Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled (16 page)

Barney reached into the back and gave to Mrs. Pollifax a small burlap bag of—“What?” she asked.

“Grapes, and a few dates for protein,” he told her. “And here are your tickets, I made reservations for you yesterday on the bus.” He hesitated, and before she could thank him he said with a mocking smile, “Delighted to have met you, Joe’s aunt.” With a smile, a salute and “Cheers!” he turned the Land Rover around and left them … left them in the semidarkness in what felt to Mrs. Pollifax the middle of nowhere.

“We sit,” she said in a low voice.

Joe nodded. “But don’t speak again,” he whispered, and to Amanda, “Talk later, you’re an Arab now, you understand?”

She stared at him without expression but nodded. She appeared a shade more alert now and gave Mrs. Pollifax a curious, sidelong glance, as if seeing her for the first time; Mrs. Pollifax thought she even saw an attempt at a smile that quickly
vanished. They had come a long way for this young woman; there were so many questions she wanted to ask of her that it was frustrating to realize they must travel like mutes.

Pointing to the orange brick wall Mrs. Pollifax led Amanda to it and they sat down on the ground, their backs against it, and after a minute Farrell joined them. In the dim light he looked alarmingly tired—haggard, really—and while this added an interesting dimension to his disguise it worried her. She, too, was tired, and the cut on her forehead, quiescent all day, had begun to ache again—but
she
had not been tied up and beaten, or walked for miles. She thought of how Farrell must have reached deep inside of himself for the strength to carry on so cheerfully—as he so often had done in the past—and she reached for his hand. Leaning close she said in a low voice, “Sleep, Farrell, you need it—I’ll wake you.”

He gave her a wry smile and nodded. She released his hand and he closed his eyes, but whether he slept or not she couldn’t know, but it had become her turn now to remain alert and on guard. To keep her eyes from closing she occupied herself by remembering the bizarre circumstances under which she and Farrell had met: as two strangers tied up back-to-back in a remote airport in Mexico, later followed by a torturous escape out of Albania.… How many incredible people—a whole collage of them—she’d met on her trips for Carstairs, she thought, and her memory went back in time to a man who had been very dear to her, and whose real name she would never know, a man who had said, “If only you had been born Bulgarian,
Amerikanski
, we could have changed the world!”—as perhaps, in a very small way, each of them had. And remembering Tsanko she felt a rush of gratitude for the strange detour her life had taken that had so enriched and changed her …

 … And had brought her now to this moment of waiting in
a desert town of Syria, where she could only count the people who must be looking for them: the two mysterious men searching for Farrell, and surely by now a few outraged members of Amanda’s sniper camp, and she wondered for how long the three of them must remain exposed and vulnerable here until the bus came to take them … but where? The rug man in the Damascus souk was their only hope. If they could find him again.

B
arney had deposited them at As Sikhneh at close to midnight; it was three o’clock in the morning before a gaily painted bus came into sight, and by that time they had been joined by four more people, all men, and Mrs. Pollifax made a point of observing them closely. Three arrived together and, without any interest in Mrs. Pollifax, Farrell, and Amanda, continued a lively conversation with much laughter; she gained the impression they were workmen on their way to a job. The fourth man walked out of the darkness alone, not far from them, and gave each one of them an interested glance as he passed to take his place in the shadows. Because of that glance, casual but thorough, Mrs. Pollifax felt a small sense of alarm and took note of his appearance, so briefly seen: a long face and nose, thin mustache, dark skin and piercing eyes, a man wearing a simple gray djellaba, a checkered kaffiyeh, and brown sandals. She decided it would be wise to watch him.

As the bus came to a stop Joe, rising from his perch on an oil drum, yawned, stretched, stood up and murmured, as if to himself, “The Damascus bus at last—hooray!” and they lined up to enter. Farrell, awake and alert now, secured the long seat in the back for them, and although Mrs. Pollifax was able to
observe each passenger as they climbed into the bus she did not see the man with the piercing eyes; he was not among them.
Surprising
, she thought; he had simply vanished.

The bus drew away with the three of them huddled side by side in the rear, a shabby peasant family with Mrs. Pollifax clutching the small sack of food on her lap, and if Amanda looked frightened it was hoped that it would be mistaken for the shyness of a young unmarried Arab girl. Farrell immediately fell asleep, or feigned it, and as the bus began its drive to Tadmor Mrs. Pollifax, deprived of reading material and conversation, stared out of the window and watched the sun rise, and with it the sudden appearance of houses and fields and people that had been wrapped in darkness earlier: they passed a girl astride a donkey with metal water containers hung on either side of her saddle, like panniers; there was a glimpse of low black Bedouin tents in a distant field, and of sheep scattered over the hillsides. Pickup trucks loaded with cargo passed them, as well as oil trucks and small Mazda and Sukuki passenger cars.

She wanted to say, “Oh look!” She wanted to question this young stranger sitting beside her, wanted to ask her so many questions: what she’d been training to do in that sniper camp; why her life had been spared; what she’d endured; who the people were with whom she’d spent almost two months—but she mustn’t. She wanted to talk to Farrell, not to ask, “What next?” but simply to talk: to
communicate
. She had worn disguises before, but she couldn’t think of a situation in which speaking one word of English would betray them. She heartily envied Joe, who sat up front near the driver and chatted companionably with him from time to time in Arabic; obviously they had met before, but she could only look ahead and number
the hours the three of them had to remain silent; she felt deprived and frustrated.

When the bus pulled into the station at Tadmor, Mrs. Pollifax drew her headscarf closer and turned her face away from the window. This was the bus station that she and Farrell had hoped to reach—it felt a century ago—and not far away there would be the alley down which they’d plunged into disaster. She prayed no soldiers or police would enter the bus to check the passengers, but as the bus emptied it was mostly tourists who climbed in, a noisy group of Germans, free to talk and laugh, and Mrs. Pollifax hated them for that freedom.

How surly I’m growing
, she thought,
but how lovely to be a carefree tourist
.

However, with Damascus only three hours away now she closed her eyes and tried to picture the shops in the Damascus souk they had passed, and that she had tried to memorize, as they left Omar’s carpet stall.… Copper pots she could remember, and two large photos of President Assad, one smiling and one serious, each suspended overhead, but there had been other details, and what were they? In the labyrinth of alleys there had been so many shops selling rugs, which left only the smiling and serious Hafiz al-Assad photos to find.

Needle in a haystack
, she thought, and then … 
Sheepskins, yes: vests and rugs
. And with this she had to be content.

Before reaching Damascus she distributed the dates and grapes that Barney had presented to her at the last minute, and Farrell brought out the bread that Joe had contributed, and the food had a soothing effect—it had been a long time since they’d eaten—and when they reached the
Station d’autobus
in Damascus they had consumed every crumb of bread and every grape. Joe was the first off the bus and lingered nearby,
frequently glancing at his watch as if meeting someone. After Mrs. Pollifax, Amanda, and Farrell had made their exit he began strolling out of the square and into the street, with them following him at a discreet distance. Several blocks later he turned to the right, and with relief Mrs. Pollifax, gripping Amanda’s arm, recognized Martyrs’ Square; they were on familiar ground now and close to the Old City.

It was precisely 9:10 by Mrs. Pollifax’s watch when they walked through the entrance to this main covered market, the Souk Al Hamadye, and into the same crowds and lively music as before, the same shouts of the merchants and enlivening atmosphere of a Middle East marketplace. Now it was Joe who fell behind them, giving only a faint smile of acknowledgment as he retreated to allow them to lead the way. Amanda was obviously enchanted by this maze of streets; her face glowed as her eyes moved from displays of daggers, frilly children’s clothes, fruit stalls and djellabas; this was certainly not Roseville, Pennsylvania, thought Mrs. Pollifax, giving her a smile.

It was half-past the hour when, as they passed still another alleyway, a barbershop caught Mrs. Pollifax’s eye and she abruptly stopped.
Of course—the barbershop
, she remembered, the one detail she’d forgotten, and nudging Farrell she glanced behind her to be sure that Joe was close behind them before she led them into the dim and narrow street.

She counted the shops … barber, sheepskin rugs, copper pots, with Omar’s stall the fourth, and—“Oh no.” She gasped aloud, for the fourth shop was closed, shuttered by a locked steel gate.

Amanda looked at her questioningly. Joe, forgoing caution, said, “What’s wrong? Are you sure this was the place?”

“This has to be it,” whispered Mrs. Pollifax, and then, “Look,
there’s the same narrow stone-walled passage next to it—and there’s that carved wooden door halfway down the alley, see? This
has
to be the place.”
If only he is there
, she thought, and said grimly, “We have to try.”
And hope
, she added silently.

With as much casualness as they could summon they strolled down the passageway to the door and knocked. There was no response and Mrs. Pollifax knocked again, and then a third time, until it suddenly opened.

It was the boy Abdul who stood there, and his eyes widened in astonishment.
“You?”
he faltered, recognizing Joe, and he glanced quickly up and down the alley before he looked at Joe’s three companions. “But—
min?”

“He asks who you are,” translated Joe.

“Americans, all of us,” Mrs. Pollifax told Abdul. “You know us, we met at the Citadel on Monday, at noon, and you gave us tea, and—”

A voice behind the boy said, “Let them in—
quickly
, Abdul,” and with relief they entered, the door closing behind them.

The man who had called himself Omar sat at his desk, his profile briefly illuminated by a desk lamp until he reached out and switched it off. Rising, he said curtly, “You wish me stabbed in the back, too? How did you find me? Were you followed? And who are these other people?”

Without invitation Mrs. Pollifax sank into one of his chairs, saying, “We have no idea why the man in Palmyra was attacked. He really is dead?”

He nodded grimly.

“As for these two people, this young man—”

Joe broke in to say, “Abdul can vouch for me, sir, he and I meet twice a month—on Wednesdays—at the Al-Arabi restaurant. I’m Joe Fleming from Tell Khamseh.”

Omar’s eyes narrowed as he coolly observed Joe, and then his glance moved to Amanda. “And she—this girl—is she worth the death of a valued scholar such as Fareeq Wazagani?”

“Death?” gasped Amanda. “Oh, not another death? Who—what’s happened? Who
are
you all?”

To Amanda Mrs. Pollifax said, “Later,” and to Omar, sternly, “This is Amanda Pym, the young woman we were sent here to find. Two months ago she saved the lives of two hundred and three people,” she emphasized, “on the plane that was hijacked to Damascus. She was kidnapped at the airport.”

He bowed his head to Amanda. “Then I beg your pardon. The pleasure of forgiving is sweeter than the pleasure of revenge, but I say frankly I would have been happy to kill you until I learned it was not the police who murdered my friend Fareeq. I mourn him. It is apparent you must have some unknown value—to
them
, whoever they are—and I trust it equals the loss of Fareeq.”

“But who is Fareeq?” stammered Amanda.

“She knows nothing, nor do we,” Mrs. Pollifax told him. “We’ve not been able to talk to her at all yet. When we first found her she was drugged and confused, and after that, traveling as Bedouins, none of us dared speak to each other in English without giving ourselves away as Americans.”

“I see,” he said, and spoke rapidly to Abdul in Arabic; the boy nodded and disappeared.

Joe said, “He’s told Abdul to see if any suspicious men—or police—are loitering outside, or nearby.”

Amanda shook her head. “It wouldn’t be the police—not for
me
. They’d
never
tell the police I’m gone.”

“Interesting,” said their host, looking at her. “Why?”

But Amanda only shook her head.