Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled (17 page)

Abdul reappeared to say, “Is okay.”

“Taib!
Then bring us tea and another chair, Abdul,” and to the others, “One may ask where you found this young woman?”

“In a camp in the desert. A sniper’s camp,” said Joe.

“Sniper’s camp!” He looked startled, and turned to Amanda to ask, “And for what reason were you there?”

She only looked at him, saying nothing.

“Our lives are in his hands,” Mrs. Pollifax told her quietly. “He can be trusted; you
must
trust him—we’re trying to get you out of the country.”

Amanda said reluctantly, “I was being taught to kill.”

“And who were you being trained to kill?” he inquired.

She shook her head. “Please,” she whispered.

“Please?” His voice was cynical.

“Does it matter?” she asked in a depressed voice. “They said a name but not one I knew. And who would believe anyway?”

“Try us,” said Farrell.

Amanda looked around like a trapped animal. “Not here, oh
please
not until I’m safe.” Tears filled her eyes. “They threatened me every day, gave me pills to sleep every night, they’ll kill me if they find me.”

Omar gave her a sharp glance. “A very unlikely story, a young woman and an
American
being trained as an assassin? Of course no one would believe.” Turning to her he said rapidly in English, “What weapons did they give you to shoot?”

She said bitterly, “An old VZ 58 V Assault rifle, and sometimes a new SKS rifle.”

Surprised, he said,
“Bikeffi
—enough—almost I can believe a little, yes.” He eyed her curiously. “But why
you
?”

She lifted her tearstained face and said angrily, “Because—because at first they were going to kill me—they said it was I who shot one of the two hijackers on the plane; he was
Ghadan’s lover and one of their men. But I didn’t kill him, I didn’t.” She gestured helplessly. “That’s when I told them to go ahead anyway and kill me because I didn’t care. And I didn’t.”

“No,” said Joe.

“No?” she repeated, startled.

“No.”

She gave him a curious glance and said nothing, but continued to give him quick, puzzled glances.

“And then?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.

“That was when Zaki talked to the others and they decided I could be more useful to them alive. To save—to replace—someone named Jizar. ‘Expendable’ was the word they used for me.” Having said this she burst into tears, and Joe walked over to stand beside her chair protectively.

“Zaki,” murmured Omar, frowning. “Do you know his last name?”

Sobbing, she shook her head.

Farrell said gently, “At some point you really
must
tell us who they were planning to assassinate.”

She lifted her face to say, “Not until I’m safe, not until I’m out of this country. Please—I will, I will, but not here, not yet. I was so frightened on the bus, afraid they’d be waiting—”

“Wallahi!”
exclaimed Omar. “Bus? By God, you came by bus to Damascus? Madness!”

“But the only way,” pointed out Mrs. Pollifax.

He gave her an exasperated glance. “I say again it was madness, God forbid it happen again! Allah favored you but there are
ghufara
—watchmen—everywhere. The embassy has asked the police to look for you, the hotel has placed your luggage in storage, and Fareeq has been murdered after speaking to you? You have lived a charmed life to get here at all.”

Farrell said dryly, “Not quite so charmed. Soon after speaking with your friend Fareeq in Palmyra I was seized in an alley and spent a number of hours tied up and beaten. The Duchess here—we do not speak of names?” he inquired, nodding to Mrs. Pollifax. “She was badly hurt trying to help me.”

“Kif?
That is, how?”

“She’ll have to tell you—they shoved a bag over my head. But they were not police; what they wanted me to tell them was why I thought Amanda Pym was alive, how I’d learned this, and where I was going to look for her.”

Pointing to Mrs. Pollifax Omar said, “And you? They did not take you, too? But no, they would not,” he said, answering his own question with a wry smile. “You would be thought to know nothing, being a woman.”

“So insulting,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax.

“But how fortunate for you,” he reminded her, and with a glance at the bandage still on her head, “But what …?”

“A very kind woman treated my bleeding head, and arranged a ride to Tell Khamseh, with a cousin who was delivering supplies to As Sikhneh, and since Fareeq had already given directions … But Amanda is shivering,” she pointed out. “Can you help us get her out of the country? She has no passport, no identity, she’s frightened, and they must be desperate to find her if she knows too much.”

“Whatever she knows,” said Farrell dryly.

“One wonders,” mused Omar, and then, “Her terror I understand but if she leaves here without telling me anything, and they find her—Allah forbid—we will never know who or what they planned. What is to be done? To lose such information … let me think.”

Abdul brought in fresh tea and a bowl of hummus and bread and placing these on the desk regarded Omar anxiously.

Omar, frowning, said thoughtfully, “It may be possible to smuggle you across the border into Jordan. But very dangerous, and if caught …” He stared at Amanda, considering this. “In exchange, there has to be more; I
must
know something. You do not trust me because I am foreign to you, and a stranger, but I am ready to help all I can. But I must know
something.”

She lifted her face and said drearily, “Ghadan said—she was my guard—Ghadan said it is a camp to train mercenaries for the war in Sudan in Africa. There was a Frenchman named Andre—oh how he loved guns,” she said with a shiver. “And an Englishman they called Bert. And Youseff, Ibrahim and Nehhab—they were Arabs, like Ghadan—and the cook, a black man named Arego. And Zaki, of course—he was the man in charge.”

“Half of the people in the Sudan are Muslims—in the north,” said Omar, frowning. “At the camp did they never speak English? Did you overhear anything about the Sudan or about Muslims?”

She nodded. “I heard the words
ikhwam muslimin;
I remember Zaki using those words a lot to Ibrahim—yes and to Nehhab.”

“Ikhwam muslimin!”
Omar looked puzzled.
“Ikhwam muslimin
is the name of the Muslim Brotherhood and
that
is startling, yes. It must be a mistake. If President Assad knew—he does not think kindly of the Muslim Brotherhood, he would never have permitted …” His face tightened and he said roughly, “Get her out of here. There’s an American in Jordan. She may feel safe enough there to talk, and whatever she says will be returned to me. You’ll find him in Amman in the office of the CIA.”

“Rawlings?” said Farrell.

“You know of him?”

Farrell smiled at Mrs. Pollifax. “We’ve met him, yes, on a previous trip to the Middle East.”

Omar nodded. “You must remain in Bedouin disguise, and you,” he told Joe, “you, too, must be a Bedouin. I can arrange for you to go south with one of several other Bedu, but
not
by bus! There is a if I can get you there.”

“Bosra!” exclaimed Joe, reaching for the guidebook that Mrs. Pollifax had entrusted to him. “But that’s over a hundred miles from here!”

“Oh yes,” agreed Omar, “but Bosra is only forty kilometers from the Jordan border.”

“I see,” breathed Mrs. Pollifax, understanding the shape of his thoughts. “The border.”

“You cannot of course cross at Der’a, the official crossing point, but it may be possible some miles to the north—Alghariyeh, for instance. The contact at Bosra will know—he is a smuggler, he does it
only
for money, he is not political, he knows nothing of me—but I have a source who can send word to expect you.”

“Is he reliable?” asked Mrs. Pollifax doubtfully.

“Only if you have enough money,” he said.

Farrell nodded. “We have money.”

They waited patiently, and in much suspense, because none of this sounded possible but they were entirely in Omar’s hands. Looking them over, one by one, he sighed. “I see three of you with good USA passports. A pity one of you could not officially cross the border at Der’a and reach Mr. Rawlings, who might help.”

They looked at each other, startled.

“But no,” he said wearily. “They already look for you”—he nodded to Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax—“and for this young man
you came with, this one with the eyeglasses. He is the only one of you who speaks Arabic.
Hâda mâ bísir!
”

“He means impossible,” contributed Joe.

Mrs. Pollifax breathed a sigh of relief.

Omar glanced at his watch, an ornate gold affair. Obviously he prospered as a merchant, and she thought of how much he risked by the secret work he did, and of the men and women all over the world who lived similar lives, some out of patriotism or for an ideal, some for money, others for revenge, or, like Farrell, who simply enjoyed the challenge of living dangerously.

But then there was Fareeq, except she didn’t want to think of him just now, not when there was no knowing if they would meet a similar fate.

Omar appeared to reach a decision. “I would like to see you out of this country by night,” he said, and with another glance at his watch, “It is three minutes to ten o’clock. You have traveled all night, you will rest here while I find arrangements. With luck you can be at As Sweida by one or two o’clock, but from As Sweida to Bosra you will be on your own, there are no connectings. While I am gone you must be very quiet and speak only in low voices. As for me,” he added, “I must see how quickly I can get you out of here. Abdul, before you open the shop, they will need shabbier robes, such as the
abaya
the girl and your Duchess wear. You said you have money?”

Both Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax nodded, and Mrs. Pollifax reached into the pocket that she’d sewn into her
abaya
and brought out a handful of bills.

“Taib
—give Abdul a few. Before I leave, Abdul, go to Naima’s stall; I saw yesterday she has a few
burqas
to sell. Buy one. For you,” he explained to Mrs. Pollifax. “This is the black veil that covers all but the eyes. Not comfortable but concealing.
At each call to prayer you must place your white scarf on the head and kneel to pray, like a true Muslim. And from our trunk, Abdul, bring out two of our oldest
abayas
. But you,” he said, pointing to Joe, “those eyeglasses, they will have to go. Abdul?”

Abdul nodded and went out, returning soon with an armful of black cloth, after which Omar spoke to him in a low voice and left, not by the door, but through the curtain that apparently masked an inner room they were not to see.

W
hen Omar had gone Amanda said timidly, “This Fareeq who’s been killed, it had something to do with me?”

Farrell nodded. “We think he was killed by someone from your sniper camp who had been following us.”

“Following you?” she said, bewildered. “But why?” Mrs. Pollifax said, “The embassy in Damascus has given you up for dead, but certain rumors reached intelligence in the United States that you were still alive, or might be, which is why Farrell and I were sent here to find you. We were told we’d have help once we got here—and Omar was our first contact. Incidentally,” she added, “I’m here as an aunt of yours, or so the embassy believes.”

Joe said, “But Fareeq? You haven’t explained
him.”

“No, not even to you,” said Farrell, and to Amanda, “Omar didn’t have any idea of where you might be—he had only received and reported the rumors—but he said if we went to Palmyra he could arrange for a man to speak to us while we were touring the ruins, a man who would know—oh hell, this gets complicated—but off we went to Palmyra and a stranger
did
pause a few minutes to quietly give us directions to an
archaeological camp in the desert. Unfortunately, about ten minutes after he’d spoken with us there were screams from the tourists there and we saw that our informant had been stabbed. That’s when we feared it was because he’d been seen stopping to talk to us, and that’s when we guessed we were being followed, but
not
by the police.”

“There’s no need to go into the rest,” said Mrs. Pollifax dryly. “We
were
being followed—by two men in djellabas who caught up with us later. And they knew, somehow, precisely what we were up to, and they did
not
want us to find you.”

Amanda said in surprise, “Two men in robes? What day?” and when they told her she said slowly, “Nehhab and Youseff left camp early that morning—they looked so funny in those robes when mornings they wore shorts and T-shirts. They still hadn’t come back, and I wondered what had happened to them.”

“Still on the loose, then,” said Farrell grimly.

“Good God,” Joe said. “So that’s why you turned up at the camp in the middle of the night with a bandaged head, and Farrell two days later looking like death itself. They’d already murdered a man? They were really
serious
about killing you?”

Hearing this Amanda said with a gasp, “But that’s horrible, I’m not that important—I’m not, I’m
not
. You should have left me back there, you should never
never
have—”