Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled (6 page)

“I know.” Farrell sighed. “It looks very hot down there and it’s so comfortable here, although I admit I’m growing slightly tired of eggplant.”

“Any sign of our not-so-friendly escorts?” she asked.

He nodded. “One man, dark glasses, was standing in the lobby looking very awkward and out of place. Okay, I’m up—but let’s register later.”

They strolled past the Temple of Baalshamin, a portion of it remarkably well preserved, and reaching the Monumental Arch Mrs. Pollifax brought out her Palmyra guidebook. “Third century
A.D.
” she murmured.

“Not much left of it,” commented Farrell.

Gazing up at the arch Mrs. Pollifax touched the roughhewn blocks of stone. “Amazing that it still stands,” she said. “Behind it are only a few columns, no roof, a litter of fallen stones but the arch remains.”

A man who was passing overheard her words and paused—a handsome man in a striped black-and-white djellaba, his face narrow, ascetic, perhaps that of a scholar. A good face, thought Mrs. Pollifax. “There have been earthquakes, too, you see, as well as the years,” he said in a friendly voice. He was holding the same guidebook on Palmyra that she carried, and he walked closer to show it to them.

“We see not Americans often. Mine too is in English, I work to learn.” Leaning closer he said in a low voice, “Please note the page open.”

Startled, they each stared blankly at the picture of a castle fronted with stout round columns, under which were printed the words
The Eastern Qasr al-Hirt
. Farrell’s eyes suddenly narrowed and he gave the man an interested look. “There is no castle like that at Palmyra, is there?”

The man smiled pleasantly. “Oh no. In English miles it is
eighty miles to the east, well off the highway to Deir Ez Zor. You will see many
sheep
along the way.”

“Sheep,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax. “Yes—yes, we understand.” The picture was on page 118, she noted, and she leafed through her book until she reached page 118 in her own Palmyra guide. “And you recommend it …?”

He shrugged. “Only for its direction. It is known … there is a sign on highway announcing the Qasr in English and Arabic. But you do not go there. You stop, but do not go there. You cross the highway to a track leading south into the desert—direct south—where in ten miles there is a pot-hunting camp and—”

“Pot hunters? You mean archaeologists?” asked Farrell, frowning. “Digs?”

“Digs, yes. There may even be a small sign still planted in the earth there, with arrow. No road but track is clear—trucks go with supplies to them. Tell Khamseh—or Camp Five, in English. It is at this camp a Bedouin named Bazir Mamoul spoke of certain things he had seen. Bazir Mamoul,” he repeated. “And you head to Qasr al-Hirt
east,”
he emphasized. “There is also a Qasr al-Hirt West—
no!”
He closed his book, saying, “It has been most interesting speaking with you.”

With a smile he walked on, book in hand, as if studying it, and Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax quickly returned to an examination of the arch, pretending to share and study both the monument and the guidebook with renewed interest. After several minutes Farrell said, “We can’t stand here forever.”

“No, but I’m in shock,” admitted Mrs. Pollifax. “We have to travel eighty miles to this castle and then out into the desert to find an archaeology camp?”

“I know. He didn’t say
how
, only where.”

Rallying, Mrs. Pollifax said, “And we never assumed it
would be easy. One must be allowed, I suppose, a moment or two of
un
easiness. But I trusted him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and liked him,” agreed Farrell.

They began strolling down the colonnaded main avenue toward the theater, surrounded by single pillars rising like spears above rubble and crumbling temples. With a sigh—for Mrs. Pollifax preferred people to monuments—she consulted her guidebook again. “Hadrian was here,” she announced.

“And Zenobia,” teased Farrell.

“A pity she lived so long ago, you’d really appreciate her, Farrell. It says here that she had ‘pale skin, black eyes and beautiful teeth, white as pearls, and was considered the most noble and most beautiful of all women in the Orient.’ ” She closed the guidebook. “Farrell, I don’t feel like seeing any more of Palmyra, we’ve got to make plans. Find someone to drive us—or a bus—and leave tomorrow for that archaeological site.”

Farrell nodded, and taking her by the arm turned her around. “A bit strange to leave such a world-renowned place so quickly, but … we’ve established that we’re not being followed, haven’t we?”

“Yes, they’re probably waiting for us at the entrance,” she said. “Or certainly by the hotel, bored by following people around the ruins. Now how do we get back to the hotel?”

“Return to the Monumental Arch and turn left, except …” He frowned. “Something seems to be happening down there, Duchess. By the Arch.”

She had noticed it, too. A number of tourists had arrived and she had the impression of interrupted calm, of groups of people dissolving, re-forming and hurrying toward an undefined point where others had already collected; there were sounds of exclamations and a sudden scream. She and Farrell
began to run, anxious to see what had claimed so many people; a museum guard in uniform had arrived to hold people back but Mrs. Pollifax pressed her way through, with Farrell elbowing people out of the way.

The crowd had formed a circle around a man who had fallen to the ground. Two khaki-clad soldiers had laid aside their rifles to bend over him, and as they straightened, Mrs. Pollifax gasped as she saw that the man on the ground wore a black-and-white striped robe and there was a spreading stain of red across his back. One of the men shrugged.
“Battâl,”
he said.
“Isbital!”
And leaning over the man he grasped his shoulders while his companion grasped his feet. And for just a moment the man’s face could be seen.

“Oh dear God,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “Farrell—”

“Yes,” he said grimly. “It’s our friend. The same man. Our contact.”

T
hey were lifting the man with care.
“Excusez-moi,”
said the guard in French, and as the crowd parted, “Accident—
faire mal!”
His companion, in Arabic, shouted,
“Intabeh! Hakeem!”
Farrell said firmly, “Let’s go. Don’t look back, Duchess, let’s
go
—and fast!”

“But
not
to the hotel,” she gasped. “Not to the hotel, Farrell. Did you see the blood? Is he dead?”

“I saw it,” he said bitterly. “And I don’t mean to sound unfeeling, but for the moment we have to wonder if he was seen talking to us, poor chap. Where did Khalid say the bus station is? We’ve got to get out of here—and on the double!”

“He said it’s a block beyond the post office in Tadmor, not far from the hotel. In case we wanted to mail postcards,” she added dryly, trying to walk as fast as Farrell. “Farrell, slow down, we’re tourists, remember?”

“Hah,” was his only response but he slowed his pace. “What’s the word for post office? I don’t even speak French.”

“Oh,
must
we ask the way?”

They had vanished down a road behind their hotel, and reaching the wall that surrounded Palmyra they turned back
to the street leading into the town. “And there’s the post office,” said Mrs. Pollifax in relief. “The bus station must be just beyond it.”

Farrell shook his head. “I think first we duck down a side street or two and make sure that chap in dark glasses hasn’t caught up with us. Let’s try this one.”

They plunged down an alley, turning left and then right until they found themselves in the older section of town with its shabby restaurants, food stalls and shops. “In here,” Farrell said, pointing to an even narrower alley between food stalls.

It was deeply shadowed, like a tunnel with brilliant light at either end; they stopped in midpassage and waited to see if they’d been noticed. At the far end, from which they’d entered, people walked past without interest or pause; the sounds of traffic and music filtered down to them, a child cried, and then two men in djellabas turned into the alley, busily talking to each other with gestures; one of them laughed and nodded.

“Pretend we’re lost; I’ll ask for the bus station,” said Farrell. “We must look like fools standing here.” He moved aside for them to pass.

Suddenly Mrs. Pollifax said, “Farrell,
no
…!”

It was too late. One man had seized Farrell’s wrists and was tying a rope around them while the other man had stuffed a rag into Farrell’s mouth and was placing a bag over his head. Shocked and furious, outnumbered and too late for karate, Mrs. Pollifax flung herself at the two men and in turn was hit over the head and sent reeling across the stone-paved alley to the ground.

She lay there, stunned from the fall, blood running into her eyes and blinding her. When at last she rallied and forced herself to sit up the alley was empty; Farrell was gone. Gingerly she checked arms and legs; no bones had been broken but she
felt bruised all over from the force of the fall, one arm had been scraped raw from the sharpness of the stones and her head throbbed. Reaching a hand to her forehead she met with a flap of loose skin from which the blood was flowing. Blindly she reached out and found her purse beside her; she could at least be grateful they’d not taken her passport and money but her mind felt numbed by shock. She couldn’t think, she could only begin to crawl toward the bright and empty end of the alley, to get out and away lest they come back for her, wanting no more than to leave this dark place of violence—yes, and of loss, for she’d lost Farrell. Near the end of the alley she stood up, unsteadily and dizzily, and by clinging to the wall made her way step by step out of the alley to find herself blinded by sun.

Blinking at the brightness she saw ahead of her a long line of cement-block houses with balconies—people lived here—and nearest her a woman in a white headscarf was hanging towels and robes over the wall of her balcony.

Mrs. Pollifax stumbled toward her into the street and looked up at her. “Please?” she whispered, and then, louder, “Please?
Amerikâni?”

The woman, seeing her, looked frightened and then, after glancing up and down the street she gave a quick nod and vanished. An endless minute passed before the door to the street was opened; again the woman glanced up and down the street and then she rushed to Mrs. Pollifax, still looking from left to right, gasped,
“Yalla! Yalla!”
and half dragged, half carried her through the door and into the house. There she was placed on the floor—this blessed woman, thought Mrs. Pollifax—while the woman caught her breath and stared down at her until Mrs. Pollifax whispered,
“Shukren
—thank you!”

With this the woman suddenly smiled, nodded, and hurried
away again, returning with a cloth dripping with water to wipe the blood from Mrs. Pollifax’s temple.
Brave
, thought Mrs. Pollifax, remembering her anxious glances up and down the street.
“Shukren,”
she murmured again, and fainted.

When she opened her eyes she was lying on a mattress in a dim room, with the woman and a boy of twelve or thirteen looking down at her. The boy said, “I speak a small English, a wound has happened?”

Mrs. Pollifax lifted a hand to her forehead and winced. Impossible to explain, she thought, and said, “A rock … loose from the wall … fell. On me.”

Whether they accepted this or not the woman spoke to the boy, who went into another room and returned with a tiny glass cup with pink roses on it.

“Kahweh,”
said the woman.

“Coffee,” said the boy proudly, in English.

Mrs. Pollifax sat up and sipped it; it was strong and flavored with cardamom and it revived her enough to say to the boy, “Please thank your mother, she is so kind to take me into your house.”

“Is okay,” he told her. “She say rest.” He frowned, thinking. “Until
aswad
—no, dark—you go. But do not go near windows.”

“No,” she said, and then again,
“Shukren,”
and struggled to sit up, knowing that she must or she’d never be able to leave. She was helped into a small living room crowded with furniture: cabinets, chairs, a sofa, pictures on the wall, a television set, plastic curtains at the windows. The television set was turned on, showing American cartoons with subtitles in Arabic. Thank heaven she still had her purse, she remembered, with aspirin in it as well as her passport and money. She
opened it and managed to choke down three aspirin without water and reassured the boy, saying,
“Naam
, I rest until dark.”

“Where, please, you go?” he asked.

At this she closed her eyes, feigning sleep because she didn’t know how to answer him. It was time to think, and to think hard, to remind herself that Farrell, wherever he was, and whatever he was enduring, was more professional than she could ever be, and would somehow deal with it. She had to weigh her own possibilities and choices now. There was no American Embassy in Tadmor, and no one to whom she could appeal without becoming conspicuous. It was time to admit that the
mukhabarat
had outwitted them; they must have realized their surveillance was noticed, and they had cleverly removed their trench coats and dark glasses and donned djellabas and kaffiyehs instead, to haul Farrell off to the police station and interrogate him. Not at once, she thought forlornly, no, not at once … this was not a country where human rights were honored, but she had to forget Farrell for the moment, he would want her to; they had faced both death and captivity together in earlier times and she knew his courage and his resourcefulness. If, with luck, he could talk his way out of arrest and imprisonment there were only two places to find her again: either at the hotel in Damascus, or at the archaeological camp that lay to the south of the Qasr al-Hirt east, and she had no interest in returning defeated to Damascus.