack of hay."
"What do you do now?" asked Sadrati curiously.
"We are still in charge of a murder investigation, and we will continue our investigation, and when this Mrs. Pollifax returns to the hotel we will learn more, much more, the rest—" He shrugged. "The rest is up to Intelligence now."
CHAPTER 12
Driving down the Desert Highway— followed as usual by the distant red sedan— Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell experienced their first sampling of desert country, they had left Karak behind them when Joseph suddenly slowed the car, and drawing off to the side of the road he said simply, "See the sky—sandstorm! I suggest there" and he pointed to the only building nearby, a shabby roadside restaurant, as they climbed out of the car he said, "Hurry!"
Others had already taken refuge inside, where there was a scattering of plastic tables and chairs, and a counter where soda, chips, candy, and cigarettes were sold, there was no sign of the red sedan. Farrell bought Hanan a soda and they stood at the window to watch the sky grow progressively more yellow, the wind had risen, searching out dust and debris at the roadside and scattering it playfully, tos
sing small objects over and over until they disappeared from sight.
A delivery truck pulled into the parking area, followed by a black sedan, and peering closely at the latter, Farrell said, "That Volvo . .. Duchess, the man in the backseat, do you see him? He looks like the man who talked Arabic literature to me in the hotel dining room."
'The Man in the Black Silk Suit?" Following his glance, Mrs. Pollifax saw only a shadowed face before the storm bore down on them, rendering Joseph's car and the Volvo completely invisible under an onslaught of yellow dust, she shook her head. "Sorry, ‘ didn't recognize him."
"Is he coming in here? Damn it, no," growled Farrell, "he and the driver are sitting out the storm in the car. But Duchess, I swear—"
"But not in front of Hanan," she teased him with a smile.
"You," he announced, "are not taking me seriously, all right, I'll be quiet."
The wind blew steadily for half an hour, and then, as abruptly as it had overtaken them, it slackened; Joseph's car became visible, the black Volvo drove away, the sky slowly cleared and was blue again, and they resumed their drive to Arb'een. But now, perversely, Farrell's concern about the man in the Volvo returned to plague Mrs. Pollifax, she was remembering what Farrell had so far overlooked: the unclaimed black car parked at Karak castle on the morning of the murder that had to have belonged to either the dead Iraqi, or to the man who had run away... . Yet, if the car had belonged to the man who fled, he need only have jumped into it and quickly escaped them, but the car was still there when they had left the castle with the police, the next morning it had been removed, and she wondered by whom: the police, or by someone from the Iraqi embassy?
Of course there had to be dozens of black Volvos in Amman alone, she reminded herself, and the Man in the Black Silk Suit had every right to be traveling anywhere he pleased, but he was also the man at the hotel who had maneuvered his conversation on Arabic literature so that it included Dib Assen.
Coincidence or not?
She shook her head..., the connection was too vague to speak of to Farrell, and she returned her attention to the present moment. Hanan, in the front seat beside her brother, was chattering away about horses: it seemed that her admired friend Qasim had a new, purebred bay with black points, a white foot, and a blaze on its face, he had shown it to her when she'd last visited her grandfather several weeks ago, at that time, she said, turning to confide this to Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell, there had been many tents and many guests, all coming south for the winter.
Joseph laughed. "Maybe you do not know how welcoming we bedu are, it is a law of the desert."
"I've heard of that," Farrell told her. "Friend or enemy is given food and a bed—at least for three days, isn't it?"
Joseph shrugged. "For any friend of Youseff and Hanan there is no such law. My grandfather will kill a sheep for you and give a mansef—a feast."
Oh dear, thought Mrs. Pollifax, I do hope the eyes of the sheep are no longer a great delicacy.
"We are very near to Arb'een now," Joseph said. "Arb'een means forty, they say it was named this years and years ago, but nobody any longer knows why. Forty miles to somewhere, probably to a well, or to a town, but the nearest town is Sad as Sultan?, and is not forty miles away."
Hanan said firmly, "Awad says a well." Obviously her loyalties to a friend were staunch and invincible.
Joseph laughed. "All right, then, a well."
It was nearly dusk when they drew up to the house of Awad Ibn Jazi. If Arb'een was a village, it was a tiny one, no more than a cluster of houses, like a way station, as they left the car and walked into the front yard, Mrs. Pollifax heard the cooing of doves and saw a dovecote set high into the wall, and she smiled, the front of the square cement house was shaded by fruit trees, and the walk to the front door was paved with flat stones painted in pastel colors of blue, turquoise, and pink.
The sound of their voices brought a man to the door, a small man, a little bent, his face like polished brown leather with a network of cracks and seams, his eyes bright and shrewd and suddenly full of warmth when they saw Hanan, he wore a gray robe with a checkered kaffiyeh bound with a black cord, or aigal, and his feet were in sandals. Both Hanan and Joseph halted to greet him formally with a ritual of questions and replies in Arabic: keef halak, how are you . . .
al-hamdu lillah, fine, thanks be to God, and then Joseph said, "We have brought you two Americans, Awad Ibn Jazi. It is Hanan's desire they meet our grandfather tomorrow."
The man glanced at Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell, measuring and weighing them knowledgeably before he said, "Ahlan wa sahlan—faddal! "
"They're American," Joseph reminded him, grinning.
"Then I am saying to you: I welcome you, please come in." He smiled broadly, showing a gap between his front teeth and continuing in English, "And no doubt little Hanan wishes you to see her white camel."
Mrs. Pollifax laughed. "Oh yes, indeed!"
"You can take us there tomorrow?" Joseph asked Awad, with hope in his voice.
Awad sniffed at the question. "Would I like anything better? Already I tire of walls!"
With this established they became aware of small children peering at them from behind Awad, advancing into the house they also met with a handsome and stately young woman in a black robe, "Awad's granddaughter Rehab," whispered Joseph, and the names of the children were flung at them: the girls were Ghada, Saadija, and Nawal, and the little boy, Tahar, children of Rehab and her absent husband, Omar. Mrs. Pollifax was startled to realize they all lived in this tiny three-room house, they stood awkwardly in the living room, feeling surrounded. It was a small room with a television set, a pile of neatly stacked mattresses in one corner, and a jumble of benches and pillows.
Rehab brought two chairs from the rear yard and began issuing what sounded like orders in Arabic.
Joseph, translating, said, "She is sending Ghada next door to her sister's house to borrow more rice for our dinner, and since it is too cold to sleep on the roof she orders Saadija to carry mattresses to the room upstairs for Hanan and you, Mrs. Pollifax, and she reminds Awad there is a movie from Egypt on the television tonight to entertain you."
Mrs. Pollifax said quickly, "Please thank her and apologize to her for this inconvenience."
"No problem," Joseph said. "We will have a good dinner, there will be kusa mahshi, and Rehab promises it in one hour and one half."
Farrell, with a glance at his watch, nodded. "At seven-thirty, then . . . Seven-thirty is a very elegant hour to dine in the United States, although early in Mexico. Please thank her!"
CHAPTER 13
At that same hour Inspector Jafer, in Amman, was waiting to hear from his two men stationed at the hotel, ready to begin their surveillance assignment on Mrs. Pollifax and her cousin, a number of events were now being woven into a substantial and dangerous pattern as more news came in. Intelligence, for instance, had known for several days of the robbery and death of Brahim Zayyad in Washington, D.C., on October 7, but not immediately as to whether the murder was random or premeditated. His wallet and certain other items had been stolen, but it had taken time to learn just what could be missing other than money.
The report from the Americans that Suhair Slaman had been in the United States on the seventh and left on the eighth had at once added an ominous dimension. This news had reached Jafer from Hugh Rawlings in the CIA office in Amman. From Jordanian Intelligence he had also learned that Brahim Zayyad was not only a high-level officer in Palace Security, but that he carried certain keys on his person at all times—in Jordan, at least—and since the keys were missing, it was being feared that he must have carelessly, or absentmindedly—or naively—worn them on his person when he flew to the United States for ten days as a consultant on the embassy's security.
It was apparent now that someone had learned that the keys had left the country with Zayyad and had informed Suhair Slaman's group, a rigorous investigation was already in progress as to who might have been privy to this information, and wh
at person in the palace could be a secret member of Slaman's terrorist group, heads would soon roll on that score, he hoped.
By six o'clock the key that Mrs. Pollifax had turned over to Inspector Jafer had been identified, but Palace Security would say no more than that. It was nearly eight o'clock when he received the phone call from Tuhamr, they had been taking turns watching the registration desk and the cubicles containing the keys for rooms 308 and 310, he said, and when the dining room opened at half past seven, TQhamï had walked over to the registration desk to again accost the room clerk he'd spoken with earlier.
"Just going off duty," the man had told him. "Still here?"
"Of course we're still here, we're waiting for 308 and 310 to return, you said they dine here."
The clerk had nodded and shrugged. "Yes, but as you can see—the guests are not here."
The cashier, standing several feet away from him under the sign cashier, had said, "What's wrong?"
"They wait for rooms 308 and 310, Pollifax and Farrell, to return, a police matter."
The cashier, startled, had said, "But they left long ago. It was to me they handed their keys, and the woman—Pollifax, you say?—said they were keeping their rooms, but would be away overnight."
A lengthy argument had ensued, as to why the cashier had accepted their keys, and had the room clerk really been too busy to serve them, and Tuhami was describing this to Jafer when Jafer said, "Hold on a minute, another call, it could be important."
It was not important, it was still another call from Hugh Rawlings at the Jordanian CIA office, hoping for more information. Persistent chap, Jafer thought wearily, and placed him on hold, too, while he returned to his conversation with Tuhami.
"Did you learn anything else?" he inquired curtly.
"We questioned the porters after that," said TQhamï. "Only one of them had been on duty in midafternoon, he had noticed them because they tip well; he said they both climbed into a waiting taxi and left."
"And after that? Anything more?"
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