Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled (10 page)

“You mean a passport was burned in that fire? An
American
passport?”

She nodded. “Take a look at mine closely.” She held it out to him. “The back of the cover or jacket is plasticized—the fire would have loved destroying
that
. Now turn it over and see what’s behind the
T
on the front of
my
passport.”

“Okay,” he agreed. “Running along the bottom of the page is ‘USA Reed-Pollifax,’ space, ‘Emily,’ and below it a long series of numbers.”

“Yes, and now look at what we found in the fire. In the back of the
T
.”

“Not much,” he said. “The letters
YM
, and below it three numbers, the rest unreadable. This means something?”

She said softly, “It could mean a great deal when you realize that Amanda’s last name is Pym—spelled P-Y-M. And when you place it next to my passport it’s precisely where my name appears.”

“Good God,” he said, “you think it could be hers, then?”

“According to the story that Bazir Mamoul told, he peered over a small hill just as we did.”

“I’m in over my head,” Joe admitted. “You actually think she’s there, in that camp?”

“It scarcely seems possible, but she could be.” She frowned. “It’s interesting, their burning this outside the camp, they took great care to dispose of it at a distance from the fences. They were careless about it,” she said, pointing to the remnant she’d uncovered. “There could be more there if only we—”

“You scare me, Mrs. Pollifax, you really scare me.”

She smiled. “I know. You’ve been ever so kind just to do this.”

“Never mind that, the question is what she’d be doing there, and why.”

“Yes,” she said, “but the larger question is whether she’s still alive.”

He glanced at her sharply. “She was alive seven weeks ago, at least
someone
American was alive, according to Bazir Mamoul.”

“But for what purpose?” she murmured, frowning. “And
why? And how do we—There must be stronger binoculars at your camp.”

Startled, he said, “You can’t go back, it’s too dangerous.”

“I have to remind you,” she pointed out gently, “that I’m here to find and bring her back to America if she can be found.”

“But alone? By yourself?”

“Farrell will find me,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “The police will learn he’s American, and surely the embassy will hear of it. We were met at the airport by a Mr. Jacoby from the embassy, so they know we’re here, and we had that appointment with them that we didn’t keep. They’ll make an official protest at once.”

“You hope,” he said dryly. “And if he’s freed, how do you know he’ll ever find you?”

“Because I know him.”
And he knows me
, she thought. “We were both on our way to this camp when he was attacked and arrested—he knows the directions—so where else would he look for me?”

Joe laughed a little shakily. “And none of this worries you?”

“Not,” she said, “when we’ve just found what looks to be a remnant of an American passport that could be Amanda Pym’s buried in the middle of the Syrian desert.”

He said curiously, “You’ve told me
who
she is, but what was she like, this Amanda Pym?” With a glance at his watch he started up the engine and they began their return to the camp.

“On television,” said Mrs. Pollifax, “she was—as Farrell said—the most unlikely heroine he’d ever seen. Mousy. No personality. A little frightened but perhaps she was only shy. She said yes and she said no and the interviewer was thoroughly frustrated trying to pry some words out of her.”

She saw that Joe was frowning. “You’d think she would
flaunt
what she’d done, be pleased, excited. It’s odd … and she’d saved the lives of how many people?”

“Over two hundred.”

“That’s a lot of people, how on earth did she do that?”

“There were two hijackers. The plane had been on the tarmac for several hours when suddenly she left her seat and walked up to the nearest hijacker and asked for his gun.”

“You’re kidding! Just like that?” He shook his head. “Weird! I’ve always had my head in books; I’ve not much curiosity about people—unless they were Umayyads,” he said wryly, “but now I find myself curious about your Miss Pym, too.”

Good
, thought Mrs. Pollifax ruthlessly,
the more curious the better if it earns another trip in the Land Rover
.

If not, she decided, one of Argub’s camels … because of course she had to go back.

Tell Khamseh was still noon-quiet when they drove in, the sides of each tent open for any stirring of air that might rise. At this hour, with the sun overhead and lean of shadows, the khaki tents merged with the khaki-colored earth, the only dark note the deep grids of the excavation.

Across the compound Amy Madison left the tent she was sharing with Mrs. Pollifax and strode toward them. She said, “Your name
is
Pollifax?”

Mrs. Pollifax nodded.

She said curtly, “The most disreputable man arrived an hour ago, he said he knows you. I put him in my tent; he’s been hurt.” She said sternly, “I don’t think Dr. Robinson is going to like all this coming and going, it’s very disturbing.”

“A man? Hurt?” echoed Mrs. Pollifax, and jumped out of the Land Rover to race into Amy’s tent.

He was lying on the cot that she’d occupied during the night, one arm in a sling, dark bruises under one closed eye,
unshaven, a cut on his left cheek and his clothes in tatters.
“Farrell!”
she gasped.

He opened one eye and said weakly, “Duchess?”

Amy and Joe had followed her into the stifling tent. Amy said, “He just … walked in, asking for you. His wrists were in terrible shape. You
know
this man?”

“I certainly do,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “He traveled to Syria with me. Farrell—my God, the police did this to you?”

He shook his head.
“Not
police.”

“Not police?” she said, puzzled.

Farrell struggled to sit up and then sank back with a groan.
“Not
police,” he gasped. “Whoever they were they know all about us and why we’re here, and they were going to kill me. Duchess, somebody very definitely doesn’t want us to find Amanda Pym.”

M
rs. Pollifax spent the next hour seated beside Farrell in Amy’s tent and bathing his face in precious water, raiding Joe’s first-aid kit for antibiotic ointments and applying these to his bleeding wrists. She was able to reassure herself that his arm was only bruised from shoulder to wrist, but not broken. He was sleeping deeply, from time to time waking up to say blankly, “It’s
you
?” and then, “Thank God,” and fall asleep again.

In late afternoon Joe stuck his head in the tent and said, “How is he? I brought you food.”

“I don’t think he can eat yet.”

“I brought it for
you,”
he told her, and looking down at the sleeping Farrell said, “So this is your Farrell. My cousin, I suppose?”

She laughed. “Yes, unless you’d prefer a brother.”

“Well,
eat
. It’s last night’s falafel, quite safe. The only generator we have in camp—a small one—runs on diesel and is strictly for the refrigerator and our food. Can he be moved yet, do you think? Amy seems a bit unsettled about having a man in her tent.”

Farrell opened his eyes. “I’m not deaf. Of course I can walk.”

He did not precisely walk, but limping and leaning on them both he was conveyed to Joe’s tent, where Mrs. Pollifax propped him up and Joe said, “He’s all yours now, it’s back to work for me,” leaving Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell to look at each other with interest.

She said quietly, “What happened, Farrell?”

“Knocked me around a bit,” he said wearily. “Threatened. Information was demanded: who sent me, who did I work for, who told me Amanda Pym was alive. Then they tied me to a post for the night—standing—and said they’d kill me in the morning if I didn’t talk. That sort of thing.” His eyes moved to her bandaged temple. “I don’t know how you made it here, Duchess, but I’m sure glad to see you.” He managed a wry smile. “Damn good luck they didn’t haul you away, too, but I gather they think women here have no value.”

“I should be insulted,” she told him lightly, “but for the moment I’m relieved. How on earth did you get here in your condition?”

“From Tadmor? Walked. Stumbled. Kept away from roads. Hid in a pickup truck last night that brought me three hours nearer. Walked the rest of the way. Am I developing a black eye?”

“Afraid so,” she said, and very casually asked how he got away from his captors, and from Tadmor.

“Sheer luck,” he said grimly. “That post I was tied to—one rope around my middle, both hands tied behind my back—had a nail sticking out of it, probably a hundred years old but sharp enough. One of the men slept, and the one guarding me grew careless—or bored.”

“You mean—”

He nodded. “For hours I worked on the rope around my
wrists—that one blessed nail. They didn’t seem to notice. Nearly dawn when I freed my hands. They’d not found the knife—the one I bought in Damascus, in the souk, remember?—and with my hands freed I sliced away the rope that tied me to the post. Jumped out of a window and ran—some godforsaken street at edge of town.” He hesitated, frowning. “But there’s something else, Duchess.”

“What?”

“I never saw their faces but one of them—I swear that he mixed German words into his English and Arabic.
‘Guten Gott!’
he said once, and then,
‘Ich haben’
before he gave a start and returned to Arabic. And once the word
‘achtung,’
which even I know means ‘attention’.”

“German!” she exclaimed.

He nodded. “A small detail, but interesting.”

“Bewildering!”

“Unfortunately,” he said, “and I’m sorry as hell about this, but I’m not going to be of much help to you for at least another day.”

Joe, opening the tent flap, walked in saying eagerly, “I heard that. Have you told him yet what you and I discovered today?”

She liked the “you and I,” especially when spoken with a touch of pride. It was just possible … With a pointed glance at Farrell she said quickly, “This is Joe Fleming—I’m
his
aunt now, too—and he’s proved ever so resourceful and helpful today, and we did discover something I think
very
important.” She added demurely, with a glance at Joe, “He might even consent to offer
more
help until you’re on your feet again.”

Farrell grinned. “Roped him in, did you?” He gave Joe a critical glance and appeared to like what he saw. “So what
did
you find this morning?”

Joe winced. “Wish I could stay but she’ll have to tell you. I took that minute from work to move you here to my tent, but I’ve got to go back, or Dr. Robinson—well, you know.”

He rushed out, and Mrs. Pollifax sat down and proceeded to tell Farrell what they’d found on their hard-won trip in the Land Rover, and when she had finished she brought out her passport, and from her pocket the remnant they’d rescued from the ashes of a fire.

Examining them both Farrell looked up and said, “Congratulations, Duchess, what you found is very definitely a scrap of a passport, and an American passport, and one cannot ignore that
YM
. Have you any idea how far away that mysterious camp is from here?”

She nodded. “On our way back I kept an eye on the Land Rover’s odometer. I’ve not done the arithmetic yet but it was about twenty-two miles, and map-wise our direction was somewhat diagonally south-southeast from here.”

“Think you can find it again?”

“I want to,” she said cautiously. “I want to see what else was burned in that fire.”

He nodded. “According to our friend in Damascus in the souk—Omar—the camp’s privy was very near to where you did your spying. Probably a pit in the ground. Did you notice it?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t look for it, I was in a state of astonishment, and Joe was frankly scared. We certainly didn’t linger.”

He thought about this. “The fire sounds the most important of all—to confirm she was there or still is. It’s what the State Department—not to mention Carstairs—will want to know. But damn risky, Duchess—don’t forget what Bazir Mamoul said about their privy being very near to where you must have
done your spying … anyone using it just might look over that hill and see …” He looked down at his bandaged wrists and swore. “Damn it, Duchess, it’s going to be another day before I can help. Wait for me—don’t go alone, it’s too dangerous.”

She said nothing. Farrell obviously wasn’t thinking clearly yet because they couldn’t afford to wait for him; only forty or more hours ago he’d escaped from two men in Tadmor who would be looking for him now, and who would no doubt widen their search beyond Tadmor very soon. They couldn’t
afford
time, it was necessary to act with haste. To be found here would be disastrous, for Dr. Robinson and his work, and for Farrell and herself, as well as for any hope of finding Amanda Pym. She only said gently, “Do lie back, Farrell, and concentrate on getting well. And don’t
worry.”
She left him to find Joe and ask about a camel.