Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled (8 page)

She nodded as she disposed of a fourth sardine.

“I remember the name,” he said, frowning. “He wandered in here needing water—but it was
weeks
ago. Mustafa, one of our workers, knew him. But what makes him so—” He stopped, his eyes narrowing. “…  so important.”

He had an interesting face, but not as boyish as she’d thought at first glance, closer in age to thirty, she decided, and definitely clever and inquisitive. “He has news of interest that I’m here to inquire about,” she said primly.

“Yes, but how did you hear about this Bazir Mamoul?”

“News gets around,” she said vaguely. “What’s
your
name?”

He studied her carefully. “My name is Joe Fleming and I insist”—he was suddenly very serious—“on knowing how you learned about us here, and about Bazir Mamoul.”

She sighed. “I think it’s enough that I’m here and looking for him. His arrival was … well, noted.”

His gaze was thoughtful. “The Damascenes are great sellers
of fine rugs,” he said. “Have you perhaps met a boy named Abdul, possibly in the souk?”

Startled, she said, “We’ve met such a boy, yes.”

“We? Who is ‘we’?”

She sighed. “There
were
two of us, but my companion was attacked and taken away by two policemen in Tadmor, which is how …” She pointed to her bleeding forehead. “And he was arrested.”

“Good God, and you came along—without him—after all that?” He hesitated and then, “It’s just possible,” he added, “that I’m the person you’re looking for.”

She stared at him blankly. “I’m looking for Bazir Mamoul.”

He smiled. “I can assure you that I’m a bona fide junior archaeologist but I just happen to have been asked to … shall we say, pass any news along that I hear out here in the desert, such as what Bazir Mamoul happened to speak of to Mustafa when he stopped here for water.”

Surprised, she said, “Do you mean it was you who … if not for you … I see.…”

“Yes, but I think we continue this in the morning,” he said firmly. “You’re obviously still in shock, hurt and tired. We understand each other; that’s enough. Have you finished the sardines?”

She handed him the empty tin.

“Good, I’ll turn in now, we’ll talk in the morning.”

“One question,” she said. “Something
must
be done about my friend Farrell. Is there any way to communicate from here with the embassy in Damascus and tell them he’s been arrested?”

He considered this. “Barney has our shortwave radio; we order our supplies through it. Whether it’s powerful enough to reach Damascus I don’t know—depends on sandstorms and
weather. But that will have to wait for morning.” He blew out the flame in the lamp, tossed a pillow to her cot and lay down on his. “In the morning we talk,” he repeated. “In the mean-time,
Allah yimissikum bi-kheir.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning ‘May thy night be happy.’ ”

I
t was barely light when Mrs. Pollifax opened her eyes to find that her host of the night was sitting on his cot thoroughly shaking each of his boots. Seeing her sit up he said, “Scorpions, you know. They love shoes.”

“Mine seem to be still on my feet,” she said, regarding them with interest, and surprised at how suddenly she’d fallen asleep. “I must have been really tired.”

“Lady, you were a mess,” he told her frankly. “I don’t mean that insultingly,” he added. “I mean you looked on the verge of collapse, to which I happily add that you look an entirely different person this morning. Breakfast is in forty minutes, it’s in the main tent.” He reached for a jug of water and poured a small amount into a canvas basin. “Precious stuff in the desert, water. If you care to wash your face …”

She plunged both hands into the basin and splashed cold water over her face.

“What I’ve been wondering,” he said, “is how on earth to explain you to Dr. Robinson. We’re a pretty tight group here, and on a very tight budget, too.”

She said quickly, “I can pay for my breakfast.”

“I’ve decided,” he said firmly, “that instead of being my
umm”
—he grinned at her—“you could be my aunt. American aunt touring Syria, stopping off briefly to see her nephew. Do you mind being an aunt?”

She laughed. “Why not? It seems to be my role just now. No scorpions?”

“Not this morning,” he said, lacing up his boots. “Now do you mind telling me why you’re looking for Bazir Mamoul? If I remember the story he told Mustafa that I passed along it concerned—”

“Not until you tell me who
you
are,” she countered, “trusted as you must be to pass along news to certain rug merchants.”

He shook his head. “Actually I’ve never met him, it’s Abdul I meet.
Someone
has to drive to Damascus twice a month to pick up supplies we can’t get in Tadmor, and it’s an assignment I’ve asked for, so twice a month—on the same day—I lunch at the Al-Arabi restaurant where Abdul is stationed outside selling baskets or whatever, and we pretend to haggle over a sale. We’ve become friends, and he trusts me, but he’s said only that his father sells rugs in the souk. Since just about every fourth merchant in the souk sells carpets—”

She interrupted him to say, “You’re still not telling me who you
are.”

He said quietly,
“Not
CIA, if that’s what you’re thinking. I suspect you are, but I’m not.”

“But you must have some connection—to pass along news.”

“Very slight,” he said, and when she looked at him skeptically, “It began when I was a graduate student—in ancient history at the university—and was paid a very small stipend for my teaching stint, I can assure you. When Dr. Robinson accepted me three summers ago—a real honor to be chosen out of so many applicants, even though there’s no money in it—I couldn’t afford even the plane fare to Syria. My cousin—he has a desk job at the CIA—said he thought he could scrounge up some money for airfare if I …” He smiled wryly. “If I would pass along any local news: mood of the workers,
droughts, diseases, rumors, all vague and sounding innocent. Anyway, I was greedy for the job and frankly thought my cousin was just being kind, but my airfares have continued to be paid for very mysteriously. You’re the first indication that any of my feeble reports—mostly agricultural—have ever mattered. Does that satisfy you?”

“So you’ve been here for three summers, then?”

He nodded. “This is my last one, though, because I’ve finally landed a good,
very
good job teaching Arabic and Arab history beginning in February. Now it’s your turn. What’s it all about, you being here? To have come so far—damn risky, too.”

“Fair exchange,” she said. “It’s due to a young American woman who was—” She stopped and began again. “Six weeks ago—seven by now—a plane was hijacked and landed at the airport in Damascus, and thanks to this young woman the lives of over two hundred passengers were saved. She was quite a heroine, interviewed in the airport on television, and then in plain view of the camera she got into what is believed the wrong car waiting outside, and hasn’t been seen since. In a word, kidnapped. Surely you heard something of this?”

He shook his head. “My radio ran out of batteries in August and we mostly get static anyway. I seem to remember Barney saying something about a hijacking but that was weeks ago, and if that’s why you’re here I don’t see what
you
can do.”

“Find her, of course,” said Mrs. Pollifax. “If she’s still alive. The embassy thinks she’s dead, but if Bazir Mamoul overheard an American girl talking in the desert somewhere I’m here to learn
where
. I want to find him.” She added crisply, “I’ll need a guide, and a Land Rover, or a camel or whatever transportation is available out here.”

He said in astonishment, “You expect to find Bazir Mamoul just like that—and by yourself? This is a
very
big desert.”

“If he herds sheep,” she pointed out tartly, “then he can be found where there’s grazing. That’s a start, isn’t it?”

“You know deserts?” he said, surprised.

She smiled. “A little, yes. I’ve money, rather a lot of it. I can pay any guide very well who can help me find Bazir Mamoul.”

“You’re nuts—crazy.”

“Of course,” she told him cheerfully, “but what I need from you is advice, not comments on my sanity. Can you help? At least until Farrell—” She stopped, not wanting to think of what he must be enduring.
It’s up to me now, up to me
, she repeated silently, bracing herself.

He was scowling at her words, looking owlish with his tousled hair, glasses and boyish face. “We have one Land Rover here,” he said, “and Dr. Robinson would
never
agree to loaning it. One of the workmen—Argub—brought two of his camels with him, but …”

“Then I’ll go on a camel,” she told him. “American tourist who’s lost her tour group.”

His frown deepened. “Of course he
might
loan the Land Rover during one of our noon siestas, but …” He shook his head. “Not today, though. It would need … well, negotiating. And meeting you.”

“Then let’s go to breakfast and have me introduced,” she told him. “There’s also Barney with his shortwave radio; the embassy should be opening in an hour or two. You’ll ask him to try to get through about Farrell? John Sebastian Farrell.”

Joe said wryly, “I think I liked you better last night before I learned all this.” He grinned. “So come along, Aunt, and meet everyone and see what we’re doing here.”

By daylight Mrs. Pollifax had a very different view of the encampment; in the darkness she’d not seen the excavations,
their many levels meticulously marked off by rods, nor the long stretch of open, canvas-shaded worktables extending out from the one adobe building that was the field office.

Joe said, “The caravan route between the Euphrates and Damascus ran through here. What we’ve found is either an Umayyad
khan
—inn, or caravansary—you can see two of the vaulted arches we’ve uncovered—or possibly a military outpost.… After all, the Qasr al-Hirt is only about thirty miles from here. Good morning, everyone,” he said as they reached the long dining tent. “Look who’s arrived last evening—my Aunt Emily Pollifax, removing herself from a guided tour to say hello. Dr. Robinson …”

The man at the head of the table politely rose, looking startled: tall, spare, with a short gray beard, his face shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat. He said doubtfully, “Yes er that is, welcome.”

Following this, names were flung at her: Barney from Brooklyn—she took special note of him—Fritz from Austria; Amy Madison, whose tent she’d almost shared last night; Julie and Curtis Lowell from California; Awwad; their Syrian archaeologist; and Branmin, supervisor of the workmen. At the second table sat the workers: Argub—with two camels, she remembered; Mustafa—she noted him especially, too—Fayah, Ali, Hamed, Hassan, Mahmud … the remainder blurred.

Room was made for her at the table next to Dr. Robinson and she at once began to artfully overwhelm him with conversation: how she wanted to learn
everything
about the Umayyads that her nephew researched, how she longed to see more of the desert, and while she waited for her cousin, delayed in Tadmor, would Dr. Robinson possibly allow her to help in the work so long as she didn’t get in the way?

Across the table Joe listened to her with amusement;
The
witch
, he thought,
she’s certainly determined to get that Land Rover
. Her offer to help was masterful, too, since three of their party had left early: his bunkmate and Amy’s, due to university commitments, and Cecil Burton for a family emergency, leaving them definitely shorthanded.

With breakfast finished Dr. Robinson excused himself and Mrs. Pollifax caught Joe’s eye and said, “Barney, please?”

“Ah yes, Barney,” he said. “Good man, Barney, ex-wrestler, ex-army.” He called him over, saying, “My aunt has a question to ask you.”

She liked Barney at once, older than Joe, a friendly bear of a man with broad shoulders, a battered nose and a cheerful face, the sort of brash New Yorker with whom she was familiar, and she shook his huge hand.

He grinned. “We assumed all of Joe’s relatives would be Umayyads. What can I do for you?”

“Could you get a message through to Damascus on your shortwave radio? To the embassy, for instance?”

“Damascus!” he exclaimed. “Hell no—if you’ll excuse the language.”

“Why?” asked Joe. “Weather?”

He shook his head. “Not enough power. What we have here is really a ham radio, its frequencies are in the middle-range band—enough to reach Tadmor—but for Damascus I’d have to have a radio with a high-frequency range—three to thirty hertz, and the government wouldn’t like that. I could forward a message to Tadmor and ask it be sent to Damascus.”

“Oh dear,” she said, frowning. “But would the embassy know it came from Tadmor?”

He looked puzzled. “Of course.”

She turned away. “I’ll have to think about that, Barney, thanks.”

He nodded and left, but not without a last curious glance at her.

“Why do you have to think about it?” asked Joe.

She sighed. “I was so naive last night. I thought … but it’s impossible. If the message comes from Tadmor the embassy will know where we are. Or where
I
am. You see, we had a Tuesday morning appointment at the embassy for the ambassador to present his condolences on Amanda Pym’s death, and for all I know they may have called the hotel by now and discovered our luggage is still there, but we’ve not been seen since Tuesday. They’ve no idea why we really came to Syria, you know—I’m supposed to be Amanda’s aunt—as well as yours,” she added with a rueful smile. “And they have
not
been told of the rumor that Amanda may still be alive.” She shook her head. “They
mustn’t
know where we are,” she emphasized.
“Mustn’t
. The police followed us to Palmyra but not
here
. Yet,” she added grimly.

“And all I was doing was meeting Abdul twice a month at a restaurant,” he said, staring at her with awe. “But your friend Farrell?”

She didn’t reply. “I told Dr. Robinson I’d help,” she said curtly, and walked away before she had to answer that question.