Tuhami sighed. "After that we tossed a coin, a five fil, as to which of us would tell you the bad news."
"You have called me with the bad news," Jafer told him grimly. "Now trace the guide. Name of Youseff Jidoor, his address is on the report from the Karak police. Find out the number of his license plate, visit his home; they may know where he was taking them overnight: to Wadi Rum, or Aqaba, perhaps. 'Ajjel— hurry!"
Furious, he hung up and turned to the other phone line, and forcing himself to speak in a calm voice, he said, "Yes, Rawlings, you are calling for more information? .. ."
If it was eight o'clock in Jordan, it was two o'clock in the afternoon in Langley, Virginia, and Carstairs was becoming apoplectic over still another coup in West Africa and the hint of problems in Macedonia. It sometimes seemed to him the entire world was erupting in a convulsion of nationalism and tribalism, and he was especially outraged when one of his agents was listed as missing in the subsequent chaos and bloodbaths. On this particular day he was relieved to hear that Tuku Adair had escaped Burkina Faso and had reached a hospital in Botswana.
He was also growing increasingly impatient to hear from Hugh Rawlings in the CIA office in Amman. Events were out of the hands of the FBI, now that the action had moved beyond the borders of the United States, and Carstairs had been given the job of keeping in touch with just what information could be learned about Suhair Slaman, the United States had a very real stake in Jordan; it was, so to speak, a door to the Middle East, suitably placed for keeping an eye on Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, and Iran. It had sold Jordan massive amounts of protective armaments and had no interest at all in seeing radicals take over the country and turn it into another Iraq or Iran, the king had already survived fourteen or fifteen attempts to assassinate him, and Suhair Slaman had been the instigator of at least two of them, the question now was what Suhair's plans might be. His group of militants had already terrorized, bombed, and killed enough people in the Middle East. Carstairs found no reason to doubt that the man now had his eye on Jordan again.
It had become urgent to keep abreast of affairs in Amman, and Rawlings had promised to communicate with him once he could extract information from the police or from their intelligence people over there, but there had been no word from him since Carstairs's initial call, the silence was beginning to grate on him; the difference in time was adding to his frustration.
When Bishop shouted from his office, "Rawlings on line three, sir—Amman calling!" Carstairs spoke a fervent "Thank God!" and plucked the phone from its receiver. "Suspense has mounted, Rawlings," he said. "What" s up?"
"They're pretty nervous and uptight over here," Rawlings said, "but I've finally gotten through to a few people. Until now there was nothing to report, but it seems they have a clear fix now on the fact that Slaman's hellish group is definitely planning mischief here, and whatever it may be it's set for October 30."
"That's a beginning," said Carstairs. "But what's planned?"
"More than the date, they don't know yet. In fact, the little they've learned was discovered in a damn unusual way. On that plane to Amsterdam last weekend, Slaman planted a curio—a wooden plaque—on the woman sitting next to him, an American tourist, a rather odd curio that she later found in her carry-on bag. Somehow this plaque broke—no explanation how that happened, it's damn sturdy, I've seen it—and inside this little souvenir was a mysterious key, and a slip of paper with the date October 30 and a diagram or map that's being analyzed now."
"The gods are smiling. . . . Go on, I'm listening."
"Yes . ., well, unfortunately this woman didn't report any of this at once, not until she found the body of a dead Iraqi intelligence agent at Karak castle."
Carstairs, startled, said, "I beg your pardon!"
"Well yes, old chap, a bit hard on her, of course, but that's what brought the police into the picture. While being interviewed by them she mentioned that she was being followed everywhere by a red sedan, and she wondered if what she'd found in her carry-on bag was why her room had been searched and why she was being followed, that's when she turned this plaque over to the police."
"Good heavens! But you have the contents now of the curio?"
Rawlings sighed. "Yes, but they seem to have lost the woman; at least she's gone somewhere overnight with her cousin, still followed by the same car, apparently, and they have to find her to find the men following her."
"This is making me a little dizzy," complained Car-stairs. "Sounds damn complicated."
"Not really, sir, this woman tourist hasn't checked out of her hotel room in Amman, so she's bound to return. I've just learned they're contacting Jidoor Tours to see if they can find out where she's gone. This Mrs. Pollifax—"
Stunned, Carstairs said, "Mrs. who?
Behind him Bishop burst out laughing, and Carstairs gave him a stern and reproachful glance. To Rawlings he said calmly, "An innocent tourist, yes, but what's this about an Iraqi agent at Karak castle?"
"She and her cousin—"
"Excuse me, but have you the name of this cousin?"
"Somewhere, yes," replied Rawlings. "Ah, here it is—a Mr. Farrell, apparently an artist. Seems they'd been seen at the castle for two mornings in a row, which made the police suspicious and led to a further interview, which is when Mrs. Pollifax turned over— rather late—the contents of the broken plaque."
"I see," said Carstairs, seeing a great deal more than Rawlings. "Any clues as to who killed the Iraqi agent?"
"There was a man seen running away, he brushed past this Mrs. Pollifax, but too quickly for her to give a viable description of him, he's simply vanished."
Carstairs said thoughtfully. "Certainly interesting. Keep in touch, will you? I'll have to ring off now, Rawlings, but I appreciate the update."
He hung up, frowning, and Bishop said in amusement, "Well? Excuse my laughing, but after all—Mrs. Pollifax!"
"Not quite a laughing matter," Carstairs said curtly. "Let me think."
Bishop waited, still smiling but silent.
At last Carstairs said, "Obviously Karak castle is where Farrell was to meet Dib Assen's friend Ibrahim."
Bishop nodded. "You think it was Ibrahim who killed the Iraqi agent?"
Carstairs shrugged. "The worrisome part of all this is that if it really was Ibrahim who fled the scene, there was a hell of a lot known about his bringing the manuscript out of Iraq into Jordan. It has to mean that he was betrayed; in Baghdad someone talked. In which case Ibrahim could have been under surveillance ever since he arrived, or a photograph circulated at the embassy in Amman for them to be waiting for him or looking for him once he crossed the border into Jordan."
"And they found him?" murmured Bishop.
"Possibly .., if it was Ibrahim. But you heard Rawlings; the man has vanished, there's the matter of Mrs. Pollifax having been followed, too, and her room searched, presumably on orders from Suhair Slaman. This complicates matters for Farrell, too." He shook his head. "I don't like it."
"No," said Bishop, and then, "Why are you staring at me like that?"
Carstairs frowned. "I'm thinking of Antun Mahmoud in Manhattan, with his underground connections in Iraq. It was he who was contacted by someone in Baghdad about Farrell, the manuscript, perhaps even about Karak castle."
Startled, Bishop said, "You don't think—surely not Mahmoud?"
Carstairs shook his head. "No, not Mahmoud. In this area I'd trust him completely, but who knows what happened at the other end, in Baghdad? Mahmoud's contact in Iraq, for instance . . , was his or her message intercepted, or the person arrested and interrogated?" He was silent, considering this. Reaching a decision, he said, "Call Ferad in the Middle East Department, and see if he knows where Mahmoud is this week and how to reach him; the man seems to move constantly. Tell Ferad it's important, and Mahmoud— if he prefers—can phone via the Baltimore 'cover' number."
"Is his phone tapped?" asked Bishop.
Carstairs regarded him with amusement; Bishop had never lived life
on the run, it was possible that the sole resistance movement he'd ever experienced was avoiding marriage with any of the blondes he collected, he said politely, "He'll use a pay phone, Bishop."
"Oh—sorry." Bishop looked contrite.
Carstairs nodded. "You're forgiven. See what you can do."
"But what about Emily?"
Carstairs considered this. "I would say that with the entire police force looking for Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell, they are bound to be located before Suhair Slaman finds them. Jordan is, after all, a small country. Now go and tackle Ferad!"
It was late afternoon when a call came in, forwarded through Betsy in Baltimore. "Antun," a muffled voice said, and there was the sound of traffic in the background.
By this time Carstairs had reduced his query to as concise an explanation as he found possible. "There's been a problem," he said. "Concerning Farrell."
"Yes."
"Karak castle," he said deliberately, "has been a surprisingly busy place, we've learned that a foreign agent was found dead in one of its rooms yesterday, a man was seen fleeing the room by F and his companion, if you're following me?"
"I am."
"The man who fled has disappeared and is still missing. If it's who I think—-and he's gone into hiding—then F's mission has been aborted. But what is suspicious to me is the nationality of the dead man and how he came to be there at all. I'm wondering if your pipeline has become tainted?"
"That," said Mahmoud evenly, "is always, always a possibility."
"I won't ask how the information reached you—"
"Two were involved. Secondhand," said Mahmoud cryptically. "I will look into this at once, or as soon as possible. It could be bad news."
"Yes," agreed Carstairs.
"Thank you," Mahmoud said curtly, and hung up.
Bishop, curious, said, "How do you suppose he gets news from Iraq?"
"Since Antun doesn't work for us, I don't know and I don't think I'd want to know, the Middle East is Ferad's department, for the moment," said Carstairs. "I can only speculate."
"Like how and what?"
Carstairs sighed. "There have been so many arrests and killings, I'd have to guess that Antun Mahmoud's contact is either a very-high-up official, absolutely beyond suspicion to have survived the continuing arrests—if there are any left like that, which I doubt— or someone virtually invisible that no one notices— for instance, a modest shopkeeper in the souk, or some quiet and obedient bureaucrat who keeps his thoughts to himself."
He considered this, frowning. "Since Jordan changed its policy toward Iraq it's been collecting even more Iraqi defectors, and so many that the king—and this is risky for him—has encouraged Iraqi opposition leaders in Amman to open an office. But I doubt Mahmoud would use any of them as a conduit, they're too recent." He shook his head. "No, it would be my guess that Antun's contacts were set up long before he left the country for the United States: a few people he knew personally, and at least one of them lucky enough to survive. It would have to be a man who has decided that his life has more value if he risks it than if he lives in exile, there are men like that.., and they are the best of men."
"And what will happen now?" asked Bishop.
Carstairs said curtly, "What will happen now is that Mahmoud will move again to a new location. I can guarantee that because this can put him in danger, too. Wherever he is now, he'll be somewhere else in a few hours."
"That fast?" said Bishop, startled.
Carstairs's thoughts went back to a time long ago when he had lived under the code name of Black Jack, and he, too, had moved fast. "Possibly," he said, "in one hour."
CHAPTER 14
In Arb'een, at the house of Awad Ibn Jazi, Mrs. Pollifax excused herself before the end of the Egyptian film shown on television, there were no subtitles in English.... It appeared to be a story full of turgid and overheated declarations of passion, with two seductively clad young women determined to capture a handsome rich man who resembled Rudolf Valentino, there was also a wide-eyed, brave, and innocent young heroine, whom the volatile hero ignored, but Mrs. Pollifax was quite sure that by the end of the film he would realize her worth, and like Cinderella she would be the one to walk off into the sunset with him. Mrs. Pollifax therefore went up to the little room above, and without undressing lay down on the mattress assigned to her and fell asleep.
A mattress on the floor was still a bed, and Mrs. Pollifax had experienced worse, but although she slept well she was aware of activity in the house during the night. Once, opening her eyes, she saw that Hanan's mattress was empty, and later she heard voices downstairs, one of them Farrell's, but she was too tired to be curious. When she woke in the first gray light of dawn, Hanan was asleep on her mattress and the house was quiet; she wondered if she'd dreamed Hanan's departure and the voices.
Tiptoeing downstairs she found Awad's granddaughter Rehab in the kitchen, boiling water on the kerosene stove and spooning yogurt into dishes, she glanced up and smiled. In the living room mattresses were being stacked in the corner by Saadija, and she saw Farrell, outside, emerging from the outhouse.
He did not look cheerful. "Busy night," he said grimly.
"What do you mean?"
"People," he told her. "Awad heard someone prowling around outside, and Hanan heard him, and that woke me, awad tried showing me their tracks with a flashlight, but I failed to see any—he's amazing. One man was the lookout, Awad says—he stayed in one place— the other man walked around the house, stopping at doors and windows until Awad was heard, and then they left in a hurry. Probably," he added sourly, "in that blasted old red sedan."
"You really think—? You know, I did hear voices in the night."
He nodded. "I've had to explain a few things about you to Awad, he suggests we leave in an hour for the desert. You see, they'd already taken the battery out of Joseph's taxi."
"They what?
"There's no battery, we have to thank our lucky stars that Awad overheard them before they disabled his pickup truck, too."
"But then we would have had to stay here," she said in a shaken voice. "Like sitting ducks?"
"Like sitting ducks, yes, we couldn't have gone far, certainly."
"And they would have come back and—Oh, if only they knew" she cried. "Knew that we'd found the key and the police have it. Do you realize they have no idea that we ever took apart the plaque"?"
"Innocent Tourist again." Farrell sighed.
"And how can we tell them?" she demanded. "They stay so far behind us, they disappear and reappear, there's been no way to tell them."
He nodded. "Rather amateur of them, too, always in the same car."
"Scarcely amateur," she said hotly, "if they were hoping to invade Awad's house and harm us."
"But not until they'd clipped our wings and made sure we were trapped. Sorry," he said after a glance at her face. "Don't worry, we'll be leaving soon, Awad's nephew is going to stay in the house with the women while he's gone, and Awad's cousin next door is going to find another battery for Joseph's car."
"We should pay for that," she said firmly.
"Yes. Now have a cup of tea and bring down your carry-on bag, we should be safe in the desert; Hanan says there are always men at her grandfather's tent,
and don't forget A wad's a retired policeman and must have a gun or two left over from his Desert Patrol days."
She said uneasily, "Is it as easy to get guns in Jordan as it is in the United States?"
Farrell, glad to change the subject, said. "No, it isn't, which is no doubt why they have such a low crime rate here, according to Joseph, application is made for a gun, followed by a thorough checking and a bit of a wait before the gun can be purchased, at which time the buyer is issued three bullets, no more, he's fingerprinted, and his name entered in a computer." He glanced at his watch. "I'll go and collect my gear now."
Mrs. Pollifax, who had already brought down her bag, wandered over to say good morning to Awad. Slamming down the hood of his truck,
he nodded at her. "Okay, no damage."
"Tell me," she said curiously, "how did you know so much, just by looking at the earth?"
He beamed at her appreciatively. "I show you, there is dew even in the desert, you know, and last night a heavy dew. Come see, the sun has not yet killed the dew."
She followed him to the beginning of the rough driveway beside the house and knelt beside him as he pointed at the gravel. "What do you see?"
"Nothing," she said frankly, and smiled at him.
"Look again, the gravel still glistens with dew, na 'am?'
She nodded.
"But you see here—" He pointed. "The gravel has been disturbed, there is no dew."
"You're right, the pebbles are dry" she said eagerly. "You mean—"
"Na 'am—yes, the toe or heel of a boot kicked up the gravel, turning it over, and here—because of the dew— you see two slight depressions where a man stood long enough to send the gravel deeper into the earth?"
"It's difficult to see," she conceded, "but yes, I think I see it now."
He stood and walked farther up the drive to where tufts of wiry grass had pushed their way through the stones. "And here?"
Triumphantly Mrs. Pollifax said, "A few stalks of the grass have been flattened."
He beamed at her happily. "Yes, a heavy shoe did this. When the sun warms it—all gone." He led her to the back door. "And here?" He gave her a mischievous glance.
"An entire footprint!" she exclaimed.
"Na'am—yes, because the desert is not all flint, and here it is sand. I will know this shoeprint if I see it again; this is not a sandal but a city shoe, a man of medium height and weight, not so tall as Mr. Farrell but heavier."
"Extraordinary," said Mrs. Pollifax.
She turned as Hanan appeared, carrying a small sack. Released from school clothes, she was wearing a shabby pair of black Turkish pants, a gray tunic that reached to her knees, and, of course, her cowboy boots, her head of dark thick curls was hidden under a brilliant neon pink kerchief, she said gravely, "Youseff says there was a car following us yesterday, Awad's cousin next door could lend you a robe and a veil if I asked her, as a disguise, you know, she's very religious."
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