Mrs. Pollifax Innocent Tourist

by Dorothy Gilman

  He looked amused. "Playing for time, Mrs. Pollifax?

  You are quite helpless, I assure you. Did you think we could for a moment lose sight of you? We have kept an eye on you—if from a distance and with a telescope. It is unfortunate that you chose to leave in the middle of the night. Hardar, however, is excellent at tracking, and we followed you. But let us begin at the beginning: where was the plaque when we searched your room?"

  "In the knapsack," she said.

  "Ah yes, the knapsack. But we have the knapsack now, it has been removed from your room at the hotel, and it is not in the knapsack."

  Farrell said wearily, "Oh tell him, Duchess, all he can do is kill you."

  "That's a very negative attitude, Farrell," she told him, and rallied to say, "The plaque, Mr. Nayef, is under the pillow in Mr. Farrell's room, number 308."

  She had made him angry, she had paid no attention to the dagger he wore in his broad belt; now he walked toward her until they were eye to eye, the dagger in his hand. It was a splendid dagger, studded with turquoise, and it looked as if it had killed many people already.

  He said softly, "The plaque is not under the pillow in Mr. Farrell's room, for that is a foolish place to hide anything, and it was the first place we looked when we searched his room." He pressed the point of the dagger against her neck. "Speak, or I will draw this slowly— very slowly—across your throat and you will die."

  "The police have the plaque," she said.

  Startled, he said, "And why should the police have it?" He pressed the dagger harder into her flesh. "What do you know about my plaque? Why should the police have it? Tell me!"

  "Because," she began.

  "I can answer that," said a voice from the window.

  The window again. "Hamlet, " breathed Mrs. Pollifax.

  "Drop the dagger, Slaman, or I'll gladly shoot you in the back," said Inspector Jafer, climbing through the window, and abruptly the room was filled with men in uniform, all armed.

  How popular we are—and so suddenly, thought Mrs. Pollifax, and reacted to this new assault on her nerves by fainting. It was the practical Hanan who calmly broke her fall to the stone floor.

  CHAPTER 19

  When she opened her eyes Mrs. Pollifax discovered that she was no longer in the small lit room in the castle but had been carried outside into the fresh cold night air, a camp-fire had been kindled nearby, and Inspector Jafer and Farrell were seated next to it, drinking coffee and talking, she saw only half of them because a young man in uniform was leaning over her, frowning as he applied something to her left arm that stung.

  "Ouch," she said.

  He glanced up and smiled, said a few words in his own language, and after wrapping her arm in a fresh bandage of Taimour's striped silk, he tucked a blanket securely around her and departed. Following him with her eyes she saw that both the banquet hall and the helicopter were illuminated by a battery-powered spotlight so bright that it dimmed the stars overhead, her attention returned to the fire and to the two men seated by it, she saw that Inspector Jafer was taking notes and asking questions of Farrell.

  Which should be interesting, she thought dryly.

  "The helicopter," Jafer was saying, "is registered in the name of a well-known official at the Iraqi embassy. Of course the most curious part of your abduction is ..." He rather dramatically paused before saying with emphasis, "why you?

  Indeed yes, thought Mrs. Pollifax, and wondered how open Farrell could afford to be, he had a proprietary interest in Dib Assen's manuscript, as did Car-stairs, too, apparently; he would not want to share it, and she could foresee all kinds of entanglements if his relief in surviving this night left him too confiding, then she scolded herself for such a thought, as she remembered her past experiences with Farrell and his clear-headedness in moments of total chaos and of physical pain.

  He was saying now, with a frown, "It's hard for me to understand, too, Inspector. This man who called himself Taimour first approached me in Amman, that was our only previous encounter."

  "In Amman!"

  Farrell nodded. "Yes, in the hotel dining room, he walked over to my table, didn't introduce himself, asked if I was American, and then sat down to lecture me on Arabic literature."

  "Literature?"

  "Yes, with quite a few references to one particular Iraqi author. Do you read, Inspector?"

  Jafer looked affronted. "Of course I read."

  "Then perhaps you're familiar with the novels of Dib Assen?"

  "But yes," Jafer said, startled. "And what has that to do with you?"

  Farrell's voice sounded tired, and she wondered if the nice young man had treated his wounds yet. "I met Dib Assen years ago, in the United States, and we became good friends. This man Taimour appeared to know that we'd been friends; I suppose they kept files on everyone he said hello to. Once I admitted to this friendship and expressed my sadness at Assen's death, his questions grew more pointed."

  Well done so far, thought Mrs. Pollifax, if only a few words of it true; she waited with curiosity for more.

  "Go on," said Jafer.

  Farrell sighed. "He seemed to think I was in Jordan to be given something—perhaps old journals of Assen's— something to keep his name alive, perhaps, that's what he rather jovially hinted, watching closely for my reaction. It was all quite tiresome. Fortunately Mrs. Pollifax arrived to join me, and ‘ was probably a bit rude, getting rid of him, but I certainly didn't expect this."

  "And were you in Jordan to be given journals of your friend?" asked Jafer quickly.

  Farrell's reply was fervent. "I would like to have been given anything of Dib Assen's—a journal, a letter, a ring, a token, a message—but I can assure you I have nothing of his. Unfortunately."

  An adroit reply, thought Mrs. Pollifax, and certainly truthful, but one that neatly avoided Jafer's real question as to whether he had come to Jordan with such expectations, she saw Inspector Jafer smile faintly, open his mouth to speak, and then close it, he too had found this an interesting reply and was not for a moment fooled, she decided; the inspector was remembering those mornings at Karak castle, but he was apparently prepared to overlook Farrell's ingenuous reply.

  Farrell changed the subject by saying pleasantly, "I was knocked over the head and carried here, but how on earth did you get here?"

  "Not easily," murmured the inspector. "We've been looking for this Mr. Nayef ever since you turned over to us the plaque with its key and map, we've since learned that several men crossed the border from Syria into the desert two nights ago, and we suspected he could be one of them. Until then we were particularly interested in the men following you in that red sedan, except you left for the day and didn't come back to Amman, and neither did the men in the red car." He shrugged. "After interviewing Joseph's mother we were told that you'd left for the desert, and she explained—roughly—how we might find the sheikh's camp."

  "Like a needle in a haystack, isn't it?" said Farrell. "Damn big desert!"

  "Yes, but my men did reach the camp, only to find it in an uproar; it was reported back to me in Amman by portable telephone that you, Mr. Farrell, had been dragged away, and that Mrs. Pollifax and two young friends had left to find you, that's when I ordered a plane."

  "A plane?" repeated Farrell.

  "A plane, yes, we took off from Amman at once, with night-vision goggles and searchlight to look for movement in the desert. Unfortunately we saw nothing and—again unfortunately—we landed at a point some twelve kilometers away, closer to the Saudi border."

  Mrs. Pollifax remembered that plane.

  "It was Joseph's brother, Mifleh, who told us of the Qasr at Tuba." He made a face. "We decided it wouldn't be safe to fly the plane back here in the dark—too many wadis crisscrossing the desert to risk a landing, we had to walk—a forced march. Took time—too much time."

  He looked around him. "Lonely place, isn't it? I had no idea it existed, Amman being my governate. Very good thing we brought young Mifleh with us, a Bedouin, you know."


  "Bedu?" said Farrell, with a smile.

  "Yes, bedu. Very promising young man." He stared out into the night thoughtfully. "It's two hours to sunrise, but it should be light enough soon to see where a plane can land here." He called out, "Lieutenant Shakir?"

  A young man appeared out of the darkness. "Sir?"

  "I think you can begin the walk back to the plane now, Lieutenant Ghaith can fly the helicopter out. Somewhere out there—" He gestured expressively with his hands. "—there has to be a place to safely land. Take no chances, we want our prisoner behind bars as soon as possible."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Take Ayad with you—and flashlights!"

  "Yes, sir!"

  Mrs. Pollifax decided it was time to sit up and make her presence known. "We saw that plane," she told him, "but it was far away from us."

  He smiled at her. "Taib! You are better! A pity we didn't see you from the plane, we could have spared you some of this—this carnage, and it is time, I think—the right moment—to tell you, Mrs. Pollifax, what you deserve to know about your Mr. Nayef. You do not, of course, travel in any circles that would acquaint you with terrorists."

  "No," said Farrell, with a mischievous smile.

  "No indeed," echoed Mrs. Pollifax primly.

  "I am sorry to tell you that Mr. Nayef is not Mr. Nayef, he is only too well known to us—and to your CIA as well. His real name is Suhair Slaman. His militants were involved in a previous assassination attempt on our king, and the discovery of this key and its map, with the date of October 30 included, has left us very sure that another attempt is—was—planned."

  "Good heavens," said Mrs. Pollifax.

  He nodded. "Considering our suspicion that he was one of the men who crossed the border from Syria two nights ago, that key was desperately needed. Too valuable to mail, immediate delivery apparently necessary, impossible for him to fly into Amman .., he took a chance on you."

  "What did the key unlock?" she asked curiously.

  Jafer laughed. "Even my chief won't be told that. Only Palace Security knows, and probably the director of Intelligence, but it was important enough to kill a man to secure it, the entire affair will be hushed up,

  of course, but if not for you, Mrs. Pollifax, and your surprising suspicion of that plaque, and its so conveniently breaking open—" He paused, waiting, but neither Farrell nor Mrs. Pollifax cared to enlighten him; already he guessed too much.

  "So we actually met a real terrorist," breathed Mrs. Pollifax. "Think of that, Farrell!"

  "I'll think of it later," he told her with a grin.

  Looking around her, Mrs. Pollifax asked, "But where is everyone?"

  Jafer shrugged. "Two of my men are preparing the Iraqi you call Taimour for his trip on the helicopter, he's badly hurt." He looked at Mrs. Pollifax appraisingly. "One wonders," he said, "with Mr. Farrell incapacitated, just who had such a keen knowledge of karate."

  This too had to be ignored. "Will he be all right?" she asked.

  "Eventually yes, but he will be flown out in a few minutes in the helicopter to the nearest military hospital. It is his helicopter, after all." He sighed. "Iraq could make life difficult if one of its people is not treated—" He snapped two fingers together. "It will be difficult enough explaining how he—" He stopped, and Mrs. Pollifax smiled politely.

  "—was not at all likable," she agreed.

  "That I can imagine, yes, a hard trip for him, a tight fit, but we must get him out. His two companions will go in the plane. Unsavory brutes, both of them, but they will be suitable company for your Mr. Nayef— Suhair Slaman—who will be delivered to prison as soon as Lieutenant Shakir flies in."

  "But Hanan," said Mrs. Pollifax. "Where are Hanan and Qasim?"

  "They left at once by camel to assure Hanan's grandfather they are well and that we reached you in time, the child Hanan—"

  "Not such a child," said Farrell dryly.

  "—seems most fond of you, Mrs. Pollifax." He smiled ironically. "She pointed out very firmly that neither you nor Mr. Farrell were in any condition to walk twelve kilometers to the plane, and that she and Joseph will return with a truck and many mattresses to take you back to her grandfather's camp."

  "Oh yes," Mrs. Pollifax said firmly, "I would insist on that."

  "Oh?" responded the inspector, with a lift of an eyebrow. "Not back with us to Amman?"

  Farrell said grimly, "Duchess, we have a plane to catch!"

  "But Farrell," she said earnestly, "we can't leave without paying our respects to the sheikh—or seeing Hanan and Joseph again. I insist!" Ignoring Farrell's frown, she said to the inspector, "Take Farrell back with you, he's the more badly hurt; my arm is much better, and I'll be quite safe, staying here and waiting for them."

  "Not on your life, Duchess," Farrell told her indignantly. "If you stay, I stay."

  "Well, then," she told the inspector, "we will both of us retrieve our guide, Joseph—his car should have a battery by now—and thank the sheikh for his hospitality. While we wait, we can watch the sun rise and we can rest."

  "I could order an army helicopter for you," Jafer said.

  "Please no," she told him firmly, and tried standing; she was only a little dizzy.

  "But you both need medical attention," he protested.

  She smiled. "You are very kind, but personally, I cannot leave the desert without seeing Joseph and Hanan."

  He shrugged. "As you wish, we've much to do as it is." With a glance at the helicopter, he rose. "They're bringing Taimour out now, afwan," and with a glance at the sky, "Nearing time for the Azan."

  "The what?"

  "Call to prayer," he said, and strode away.

  Watching them carry Taimour to the helicopter, heavily wrapped in blankets, Mrs. Pollifax sighed. "I feel I cannot be sorry I hit Mr. Taimour so hard, not after what he's done to you—and I do prefer being alive, which I doubt I would be now, because who knows if Inspector Jafer would have arrived in time?"

  "You didn't kill him, Duchess," pointed out Farrell gently, "and the inspector said he's going to survive. Consider my gratitude instead. Duchess, although I'm wondering how many days it will be until I can lie on my back."

  She said with authority, "For several days you will have to lie on your stomach, but after a little while you'll be able to lie flat on your back on a fur rug or a mat of sheep's wool."

  He looked at her in surprise. "Duchess—you, too?"

  She nodded. "Hong Kong."

  "Well I'm damn sorry I got you into this," he said flatly, "but I hope you realize that without you I would now be the late John Sebastian Farrell, and your encounter with Mr. Nayef has not been unproductive either. It's getting monotonous, Duchess, you saved my life in Albania—"

  "Yes, but you saved Cyrus's and my life in Zambia."

  "True, but in Sicily—"

  The roar of the helicopter's engine blighted any further exchange. "I think we should get out of the way," shouted Mrs. Pollifax, and helped him to his feet.

  They stood and watched the inspector and two of his men push the helicopter free of the great arched roof of the castle. Once outside the pilot leaned from the window, shouted something, gave a thumbs-up signal, and the blades began to turn. Faster and faster they gyrated, slowly lifting the helicopter from the ground; after which it gained speed, swerved to the east, and flew out of sight behind the castle, the noise of it slowly receding.

  From somewhere Inspector Jafer produced two plastic cups of water, and Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell sat and gratefully sipped from them as they watched the horizon turn gray and then silver. When the inspector's plane arrived they had this to watch too: it circled the castle, then began a landing on the flat stony desert floor, pulled up to try again, and at last ground to a bumpy halt on land, a tightly roped and handcuffed Mr. Nayef, otherwise known as Suhair Slaman, was led out of the castle under guard and escorted down the hill to the plane in the company of more men than Mrs. Pollifax had realized were present.

  The inspector st
opped to speak to them. "You will see me again in Amman," he said, and with a faint smile, "It has been a pleasure meeting two such—such professional people, should I say? We are in your debt. You will be all right?"

  "I just want to sleep," confided Mrs. Pollifax, "until Hanan comes."

  "Then I wish you a good sleep," he said gravely, and began his walk to the plane below.

  CHAPTER 20

  Mrs. Pollifax sat with her back to the wall of the castle's great banquet hall and watched the sun approach the horizon, preceded by a glorious burst of gold and crimson, and then, abruptly, the sun emerged, a huge globe of orange, and for just a moment the flint stones in the desert glittered silver. Overhead she could hear the rustling of bats, newly returned from their night out and no doubt annoyed by these two intruders, she had spread out her blanket for Farrell and he lay across it on his stomach, but she knew he couldn't sleep, she was sorry she'd not more forcibly insisted that he leave with the inspector on the plane; he had been anointed with a variety of oils—very biblical, he'd added—but she knew he must still be in pain, ha would need more than Joseph's taxi to return him to Amman.

  She sighed, closed her eyes, and for a few minutes slept, but uneasily, with strange shapes and the face of Taimour haunting her, she opened her eyes and looked at her watch. "Farrell, they should be coming for us soon."

  "Yes, help me up," he said. "Standing's better."

  "What did they give you, anything more than ointments?"

  "Oh yes—two shots," he said. "Tetanus and something for the pain." He shivered.

  "Try not to think about your back," she counseled. "Try, do try."

  He nodded. "I'm trying."

  As they limped wearily out of the shadowed castle into the heat and sun, they could see around them for miles, the Wadi Ghaduf followed its serpentine route north, and then, turning to the south, they could see in the distance three tall columns of rock, like cones, interrupting a desert utterly empty except for small islands of grass, the air was so clear that in the west Mrs. Pollifax could even make out a dark smudge of tiny shapes that could be the sheikh's camp, reduced by Hanan's fifteen kilometers to black dots on a tawny landscape, there was a faint warm breeze, but otherwise nothing stirred.