Mrs. Pollifax Innocent Tourist

by Dorothy Gilman

  "A lonely place," murmured Farrell.

  "But a pleasing loneliness," said Mrs. Pollifax.

  "Thanks, but I prefer cities, smog, and people. How's your arm?"

  "Not bad. How's your back?"

  He gave her a humorous glance. "Not bad."

  "You tell lies well," she said.

  "So do you, Duchess."

  They were silent, looking out on the great stillness, the emptiness that to Mrs. Pollifax was not quite emptiness but something timeless and so full of space that it rested her eyes, her heart, and possibly, she thought, her soul. It would be this that she would remember, she knew; not Mr. Nayef or Taimour or the violence, but this space and silence and the hospitality of the Bedouin—and Hanan, she added with a smile.

  Beside her she heard Farrell sigh, he said, "We've gone through hell with your Mr. Nayef and my Iraqi friend, and that's behind us now, but unfortunately with the dawn comes reality, and for myself, damn it, I've still failed. No Ibrahim."

  "Which reminds me of something I've not mentioned," she said, "it's been such a busy night. It's not quite a failure, dear Farrell."

  "What is it you've not mentioned?" he said crossly. "And don't try to console me."

  Mrs. Pollifax smiled. "I wouldn't offer consolation for the world, Farrell, but I think you'll find Ibrahim back at the camp."

  "I'll what?" He turned and stared at her.

  "I said that I think you'll find Ibrahim, after all—at the tent of Hanan's grandfather."

  He looked worried. "Are you all right, Duchess? You've gone through a hell of a night, is this something you dreamed while you were asleep?"

  "While I slept I had nightmares, not dreams," she said tartly. "I repeat: I think you will find Ibrahim back at the sheikh's camp."

  "My God, Duchess," he said, "how can you say that, how can you know?"

  "We both knew," she said, remembering. "He sat down across the campfire from me in the tent and he stared at me, frowning and puzzled, and I looked at him, and then—quite suddenly, we both knew."

  "Knew what?"

  "That he was the man who rushed past me at Karak castle, and I was the woman who was standing by the wall."

  "Did I see this man?" he demanded.

  She shook her head. "You'd gone out to look at the stars."

  "But you couldn't even describe him to the police!" he said accusingly.

  "I couldn't, no," she admitted, "but how could I have described to them what was only an impression? And yet—in some strange way—would subliminally be the word?—I was more conscious of what I saw than I realized. ... I knew."

  "But at the sheikh's tent, of all places?"

  She said calmly, "I believe he must be one of the men they spoke of finding in the desert a month ago, nearly dead from thirst."

  "But why—?"

  "Are you forgetting how close we are to the Saudi border?" she reminded him. "We didn't know that until tonight—or was it yesterday. You said yourself a century ago, back in the hotel on our first night here,

  that Ibrahim might have to come this way, skirting the Iraq-Saudi border."

  Farrell looked stunned. "My God, Duchess, if you're right—" His voice was shaken. "I shall pray all the way back to the camp."

  "I think you can begin your prayers now," she said, pointing. "There's a cloud of dust off to the west, and it's moving in our direction, it must surely be Awad's truck coming for us."

  But it was another forty minutes before the truck could be seen in detail, and another ten minutes before it came to a stop below the rise on which the castle stood.

  "I hope it doesn't bounce too much," Farrell said nervously.

  "Hanan promised mattresses, remember?"

  What Mrs. Pollifax had not considered was Joseph's youth and pride, as he rushed up the hill to them she feared for a moment that he was going to throw himself at her feet with apologies; they were on his tour, he said, his responsibility, his friends, and that such harm had come to them devastated him, he would return their money to them, he would—but Hanan spoke chidingly to him, reminding him they were hurt, and when he was silenced Mrs. Pollifax said, with a smile, "Don't you dare spoil such a welcome rescue!"

  Joseph then turned to Farrell and spoke eagerly of the care with which he would be returned to his grandfather's camp and, taking him by the arm, helped him down to the truck. "As if," said Farrell dryly, "I'm one hundred years old."

  Every pillow from the sheikh's tent appeared to have been stuffed into the open rear of the truck, as well as five mattresses. Farrell was placed among them, with Hanan to keep them secure during the drive. Mrs. Pollifax, her arm still wrapped in Taimour's striped silk, was given the front seat next to Joseph. In this manner they began their return to the camp, which they had left—to Mrs. Pollifax's surprise—only twelve hours ago.

  CHAPTER 21

  Once again they sat around the fire in the sheikh's tent, although Farrell had seated himself awkwardly on the low table that held coffee urns and the radio. His back had been examined by a little man named Bushaq—Hanan confiding to Mrs. Pollifax that he had all the gifts of a taheeb, or doctor—and then Mrs. Pollifax's arm had been unwrapped by Bushaq, who amused her because she had not seen a Bedouin wearing spectacles before, and she found this oddly endearing. Pressing and probing he had announced—Hanan had to translate, for he did not speak English—that no bullet had remained in her arm, but she had lost both flesh and blood, after which he had fashioned a sling for her and ordered rich broth for her to drink.

  It was the ubiquitous coffee that was being served now in small cups, a sandstorm had sprung up since their arrival and with it a strong wind that beat against the sides of the bait sha 'ar and played with the flames in the fire pit.

  "We must talk now," Farrell said to Joseph's grandfather, he had said this upon their arrival, but Sheikh Jidoor had paid no attention. Now he bowed his head and waited.

  Farrell glanced at Mrs. Pollifax and said, "You begin, Duchess, you're the one who was so sure."

  "But delicately," she reminded him, and to Sheikh Jidoor she said very casually, "Sir, you spoke of finding a small party of men in the desert some time ago. In great trouble, and one of them dead."

  The sheikh looked at her without expression. "Na 'am. "

  "We would like to ask you, Mr. Farrell and I, if one of them might be named Ibrahim?"

  He conferred briefly with the man beside him. "No," he said.

  She heard Farrell swear softly under his breath.

  "Then may I ask what their first names are?" she persisted.

  His voice was curt. "Mustafa and Dalshad."

  She did not comment on this, she said, "I think one of the men came into the tent last night, when the boy was playing the rababa, for his cheekbones were white, as if the skin had been peeled away by the sun."

  The sheikh's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  "May we see that man?" she asked.

  The sheikh only smiled politely, as if he'd not heard her.

  Stubbornly Mrs. Pollifax continued. "Did one of them by any chance make a trip to Karak castle with a young boy on a donkey, camping there overnight?"

  From his corner in the shadows she heard Joseph catch his breath.

  Farrell stared at her in surprise, and with a cryptic smile she said, "I've had time to think. To put two and two together, my friend."

  The sheikh said, in a harsh voice, "You came here with Youseff, Hanan, and Awad Ibn Jazi to visit a fort. Why do you suddenly interest yourself in these men, you wish them harm?"

  "In our search for a man named Ibrahim," she told him, "it is we who have come to harm." She pointed to her arm. "We had given up our search when we came here. Joseph knows of this."

  The sheikh's head turned toward the shadows, and Joseph nodded. "They speak truth, there was no reason to tell of it here, and I promised them my silence."

  Farrell spoke now. "I would ask two questions, sir. Did these men from the desert hear of a Farrell being dragged aw
ay from the camp in the night?"

  "No," said Sheikh Jidoor. "They are in a tent removed from the others, for quiet and for healing."

  "Then I would next ask, sir, if you could speak to the men Mustafa and Dalshad, and ask them if the name of Farrell is known to them."

  The sheikh bowed courteously. "I could do that, yes." He spoke to the man beside him, who rose and went out.

  Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell exchanged glances. In a low voice she said, "He's protecting them, isn't he?" Farrell nodded. "He certainly doesn't want us to know about them, whoever they are."

  "Do you think I've violated some tribal law, asking about his guests? If I have," she said anxiously, "then—"

  "Wait," said Farrell sharply, and pointed.

  The man with the scarred white cheekbones was being ushered inside. When his gaze met Mrs. Pollifax’s he came to an abrupt stop and suddenly smiled. 'Tom, "he said.

  She smiled back at him warmly. "Yes."

  His glance moved quickly to Farrell, and then as quickly returned to his host. "As salam alaikum! " he murmured.

  Sheikh Jidoor had risen, and he bowed slightly. "Alaikum as salam!"

  Speaking in excellent English his guest said, "And you are well?"

  "I am well, praise be to God," replied the sheikh.

  "On you be peace."

  "And may you be well," returned the sheikh.

  Mrs. Pollifax could almost taste Farreirs impatience; he looked exasperated.

  "What God willeth," said the man, with a shrug.

  "God keep you." The sheikh smiled. "You must have coffee. Please sit."

  The sheikh seated himself, but the man remained standing, his gaze widening to include Farrell. "You are the man Farrell?" he asked.

  Farrell nodded. "Yes, and you—am I meeting Ibrahim at last?"

  "It is a name familiar to me," he said cautiously. "Then we have each come a long way to meet," Farrell told him politely, "and I hope you are Ibrahim, who brings me something of value from a mutual friend."

  The man's eyes remained fixed on Farrell's face doubtfully and Mrs. Pollifax sighed. Feeling that each of them needed prodding, she intervened, saying bluntly, "You didn't kill the Iraqi, you know; your blood was on his dagger but there was no blood on him—except, of course, on the back of his head where he hit the wall, the police must know that by now, and we are very sorry to hear that one of the men with you died in the desert."

  He looked amused at this outburst, and his face softened. To Farrell he said, "It is hard to trust—and you have no mustache. I have seen pictures, you understand? But yes, I am Ibrahim."

  Hallelujah, murmured Mrs. Pollifax.

  "So that's it," Farrell said, and reaching into an inner pocket of his jacket, he brought out a snapshot, a picture of himself. "Damn risky to have brought this," he added. Painfully he removed himself from the table and carried it to Ibrahim. "I've a mustache in this one. Does this help?"

  Ibrahim glanced at the photo and smiled. "Very much, the two of you, yes, but it was risky."

  The sheikh, who had been following this, frowned and said, "You are not Mustafa, then, but Ibrahim?"

  With a wry smile, Ibrahim said, "Forgive me, but to be honest I am neither." Returning the photo he said, "You have both, the two of you .., but come to the tent the sheikh has so kindly allowed us." Mrs. Pollifax followed him and Farrell outside and discovered the wind no longer scattering pebbles and debris through the camp; the sandstorm had subsided, and in the east a patch of blue sky had appeared, as they walked toward the outer fringe of the camp, to the secluded tent at the far end, Ibrahim said gravely, "You understand there were many losses on our journey across the desert, we had nothing— nothing—neither camels nor food nor baggage when we were found."

  Farrell said impatiently, "Yes, but you do have the manuscript with you, and safe."

  Ibrahim hesitated, then stopped and turned to face him. "I'm sorry. Very sorry, Mr. Farrell."

  "You can't mean—what do you mean?" demanded Farrell. "It's here, isn't it, you have it with you, you kept it safe, you brought it out?"

  Very gently Ibrahim said, "Near the end, Mr. Farrell, we were barely alive, and the nights were long and cold, we had no fuel except shreds of our clothing and dried camel dung and three or four matches, we desperately needed kindling. To keep alive—and we were very weak—we needed fire."

  "Oh no" gasped Farrell.

  "Yes." Ibrahim nodded. "The pages of the manuscript started good fires for us."

  Farrell groaned.

  Ibrahim added, "But the loss is not unrepairable."

  "What do you mean, 'not unrepairable'? How can you say that?" said Farrell bitterly, and Mrs. Pollifax knew that he was thinking of the long way he had corne for this, and of the welts on his back, but she wished he might curb his anger.

  Ibrahim only said gravely, "Come," and he pulled up the flap of the tent and held it for them both to enter.

  It was dark inside, except for a small lantern beside a couch built of many carpets on which a man lay sleeping, the light illuminated only half of his face: a wiry black beard, the jut of a nose, a head of black hair threaded with gray.

  Ibrahim said, "Now you see why the Iraqi mukh-abarat have absolutely had to find us. To kill."

  "My God," breathed Farrell, staring. "Dib Assen— and alive?"

  The man on the couch stirred, opened his eyes, and regarded them with surprise. Puzzled, he said, "Who—" and he whispered, "It can't be," and then with a roar of delight, "Farrell!"

  Mrs. Pollifax touched Ibrahim's arm. "Come," she said softly, drawing him out of the tent into the sun. "I think for a few minutes we don't belong there, and tell me, Ibrahim, tell me! Like Lazarus he's risen from the dead, but please, can you explain how? You must know that his death has been announced in newspapers all over Europe and America!"

  The sun was harsh after the darkness of the tent, and Ibrahim's voice was equally as harsh. "Explain?" he said. "Think back? So many miles ago?" He shook his head. "So many miles ago! But a Lazarus should be explained, yes."

  He stared silently into the desert as if willing himself to remember. "They were so complacent," he began. "How could he hide or escape in a country with so many informers? And he so well known? They had arrested him before, and Assen never hid.

  "But still there are a few," he said softly. "Brave, brave people. One of them worked at—he had known Assen once—but I say no more."

  He did not speak easily; there was a weariness in him that she hoped she would never know, and she waited patiently.

  When he spoke again he said, "They had such confidence—such conceit! They announced they had arrested him even before they set out to arrest him, and why not? Where could he go? But he had been warned—barely. Minutes before they reached his house he left. Three of us. To escape. You can imagine the fury? and their embarrassment? the blow to their conceit?

  "To cover their failure—their bungling—it was cunning of them—they announced his death. But of course," he added simply, "they knew he would be dead soon enough."

  "Except he survived."

  "Yes."

  They were silent, and then Ibrahim said, "He was very near to death when we were found, and he is not strong even yet—or safe."

  "Is he well enough to leave?"

  Ibrahim gestured helplessly. 'To go where? The mukhabarat have long arms. To Amman? There are many defectors from Iraq in Jordan—thousands, fine people—but can any of them, can anyone, protect him from secret police across the border?"

  "His book," said Mrs. Pollifax, frowning, "did it really hold secret information they'd not want known?" He nodded. "Oh yes. I've not had the honor of reading it—it had been hidden away, and in the desert who can read?—but he has told me—as we walked in the desert—how he plotted his story in villages— locations—real places where he'd learned there are secret factories hidden from the United Nations inspectors, and in his book he named what was being manufactured, using code. Botulinum toxin near one villa
ge, and in another the toxin ricin . . , they kill horribly. Now the book is gone, he carries it in his mind, and he has to be hunted down and destroyed."

  "He mustn't be," she said passionately, "he must come to the United States, except—" She stopped, suddenly perplexed. "Except how to get him out without help? Even to Amman without risk, without his being seen and known or caught, he doesn't have a passport, does her'

  Ibrahim looked at her pityingly. "From Iraq? No passports."

  She shook her head. "What we need, then," she said sadly, "is an angel of deliverance."

  "A what?"

  "Angels," she said, "are very big now in the United States; they write books about them. It's said they bring miracles, such as how to smuggle a wanted man out of a strange country, without passport or visa."

  "There are no miracles," he said flatly.

  "Dib Assen being still alive is a miracle," she said defiantly. "And you're alive."

  "Yes, but—" He suddenly stiffened, and she saw his face contort with dread. "Bismallah—oh Bismallah, look—I must not be seen!" "What is it?" she cried, but he had rushed around the corner of the tent to hide himself. Turning to look in the opposite direction she saw what looked like a Land Rover, very dusty and with huge tires, making its way into the camp. It came to a stop at the sheikh's tent. To see such a modern vehicle was a sudden shock to the eye, the reminder of a very different world beyond the desert of shabby pickup trucks and camels, she turned to Ibrahim, who knelt on the ground out of sight. "What is it? Who is it?" she asked.

  "Desert Patrol. Two men, you see them? Police!"

  Oh God, thought Mrs. Pollifax, she watched the two men climb out of the car, and there was no doubt that one of them was a member of the desert police because he wore the trim brown uniform with brown belts crossing his chest and a red arm sash circling his shoulder. His red-checked kajfiyeh was bound with a dark aigal, on which was pinned a silver badge, the man with him was in civilian clothes, young and dusty, but looking very official.