Mrs. Pollifax Innocent Tourist

by Dorothy Gilman

  She found Qasim and Hanan poised like statues on either side of the doorway, rocks in hand. It needed a minute before they heard the clatter of stones as a man groped for a foothold; a head appeared, and once the man cleared the rocks, he placed both feet on the ground, and at once Qasim hit him with a rock and he fell flat.

  "Now there is only one man inside," said Qasim in a pleased voice.

  "La," said a voice behind them, "there is me— Faisel!" The three of them whirled to find that a man

  had crept up behind them, carrying under one arm an ugly shape that in the darkness looked very much like a submachine gun, he must have been on guard, she realized, shocked by their lack of foresight, but where did he come from, how did we miss him, was he asleep? Where did he come from?

  "Damn!" she said loudly and furiously.

  "In," he told them, pointing to the rock-strewn doorway, " 'ajjel!' "

  Since the man, Faisel, appeared to have no concern for the prostrate man on the ground, Mrs. Pollifax stepped over him with an equal lack of concern. Finding a toehold among the rocks she climbed over them and half fell, half jumped down into the lit room, Hanan behind her, followed by Qasim, followed by Faisel.

  Standing just inside the room Mrs. Pollifax thought for a moment that she had stepped back in time and was looking at a tableau in chiaroscuro—a study in light and shadow—labeled "Scene from Ancient Arabia, Fifteenth Century. " This was because her sudden entry had frozen all movement and she saw that she had misjudged the occupants of the room: there were two of them standing, both posed theatrically in elegant striped robes and kaffiyehs with daggers in their belts, one of them with a whip, the other holding a pistol. Each of them was half shadowed by the light of the lantern, which shone with the brilliance of a gold coin, etching clearly every stone in the ancient wall above and lightly brushing the faces of the two men staring at her before the gold faded into the darkness beyond them.

  And then abruptly the tableau ended and she was returned to the twentieth century; the two men came to life, and the third man, who lay on the floor spread-eagled and stripped to the waist, turned his head with difficulty to say wearily, "Et tu, Duchess?"

  CHAPTER 17

  If it was nearing midnight in Jordan, it was late afternoon in Langley, Virginia, and Carstairs was at his desk and growing impatient, he had a direct line to the CIA office in Amman, and he had been in communication with Hugh Rawlings off and on during the day. Now he sat with a cup of coffee and attempted to put together the fragments of news that he had received from Rawlings at various hours, none of them satisfying.

  Rawlings, he thought, was growing frantic. Intelligence in Jordan resisted sharing information with another country whose aid they accepted, a dependency that rendered them suspect in their neighboring Arab countries, a matter of pride, of course, and quite understandable, but Rawlings was being given only snatches of news and much of it contradictory.

  In his first call of the day, Rawlings said he'd learned from the police that Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell had not returned to their hotel when expected, and that Jidoor Tours was being contacted to learn where their guide had taken them.

  On the other hand, an hour later, Rawlings had been told by Intelligence that everything was under complete control, the mysterious key had been identified by Palace Security—any mention of what door or safe it would unlock was top secret, of course—and precautions were being taken to protect whatever it gave access to, and the map or diagram was being analyzed by experts to uncover Slaman's plans for October 30. Intelligence had assured Rawlings that all was well.

  A third phone call from a frustrated Rawlings reported that, according to the police, the family of one Youseff Jidoor had been visited, and he had been surprised to learn that Jidoor Tours was only a one-man operation. However, the guide's mother had known exactly where Youseff was taking his clients: they had headed south to the desert to visit Youseff's grandfather, who was a sheikh, the police, Rawlings had continued, were organizing a search to find out just where the sheikh and his camp were located this month in the desert. Fortune had briefly smiled on them when they'd realized that a young member of the Criminal Investigation Department named Mifleh Jidoor was brother to Youseff, or Joseph, and might pinpoint more precisely where to find the grandfather, but unfortunately they'd not been able to find him yet.

  The last call from Rawlings had sounded discouraged. "I've reached Intelligence again," he said. "They were more forthcoming this time. Nobody knows where Suhair Slaman is—he's certainly not in Amsterdam—but they're investigating reports that several men slipped across the Syrian border two nights ago, they were spotted by a family of Bedouins." He added indignantly, "In spite of that stepped-up border patrol, too!"

  "It's a long border," pointed out Carstairs. "What about the red sedan that was glued to Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell for several days?"

  Rawlings had sighed heavily. "Who knows? The police waited for Mrs. Pollifax's return to Amman so they could move in on the men keeping her under surveillance, but she didn't return. Those men are probably the only people in Jordan who know where she is, damn it."

  "So where does it stand now?" Carstairs had asked him.

  "I'm trying to sort it all out," growled Rawlings. "It's dark now, and how the hell they can search for anyone at night—and in a desert—I don't know. It's a big desert."

  Seated now over his cup of coffee, Carstairs tried to sum up matters for himself, he decided (‘) that Suhair Slaman and a few select hit men were probably in Jordan now, prepared to establish themselves in place for whatever was planned for October 30, quite possibly another attempt at assassinating the king; (2) that Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax were in the desert visiting a sheikh, and if they'd left Amman, it meant that either Farrell had successfully met with Ibrahim, or had not met with him and had given up hope; and (3) that if neither the police nor Intelligence had found the sheikh's camp yet, it was not likely that anyone else could have found them in the dark.

  Except, he realized, frowning, for the men in the red sedan. On the other hand, he had flown over enough deserts to know that in general they were tediously flat, with a visibility that extended for miles, except during a sandstorm. Surely no one in that red sedan would be foolhardy enough to openly follow Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell to the sheikh's camp, and this implied that everyone, himself included, could relax now.

  But could they?

  Carstairs sat back in his chair, frowning. Bishop, bringing in a sheaf of papers for him to sign, said, "You look full of gloom and doom, what's wrong?"

  "I don't know," Carstairs told him, frowning. "It's just a feeling that's begun haunting me."

  "About what or whom?"

  "It's Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell," he admitted reluctantly. "You heard Rawlings's disjointed reports today. I would very much like to envision Mrs. Pollifax's delight in meeting a real-life sheikh, but I don't feel comfortable about this. For instance, what the hell are the two of them doing in the desert, are they escaping someone or something, or simply on tour? If Farrell had met with this man Ibrahim and secured the manuscript, do you really think he'd carry it around with him and go off on holiday to the desert with it?"

  "It doesn't sound like Farrell," agreed Bishop, pulling up a chair and seating himself.

  "Damn unlikely," growled Carstairs. "He'd book the first available flight out of Amman."

  "But we do know that he and Mrs. Pollifax spent mornings at Karak castle, and it's possible—"

  "Yes, at Karak castle," said Carstairs. "Where Mrs. Pollifax found a dead Iraqi in a closet or whatever, and where the main suspect who rushed away from the scene that morning could have been Ibrahim. Consider how interested the Iraqis must be now in Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax, who just happened to be at the castle at the time! Especially if they'd been tailing Ibrahim."

  "If it was Ibrahim," pointed out Bishop. "A lot of it's and could bes there, you know."

  "We deal in ifs and could bes," Carstairs reminded him curtly. "It
also irritates me to keep referring to the car following Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell as just a red sedan. It's a hell of a lot more than that; it's a red sedan following them on the orders of a terrorist. In a word, it's Suhair Slaman personally keeping an eye on Mrs. Pollifax."

  "Yes, but—"

  "And if," interrupted Carstairs, "the Iraqis should be obsessed with finding Ibrahim—"

  "If it was Ibrahim," Bishop put in, and ducked Carstairs's reproachful glance. "Sorry, sir."

  "—then they know about Dib Assen's manuscript, they want it, they know about Farrell now, or at the very least suspect him—"

  Bishop winced. "I see what you mean. You're worried."

  "Thank you, Bishop," said Carstairs, with exaggerated politeness, "I'm delighted and relieved that you finally understand, and yes, you're damn right I'm concerned, and it's a sudden feeling that's not going away."

  "One of your psychic flashes," said Bishop, nodding.

  "That sounds damnably flippant," Carstairs told him. "Try imagining what a terrorist like Suhair Slaman would like to do to Mrs. Pollifax if he catches up with her."

  "Now that's hitting below the belt," Bishop told him indignantly.

  "Then think what the Iraqis would like to do with Farrell if they know why he's in Jordan."

  Bishop looked shaken. "You're really serious, then. I apologize. You think that's why they've headed for the desert—to hide?"

  "I've no idea why they went there," Carstairs said crossly, "but when they left they were presumably still followed by Suhair Slaman's men."

  "But the police in Amman—" began Bishop.

  "The police in Amman," said Carstairs, "know nothing about Ibrahim."

  Bishop said helplessly, "No, I suppose not, but—" He stopped. "What are you afraid of?"

  "What I am afraid of is that Farrell has not connected with Ibrahim and doesn't have the manuscript, and beginning with that assumption—"

  "Oh God," said Bishop, "you mean we've got all of them after Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax? Both? Two groups? What can you do?"

  Carstairs was silent, idly tapping his pencil on his desk while he thought, abruptly he reached a decision. "I see only one thing I can do, and it's a feeble try at that. Put me through to Rawlings—on the double, before he leaves his office to go home to bed."

  Five minutes later, the connection made, he was saying, "Rawlings, it's time I share a bit of information with you about John Sebastian Farrell and Emily Pollifax, who are not in Jordan on any assignment from me, but who have both done a hell of a lot of good work for us—valuable work. I want nothing to happen to them, you understand me? Forget the Iraqis and Suhair Slaman, let the police deal with them. I want those two found, protected, and sent back to me in one piece."

  He hung up before Rawlings could utter so much as a protest or ask a question.

  Bishop, puzzled, said, "But he has no experience in this sort of thing. What can he do?"

  "He's young—they're all young," Carstairs said cynically. "They sit behind their desks and collate data and make phone calls, grow smug and feel important. If I've scared him enough, he just may forego his eight hours of sleep in his comfortable bed in his air-conditioned apartment and head out for the desert and find them." He added dryly, "It's also possible that he'll get lost in the desert and have to be picked up by the Desert Patrol tomorrow, but at the very least he'll experience what is called reality in this business. It will be a learning experience for him."

  CHAPTER 18

  Mrs. Pollifax, confronted with this scene of medieval horror, swallowed her anger and her pity for Farrell; she had no choice, her glance moved from him to the man staring at her with blazing eyes, and even in his robe and kaffiyeh she recognized him; he was no longer in a black silk suit, but as his robe caught the light she saw from its sheen that he was still wearing silk.

  "How did you get here?" he demanded, and to Faisel, "Turn off that engine—'ajjel!"

  "He's telling you the truth," she told him in a loud voice. "Farrell doesn't have what you want!" Behind her Hanan and Qasim moved to her side, and she was touched by this move to support and to protect.

  Farrell shouted, "For God's sake, Duchess, get out while you can—run!" and then seeing Hanan and Qasim, he groaned, "Oh no!"

  "Not without you," she told him, and to the man in the silk robe, "We've met before; you were talking literature with Farrell in the hotel dining room. Presumably you have a name?"

  He said mockingly, "Taimour will do since it is not my name. So .., you are his accomplice, it seems. How accommodating of you to come looking for him, we have two of you now." To Qasim he said, "Sit. "

  Neither Hanan nor Qasim obeyed him.

  "Meen haditha?" asked the man with the whip.

  "She is his friend," Taimour explained.

  "Ah!" The man raised his whip, and Mrs. Pollifax winced as he struck Farrell's bare back, leaving behind still another angry red stripe.

  "Two of us to torture?" she said mockingly, moving closer to him. "And perhaps a child as well? Farrell can tell you nothing, he doesn't have what you want, and that's the truth."

  "Of course he has it," snapped Taimour. "Do you think we have not read the police reports? You were at Karak castle, the man carrying the manuscript ran past you—of course he slipped it to this Farrell as he passed him, do you think we are idiots? You were both there to meet the man Ibrahim, were you not? And you met."

  "We did not meet," she flung at him angrily. "That man was frightened, he rushed away, he was hurt."

  "Then where is he now? You made no move to find him after he 'disappeared,' as you say?"

  Not giant steps forward, thought Mrs. Pollifax, remembering a childhood game, just scissor steps, and as if determined to make him understand, she took two small steps closer to him. "Where could we look?" she demanded of him. "The man was to come to Karak castle, you already know that, but how could he return after what happened?"

  He said impatiently, "I ask again—where is the manuscript?"

  Two more scissor steps .. . "And I tell you again that we don't have it.... I don't have it, and Mr. Farrell doesn't have it."

  He glanced down at the pistol he held in his hand, and then turned and said to his companion, "Tie her up, Zaid. If this Farrell won't talk, then she will, and if she refuses, then you can practice your whip on her and let her friends watch that."

  He deserved no mercy, and she was close enough now, the man with the whip—Zaid, he'd called him— had placed it on the ground, and from the folds of his robe he drew out a coil of rope, there was no suspicion in Taimour's face, and he was the important one; to him she was only a foolish woman, she supposed, and she drew a deep breath and positioned herself. Make this count, Emily, she told herself grimly, there are no margins for error here, and with a hard kick to his knee she struck out with her right hand at Taimour's throat, a merciless strike but she could not be sorry.

  He staggered backward; the pistol fell from his hand, but as he sank to the floor the pistol exploded and she reeled from the impact of the bullet that punctured her left arm. "Qasim," she cried out, "the whip!"

  Zaid was still gaping in astonishment at the fallen Taimour. Qasim leaped for the whip, snatching away not only the whip but the rope. "I will tie him up. Never," he gasped, "never have I met such evil men!"

  "And may you never again," said Mrs. Pollifax, feeling suddenly weak.

  "She's been shot!" cried Hanan, and running to Taimour she began tearing strips from his elegant silk robe to stem the bleeding.

  "Shot?" Mrs. Pollifax said, surprised, and looked down at her arm to see rather a lot of blood dripping from it to the floor.

  "Shot?" echoed Farrell, and struggled to stand up, one hand on his back and wincing at the touch. "Is it bad? Let me see."

  Hanan regarded him with disapproval. "You must be still—I wrap you next."

  "Flesh wound," Farrell said, peering at it with narrowed eyes. 'They bleed like hell and hurt, but it doesn't look deep. Get the bleedi
ng stopped!"

  "The helicopter," Mrs. Pollifax said suddenly. "The engine's stopped—stopped ages ago, where is whats-hisname—Faisel?"

  A voice from the window said, "If you mean the fool we have rendered unconscious you need not look for him, we have taken care of him."

  Hanan dropped the bandage she had readied for Mrs. Pollifax, Qasim stopped tying up Zaid, Farrell abruptly sat down, and Mrs. Pollifax stared in astonishment at the man climbing in through the window.

  "Mr. Nayef?" she faltered.

  "We meet again, Mrs. Pollifax," he said charmingly. "Hardar, come in," he told the man behind him, and looking around the room he said distastefully, "I do not know who all these people are but you and I need to talk."

  "Talk," repeated Mrs. Pollifax. "But we need help, not talk. My friend Mr. Farrell has been hurt and—"

  "I said talk," he repeated harshly, no longer charming at all.

  His man Hardar was climbing through the window now with a gun in his hand. "Talk," she repeated, dazed by this new development and hugging her bleeding arm.

  "I put a wooden plaque in your bag, as you must be aware by now. It has been difficult, recovering it, and we grow tired of playing games. You will please tell me where it can be found, or—"

  "Or what?" demanded Qasim, moving toward him threateningly. "Who are you?"

  Hardar waved his gun dramatically, and Mrs. Pollifax, distinctly light-headed by now, thought that tragedy was rapidly turning into farce, she didn't know whether to laugh or to cry and hoped she wasn't going to become hysterical. It was the window, she decided: all that was missing was a curtain and the entrance of Hamlet. This castle was not Elsinore, but it was dark and old, full of bats, and men did seem to keep coming through the window.

  "His name is Nayef," she told Qasim, fighting back dizziness. "He wants his Urn Tomb." Pulling herself together, she made an effort to play for time, although she had no idea why. "How did you know we were here, Mr. Nayef?" she asked.