Mrs. Pollifax on Safari (14 page)

Amy Lovecraft turned and looked at her. “After us?” she said, her lip curling. “Yes, but when exactly? And what the hell do you mean by ‘all right’?”

Well, nothing lovable yet, thought Mrs. Pollifax, and decided to postpone any fresh attempt for the moment. Besides, she had discovered that by wedging herself sideways into the corner she could maintain a precarious balance, which was providential because the Land Rover suddenly turned off the road and plowed through the tall
grass. They jolted ahead for several hundred feet and then came to a stop, went into reverse and backed out into the road again.

“I wonder what that was all about,” said Mrs. Pollifax.

“I know a few words of Nyanga,” said Mrs. Lovecraft, and leaned forward and spoke to the driver. She appeared to know quite a number of words, and the driver to speak Nyanga, because he replied at some length.

“He refuses to say,” Mrs. Lovecraft told her. sinking back into her seat. “He doesn’t want us to talk either.”

“It was probably an attempt to confuse anyone following us,” said Mrs. Pollifax sagely. “I hope that at some point he’ll tell us why we’re hostages.”

Amy Lovecraft shrugged. “It’s usually money, isn’t it?” she said indifferently.

Mrs. Pollifax moved out of her corner and tried bracing herself with both feet against the floor. The road ahead was empty even of guinea fowl tonight, and she could see nothing on either side: there was only the dim light from the dashboard silhouetting the two men in front of her, and beyond this the bright twin beams of light combing the rough road. She and Amy Lovecraft huddled in the rear in darkness, with the third man crouched behind them; at times she could feel him breathing down her neck.

They were heading north, she knew, because they had made the same turn to the right after leaving camp that Julian had made this morning when he took them north to look for lions. She tried to recall her map of Kafue Park and, closing her eyes, remembered that it was shaped roughly like the state of Florida, that it was large and it was long, and that there were police posts at various
intervals along its border. Only two roads entered it. The road that ran the length of the park from top to bottom, or south to north, was the road on which they were driving now, this narrow dirt road gutted with elephant holes which, for all its simplicity, remained the supply line that laced together the camps at Kafue Park.

The second road ran from east to west and was the paved Lusaka–Mumbwa highway by which they had entered the park on Monday, with its police stations at either end. Thinking about this, she decided that her abductors were either mad or uncannily shrewd, because they were heading precisely where they shouldn’t go. They had Lufupa camp somewhere ahead of them—the camp at which they’d picnicked at noon—and Moshe camp above that, near the top of the park, while behind them they had Kafwala camp and the Lusaka–Mumbwa highway. This left them with only one large tract of land in which to maneuver, and she wondered how they proposed to get out of it. She also began to wonder why they’d chosen to snatch their tourists in a park since there must be tourists in far more accessible places … Lusaka for one, or Livingstone. It was all very illogical and baffling.

She opened her eyes to discover that the Land Rover was leaving the road again and stopping. This time one of the men climbed out and walked back through the tall grass, and during the interval he was gone the driver had time to light a cigarette and smoke it. When the man returned, the driver snuffed out his cigarette and started the engine, but this time he didn’t slip the gear into reverse, he drove ahead into the bush, leaving the road behind. With this act something unalterably changed. It had been a modest road, thought Mrs. Pollifax wistfully,
but it was a road that led back to Kafwala camp or ahead to Lufupa, or even indirectly to the city of Lusaka. Leaving it was like cutting an umbilical cord.

The ground was smoother now, but they drove fast and there were small hills and hollows to unsettle Mrs. Pollifax, so that at one point she ended up on the floor. Somewhere off in the distance a hyena howled, and Mrs. Pollifax longed to join with it and howl too. They drove on and on, it seemed interminable, the men occasionally exchanging sharp grunts or pointing up to the stars. It was a long time before they bumped to a halt, and before the headlights were extinguished Mrs. Pollifax glimpsed the shapes of two abandoned, crumbling huts inside a circle of trees.

The man sitting behind her said sharply, “Set up the radio, Reuben, we’re ten minutes late.”

“But Simon—”

“Later. Set up the radio—anywhere—but fast.”

From one of the huts the two men carried out a heavy dark object, set it down on the grass and leaned over it. A candle was lighted, Simon squatted down in front of it, slid up an antenna and began fiddling with dials. His voice when he spoke was quite clear in the still night. Mrs. Pollifax heard, “Simon to Green-Bird, Simon to Green-Bird …”

Simon to Green-Bird suddenly broke off. “Got him,” Simon said triumphantly, and then, “All okay here, Green-Bird, couldn’t be better. What about your end?” He chuckled, listening. “Perfect. We follow through then as planned? My watch says 9:05 … Right. Twenty-one hours from now at Location B. Last contact, Green-bird. Signing off.”

He slid the antenna back and nodded with satisfaction. “Smooth as silk, Mainza. You and Reuben take the candle and hide the radio.” He paused, glancing around him. “I’ll take the hut on the right. Reuben, you guard its door.”

Turning back toward the Land Rover, his voice exhilarated, he said, “Out, ladies. Climb out and follow me.”

They were led inside, and when a lantern had been lighted its illumination proved beyond any doubt that the men had been here earlier, for besides the radio that had been magically produced, there were sleeping bags in the corner, two boxes and a tarpaulin. The hut was small, perhaps eight feet square, and only three of its walls remained standing. Simon unfurled the tarpaulin and hung it over the fourth wall, which had crumbled away leaving only the wooden framework.

“Who are you?” asked Mrs. Pollifax as the lantern shone on Simon’s face.

“It’s of no importance,” he told her.

“But you’re not Zambians?”

He laughed. “No, not Zambians.” Unrolling a sleeping bag he tossed it to Amy Lovecraft. “You—over there. Sit quietly, I wish to question this lady.”

Amy Lovecraft carried the sleeping bag to the corner and sat down, her back against the wall, her bound wrists held out in front of her. She had been silent for a long time, and she remained silent, her eyes watching Simon intently. Perhaps she was weighing the possibilities of using feminine wiles on him, thought Mrs. Pollifax, but this was pure conjecture: at least she was subdued and not hysterical.

Simon carried one of the two boxes to the center of
the hut and gestured to her to sit down. She ignored this, saying stiffly, “My wrists hurt. You tied Mrs. Lovecraft’s wrists in front of her and I don’t see why mine can’t be tied that way too.”

Simon shot a quick glance at Amy Lovecraft and shrugged. He called, “Reuben?”

“Yes, Simon.”

“Come in and guard this woman while I change the ropes on her wrists.”

So much for that, thought Mrs. Pollifax, thinking wistfully of a back strangle, a front choke or a forearm slash; nevertheless, she was grateful to have her arms no longer pinned tightly behind her, and the relief to her shoulder muscles was exquisite.

“Now,” said Simon. He produced the other wooden box and sat down opposite her, so close that their knees touched.

“Yes, now,” said Mrs. Pollifax dryly. “What is it you want of us? What kind of ransom are you asking, and why?”

He brushed this aside indifferently. “The ransom requirements have already been delivered to the television station in Lusaka, madam. They became known at the precise moment we removed you from Kafwala camp. Now all you need do is co-operate. We wish information from you, it is a matter of photographs.”

“Photographs,” echoed Mrs. Pollifax, suddenly alarmed.

He did not notice her reaction, which was merciful, because a second later he was sliding four glossy six-by-ten-inch photographs from a crisp manila envelope, and Mrs. Pollifax could see at once that they were not hers.

“These,” he said, and placing his gun on the floor he
handed her the pictures. “You will tell me which of these men is familiar to you.”

“Familiar?” she said blankly. “But you must know I can’t help you, I arrived in Zambia only Monday. It’s ridiculous to think I could identify—”

“You will look at the photographs,” he said flatly. “They are large and quite clear. We wish your impressions.”

As she picked them up he leaned closer, his eyes on her face, and she thought,
Be careful, something is important here.
Because of this, instead of rifling through them quickly she kept them one on top of the other and approached them warily. The first was a color photograph of a long-faced man with a sweeping handlebar mustache and curly gray hair. Nothing there. The second was of another mustached man, very swashbuckling, with a bold look. She eyed him politely and then turned to the third picture, which was of—of John Sebastian Farrell, she realized in astonishment—
Farrell!
—and with a desperate concentration she forced herself to look into his face without expression before she wrenched her gaze to the last photo, a black-and-white picture of a plumpish hard-faced man.

She said, “They all have mustaches. I’m supposed to know one of them?”

“You
do
know one of them,” he said, anger creeping into his cool voice. “You advertised for him in the
Times of Zambia.
”

She allowed her surprise to show; it was genuine but not for the reason he supposed. “I advertised for a man named John Sebastian Farrell,” she told him. “Is
that
why you abducted me? You’ve just told us it was for ransom.”

He shrugged. “The ransom scarcely matters. You know this Farrell, you can identify him for us, and that is what matters. The ransom is only—what do you call it, the red herring?”

This was rather staggering news. She gasped, “You amaze me,” and then, accusingly, “Why was it necessary to kidnap two of us, then? Why Mrs. Lovecraft as well?”

“Two are always better than one,” he said with a faint smile. “She will be hostage to
you.
”

Over his shoulder Mrs. Pollifax glanced at Mrs. Lovecraft to see how she was taking this news of her expendability, but she appeared to have withdrawn into a world of her own, her brows knit together, her eyes blank. In the dim light of the lantern she looked bloodless, her face the same shade as her pale hair. “I didn’t realize Farrell was such an important person,” she said, turning back to Simon. “Why?”

“That is
our
business. Which of these four is he?” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “You understand we know one of these men is Mr. Farrell, we
know
this, so you will now tell us which he is.”

“But none of them
is
Mr. Farrell,” she lied.

He hit her hard across the face with the back of his hand, brutally, without emotion. “I don’t think you understood the question.”

She looked at him, blood running from her cut lip into her mouth, her anger matching his as their eyes met. She said steadily, “And you are not a very nice person.”

“You see that? Good. Now look again at these pictures.”

“No,” she said, turning away, “because those men are strangers to me.”

“Look at them,” he shouted, and held the first one in front of her eyes, one hand encircling her neck and forcing her to look. “This one?”

“No,” she gasped.

He held out the second. “This?”

She shook her head.

“This one, then?”

“I told you—none of them,” she cried, her fury outweighing her terror.

He hit her again, this time so savagely that she fell off the box to the floor. Behind him Mrs. Pollifax heard Amy Lovecraft begin to cough, and impatiently Simon leaned over and pulled her to her feet.

“Listen to me,” he said in a hard voice. “To me you are so much carrion. We do not leave this place until the sun rises tomorrow morning and there will be more of this, much more. I will drag this information from you the hard way or the easy way, but
you will give me what I want.
Think about this, it is your choice.”

He stalked out.

There was a long silence, and then in the corner of the hut Mrs. Lovecraft stirred and sighed, her trance ended. She lifted her head and looked at Mrs. Pollifax and she said, “You were absolutely super, you know. I hope I wouldn’t have told them what they want, either.”

Licking the blood from her broken lip, Mrs. Pollifax said angrily, “It’s ridiculous, I really believed we’d been kidnaped for money.”

“Yes, but what will you do when this Simon comes back?” she asked, looking at her curiously. “How long
do you think you’ll be able to trick him?”

Mrs. Pollifax had been wondering why Simon chose such a strange moment to break off his interrogation when a few more blows might have broken her; it was odd, she thought, his giving her this time to convalesce. Now she reluctantly turned her attention to Amy Lovecraft. “Trick him?” she said. If Amy believed that she could identify Farrell then this was a notion that had better be dispelled at once. Mrs. Lovecraft was speaking in a low voice but one of the walls was of canvas, and Simon—yes, Simon had definitely chosen a very curious moment to leave. “Trick him, Mrs. Lovecraft?”

“Oh call me Amy,” she said impatiently. “Of course you were tricking him, it’s what I would have done too, but you can’t keep it up forever. The man is frightening. What are we to do?”

“There’s nothing we can do,” she said, and sat down and faced her. “None of those men was Mr. Farrell.”

“Simon seemed certain of it.”

“That’s his problem.”

“But you must see that we’re in this terrible mess together,” cried Amy. “It’s so unfair. You have something to bargain with, but I—” She lifted her bound hands helplessly, her voice trembling. “I’ve nothing. I have to depend entirely on you because of this mysterious man they called Farrell. Who is he anyway? And how do you happen to know a man who lives in Zambia?”