Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled (12 page)

“Then how—”

“I don’t know,” said Carstairs grimly. “My reaction, quite frankly, is one of horror, it implies that others may have been following the two of them. Palmyra’s a major tourist site, it’s possible their police surveillants lost sight of them, or assumed they’d be staying there an hour or two, and took a break. Whatever happened—if that was the case—the fact that Farrell and Pollifax stopped to speak to Fareeq signed his death warrant.”

“But that means—” Bishop stopped.

“Exactly,” said Carstairs, tight-lipped. “Get me the Cham Palace in Damascus, Bishop, and after that the embassy.”

The next thirty minutes were busy ones for Bishop. The hotel reported that Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell had ordered a car for Palmyra on Tuesday; so far as they knew they had not returned yet, since their keys remained untouched at the front desk. Calling the embassy, Carstairs was told with a hint of aggrievement that an appointment with Amanda Pym’s aunt had been made for Tuesday morning and that neither she nor her companion had appeared.

“I’m sure they’re all right,” Bishop said with all the brightness he could muster, even as he felt anxiety blossoming and taking root.

“Really?” growled Carstairs. “My conclusion is that news of two people arriving in Syria to inquire about Amanda Pym has been leaked. Widely shared, one might say, with people who know a great deal more about Amanda Pym than we do, and if they also know that she has no aunt it means they know Amanda
very
well.”

Bishop dropped his pretense of optimistic cheerfulness. “Then they’d still be following Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell, these people who aren’t the police?”

Carstairs glanced away, his jaw tightening. “Possibly. Or after murdering Fareeq—” He stopped, and with a steadier voice said, “Or after killing Fareeq there’s the possibility that Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell would be next on their list.”

Oh God
, thought Bishop,
here we go again
.

“It suggests very strongly,” said Carstairs grimly, “that Amanda Pym is still alive. It also makes her very,
very
important to someone over there, and the question is
why
is this girl so important to them?”

“If Miss Pym is still alive …” began Bishop.

“At this moment,” growled Carstairs, “I’m far more interested in whether Emily Pollifax and Farrell are still alive, damn it. Call Rawlings back, and instruct him to keep his line open for Omar night and day, and report to us any further news at once.”

W
hen she opened her eyes the next morning Mrs. Pollifax saw that Amy had gone and that Farrell was standing over her with a cup of steaming brew. “You slept late, Duchess, I’ve brought you coffee. Very
strong
coffee, I might add. And young Joe has been telling me how you arrived here, and at what hour and in what condition.”

“I was luckier than you,” she said lightly.

The tent was stifling and she glanced at her watch and was startled to see that it was nine o’clock. “I did sleep late,” she admitted, and sitting up she gratefully accepted the coffee and after two sips made a face.
“Very
strong—enough to clear the sinuses!” and with a glance at Farrell’s face, “Aside from your black eye, which is turning purple now, how are
you
feeling?”

“Much restored,” he told her. “Now tell me about this Joe who’s adopted you.”

She laughed. “It’s a long story,” she told him, “but he’s a real archaeologist. He just happens to have a cousin in the CIA who subsidized his getting here three years ago when he was broke—
if
he’d pass along any news of interest in this part of the country. It’s he who reported the story Bazir Mamoul told one of the men here when he stopped for water. He’s not
a pro; he’s never met Omar, but twice a month he goes into Damascus to pick up supplies and chats with Abdul.”

“I’ll forgive him for snoring then,” Farrell said. “It sounds like the two of you have been busy as hell, Duchess.”

“I don’t think hell is connected with busyness,” she said thoughtfully. “Hell is more like boredom, or not having enough to do, and too much time to contemplate one’s deficiencies.”

“Which I was doing all yesterday,” he said. “What on earth possessed you to go back into the desert last night? And what did you find? Do you realize Joe was up practically the entire night laying out pieces of paper and studying them? He refused to explain, too.”

“I’m surprised that he didn’t. We went back to dig more where the passport was found. In the dark. Hoping to find more—and we did, Farrell. Those scraps of paper we brought back seem to be torn out of a journal handwritten in
English.”

He thought about this, frowning. “Not quite enough to satisfy the State Department, Duchess. Not enough for them to demand action. We’d have to actually
see
Amanda Pym, wouldn’t we? To be certain she’s there, and still alive?”

“Oh yes,” she agreed, and was silent, considering this. “The only hope of actually seeing her would appear to be at the privy—everyone there would visit it—although it’s terribly rude to spy on people at such a time.”

“Why?” asked Farrell. “We’re not planning to sell photos of them to a tabloid.” He frowned. “Can you draw me a sketch of the camp as you and Joe saw it on your daylight trip?” Seeing that a lined notebook lay on the table next to Amy’s cot he ripped off a sheet and brought it to her, along with a pencil. “Draw it.”

Obligingly Mrs. Pollifax put down her cup of coffee and drew an elongated circle. “The tents were down at this end,”
she said. “Far enough away so that we needed binoculars to see the people there. I remember a tree here … and here … and here,” she continued, sketching in trees “…  and high grass here and here, and the tents.…” She drew four small triangles and two large ones at the far end.

“And the privy must be near where you spied on them, it has to be.” He reached for her pencil and added a square with a question mark.

“So what do you think?” she asked.

He smiled. “I think, Duchess, that I’ve quite recovered—a trifle wobbly, but my brain is operative, thank you—and I think it’s time for me to make
my
contribution, and we can’t afford to stay at this camp much longer.”

He was thinking, of course, of the two sadistic men who would be looking for him. “And your contribution, if one may ask?”

“Once it’s dark tonight, I’ll establish myself at the base of the hill and lie there until I hear some activity, then crawl to the top and give a quick look, just as Bazir Mamoul did. The moon’s almost full tonight, I should be able to see
faces.”

“And they could see yours,” she pointed out tartly.

“I suppose you’re right,” he admitted. “Duchess, at the beginning of this you said we’d need imagination, ingenuity and resourcefulness … think of something!”

“I said that?” She sighed, and considering this for a long moment suddenly brightened. “Birnam Wood!”

“Birnam what?”

“Macbeth
, remember? ‘He’ll not be vanquished until Birnam Wood moves to Dunsinane’ … camouflage! Dig up one of those stunted woody shrubs, and as soon as we get there—it’ll be dark—plant it at the top of the hill so that its leaves and twigs form a screen. They won’t notice a
bush
. We can take
turns creeping up the hill—but it’ll be cold—and look without their seeing us.”

“Macbeth,”
he mused. “Unfortunately my vaudeville parents never played
Macbeth
. Flamenco dancing was their gig, but the idea has potential. Let’s do it.”

At this point Joe interrupted them by walking into Amy’s tent and announcing that it was almost lunchtime. “And Amy will be wanting her tent for a nap after that. What are you planning?”

Mrs. Pollifax told him what they were plotting to do and he looked alarmed. “But you’ll need the Land Rover again, what on earth can I tell Dr. Robinson this time?”

She said ruthlessly, “Tell him that
Farrell
wants to see the desert in the moonlight. How is your jigsaw puzzle of scraps coming along?”

He said with a wry smile, “It’s rather like archaeology—when one translates what someone long ago wrote and felt—except this is someone contemporary, and maybe still alive. What she’s written, I mean.” He added eagerly, “We had one semester on Babylonia at university and there was an ancient Babylonian prayer that I memorized that really explains … well, how exciting archaeology can be, hearing a voice from thousands of years ago. Care to hear it?”

Farrell shrugged and said indulgently, “Sure, why not?”

“Good … it’s a prayer, you know.” Closing his eyes he was quiet for a moment and then he slowly recited, “ ‘I am silent and in tears and none takes me by the hand. My God, who knowest the unknown, be merciful … in the midst of the stormy waters come to my help, take me by the hand.…’ ”

They were moved to silence until Mrs. Pollifax said softly, “How beautiful—and how eloquent.”

Farrell said gruffly, “When would that have been written?”

“Long before Christ was born. I’ve often wondered—”

Mrs. Pollifax nodded. “Yes. Who and what and if.”

“And that’s the way it sort of is
now
, trying to piece together these scraps of paper that could turn out to be torn from a journal Amanda Pym kept.”

“What have you found so far?” she asked.

His eyes dropped. “Not much yet,” he said vaguely. “So
many
scraps.”

Mrs. Pollifax gave him a curious glance but said nothing.

“I’ll work on them some more this evening, after you’ve gone,” he said quickly. “And of course I’ll ask Dr. Robinson about the Land Rover.” He hurried out of the tent, and Mrs. Pollifax found it surprising and a little amusing that after his intense interest in accompanying her on the previous evening he appeared indifferent about their return to the sniper camp tonight. The scholar in him had surfaced, and he appeared now to have become involved in deciphering, not a Babylonian prayer, but an Amanda Pym.

J
oe had succeeded in securing the Land Rover for them, taking to Dr. Robinson a substantial payment for the gas they’d used. If this was blackmail, thought Mrs. Pollifax, it was at least for a worthy cause, and they set out, she and Farrell, as soon as the sun had vanished in a burst of orange, scarlet and gold.

Once the Land Rover had been left behind, the three-mile hike seemed longer to Mrs. Pollifax than it had been the night before, and the moon was alarmingly bright. “I think,” she decided, “that we should begin the Birnam Wood scheme a bit early. The moon seems awfully bright. If anyone should be looking, if they have a watchman or a guard …”

“Say no more,” said Farrell.

Joe had borrowed djellabas for them again, and each of them wore one—Mrs. Pollifax’s was too long and she frequently tripped over it—but even two wandering nomads could be suspect. After a brief reconnaissance they found two small thorny shrubs, four feet high and bearing enough fleshy green leaves to hide behind. After laboriously digging them out of the earth they advanced, carrying them like flags and feeling very foolish. Once in sight of the hill they set the bushes down in front of them to make sure they’d not been seen; after an interval they moved closer, pausing from time to time until they at last reached the base of the hill.

“Nobody shot us,” said Farrell with some relief. “I’ll go first, I’ve not seen the camp, you know, and I’d like to get a good look at it.” Binoculars in hand, and shoving the tree ahead of him Farrell crawled to the top. Mrs. Pollifax watched him dig a hole with his bare hands, and once he had securely planted the shrub she saw him huddle down behind it and train the binoculars on the camp. When he returned he said, “A few lights in the long tent, one in a small tent. And I could spot the privy, it’s not far. A deep pit, and fortunately they’ve not filled it in yet, or moved it, which they no doubt do from time to time.”

“Good,” she said, pleased. “And now we wait.”

It was not long before they heard voices, and as they grew louder Farrell clawed his way to the hilltop to peer through his screen of dried leaves. With a shake of his head he returned. “Three men,” he whispered. “Kicked a few pebbles into the pit and left.”

A shivering Mrs. Pollifax said, “I’m stiff with cold, let me have a turn next.”

He handed her the binoculars and she struggled up the hill to press her body against the earth that still contained warmth
from the sun, and for this she was grateful. She studied the moonlit compound and the dark outlines of the tents. After a fifteen-minute wait she saw two figures leave one of the small tents and head in her direction toward the privy. She lifted the binoculars to her eyes, and observing their walk and slimness she thought,
Not men this time
. They came nearer, unzipping their camouflage suits as they walked, and when they reached the privy below, and some twelve feet away from her, Mrs. Pollifax was able to look from one face to the other—one dark, almost swarthy, with thick eyebrows, and the other—
“Yes!”
she whispered exultantly: the same face, deeply tanned and thinner now, same nose, same large eyes … 
Amanda Pym
. She had found Amanda Pym—she was alive and she was here.