Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled (2 page)

“For Syria?” In her mind Mrs. Pollifax ran over her engagements and nodded. “I’d need only cancel Garden Club on Monday, and my karate lesson on Tuesday. Yes, I could leave Sunday.”

“Still brown belt?” inquired Carstairs with a smile.

When she nodded politely, still sensing amusement when the subject arose, he said, “Good—you’ve brought your passport with you? We’ll need it for your visa.”

“Yes, but why Syria?” she asked.

“Because a young American woman has mysteriously disappeared there. Actually she appears to have been kidnapped,” he said, “and rather spectacularly. For weeks both the State Department and our embassy in Damascus have made the usual inquiries and protests, but there’s been a lamentable lack of action, interest, information, or results. Syria,” he added, “does not admit to allowing terrorist groups into the country.”

Startled, Mrs. Pollifax said, “Terrorists? You mean you think they’re involved in her disappearance?”

Carstairs nodded. “There’s every reason to believe this, as you will see in a moment for yourselves.”

“See?”
echoed Mrs. Pollifax.

“And moreover there’s been no ransom asked, which makes it even more of a mystery. The State Department has turned the job over to us now, to learn if possible where she might be, or find out what happened to her.”

Mrs. Pollifax nodded. “Your department being more nefarious, devious and underhanded, of course, than the State Department?”

With a faint smile he ignored this. “Syria is a very safe country—for tourists,” he emphasized, “but safe only because military service is mandatory, so you’ll find armed soldiers on guard nearly everywhere, and because Syria has half a dozen intelligence agencies, of which the most feared are the secret police, the
mukhabarat
—”

“A group already familiar to us,” put in Farrell dryly.

“—who have not taken our inquiries seriously either, but who just may take a great deal of interest in an indignant relative arriving to make inquiries and demand action. We’ll have someone from the embassy in Damascus meet your plane, which should give you some protection in case of problems.”

“But also call attention to us,” pointed out Farrell.

“Oh yes, but in any case you’ll be noticed and you’ll need to practice care and caution. This is Hafiz al-Assad’s country and he’s a clever, shrewd, intelligent, and ruthless man, as witness his notorious massacre in the city of Hamah in 1982, at that time a hotbed of opposition by the Muslim Brotherhood. Some twenty thousand or more men, women and children were cut down and killed … not a pretty story but that’s the Middle East. Since then there’s been little need for al-Assad to worry about opposition—he’s proved his power, which is why you’ll find the country stable now … stable but stagnant.

“On the other hand,” he added, “the country’s stability is entirely due to Assad, and if anything should happen to him—as the United States is well aware—all hell could break loose in the Middle East. The country’s a patchwork of minorities: Turks, Armenians, Jews, Kurds, Bedouin, Palestinians, with Muslims in the majority. Before Assad worked his way to the top there were something like twenty coups. Without him …” He shrugged. “Without him Assad’s secular government could be taken over by Islamic radicals—which would alarm us very much—or Syria could be invaded by any of its neighboring countries—which would alarm us even more. You’ll find the people themselves very friendly, but never forget it’s a police state and completely under Assad’s control.”

“Are we likely to be under surveillance?” asked Farrell.

“Quite
likely.”

Mrs. Pollifax sighed. “I hate being followed, it’s so inhibiting.”

Carstairs smiled. “I think you’ll manage somehow to divide and divert at the proper moments.” He picked up the intercom and said, “We’re ready now for the film, Bishop.”

“Film?”
said Farrell.

Carstairs nodded. “You’ll be able to watch the entire event
on film, in fact you may even have already seen this on CNN or your local newscast six weeks ago.”

“Six weeks ago! But that leaves a cold trail,” protested Farrell.

“Not necessarily. The time lag could also find her abductors relaxed and less guarded.”

Bishop entered, walked to the huge map on the wall, pressed a button, and a white screen descended over it, after which he dimmed the lights in the office and sat down.

Carstairs said, “This is October. The hijacking—and you may remember it—took place in August: an American plane on its way to Egypt was taken over by two hijackers at gun-point, who ordered the pilot to take them to Syria.”

Startled, Mrs. Pollifax said, “There was that girl—yes!”

Carstairs nodded. “The plane did land in Damascus, as ordered—it had to because it ran out of fuel—and it then spent a day on the tarmac while negotiations proceeded, but the ending was not at all to the satisfaction of the hijackers.” With a nod to Bishop he said, “You can start the film now. Her name, by the way, was Amanda Pym.”

“Was?”
said Mrs. Pollifax.

“Is, we hope.”

The film began with a camera trained on two people being interviewed in an airport terminal, a small audience watching in the background, among them armed police in khaki, and above them, in the distance, a huge picture of President Hafiz al-Assad. The two objects of attention were a plain-looking young woman who was being congratulated on saving the lives of 203 passengers, and an American soldier.

“Hold it a minute,” said Carstairs, and Bishop froze the film for a closer look at the young woman.

“Oh dear,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax.

“Oh dear
what
?” inquired Carstairs.

“She’s so—so colorless,” she said, and wondered what she had expected. “Where does she come from? Her clothes are all wrong—as if she found them at a yard sale—and much too big for her.”

“She’s who you’ll be looking for,” Carstairs reminded her.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax, and began to memorize carefully the round young face that was framed by straight, mouse-colored hair. No lipstick. Wide gray eyes—was there a flash of resentment in them at being questioned? “Perhaps she’s shy,” concluded Mrs. Pollifax.

“Her eyes are attractive,” Farrell said politely, “but it’s true, that brown suit, circa 1950, is too big for her. Bad advice from
someone.”

Carstairs said curtly, “If you’ve finished criticizing her appearance …”

“Sorry,” said Farrell meekly.

“…  we’ll start the film again.”

Amanda Pym had been asked a question and her reply was so mumbled it was inaudible. The army sergeant next to her broke in to say eagerly, “A real heroine she is. All of us scared to death—I admit I was, too. I mean, they’d been threatening to kill us—shoot us one by one—if they weren’t allowed a safe exit, but Miss Pym—well, she suddenly got up from her seat in the back—I heard people whispering, ‘For God’s sake, get
down,’
—but she just walked up to the hijacker nearest her—his back was turned—tapped him on the shoulder and said she wanted his gun.”

“She said
what?”

“Said she wanted his gun and held out her hand for it. The other hijacker was up front near the cockpit and you should have seen his face! For a second he was too surprised to do anything, and then he aimed his gun and pulled the trigger.”

“At her?”

He nodded. “Yes, only instead of killing Miss Pym he killed his friend by mistake, because the other hijacker had turned—moved, you see—to look at Miss Pym.”

“And that’s when you jumped up and wrestled the surviving hijacker to the floor?” inquired the reporter.

The soldier nodded.

“And your name?”

“Staff Sergeant William Holliday, sir. But I couldn’t have done it without her taking on the hijacker at
her
end of the plane.” He looked at Amanda Pym admiringly.

“And you, Miss Pym—Amanda Pym, isn’t it? You risked your life and saved the lives of two hundred and three passengers. Those men were threatening to shoot all of you, weren’t they?”

Miss Pym nodded.

Farrell, frowning, said crossly, “This is the most unlikely heroine I’ve ever seen.”

The interviewer was obviously struggling to capture a quote from her, to force her to say something, but she didn’t respond. He said, “Well, I can tell you right now, Miss Pym, there’s a car waiting for you”—he pointed—“to take you to a hotel where—”

The words were blotted out by a plane’s landing in the distance.

“Watch closely now,” said Carstairs.

The camera followed Amanda Pym as she was escorted to the exit and outside, accompanied by the cameraman and a swarm of interested onlookers. The camera zoomed in on several cars waiting, and the group paused.… A man stepped out of the nearest car; from the second car a man already stood
with the rear door open. Amanda Pym walked to the second car, entered, and was swiftly driven away.

“And that,” said Carstairs, “is the last anyone saw of Amanda Pym.”

There was a startled silence, and then Mrs. Pollifax said, “She got into the wrong car …?”

“Kidnapped in public view!” exclaimed Farrell. “I’m astonished.”

Mrs. Pollifax was frowning. “I did see some of that television interview weeks ago, not all of it—I think I was cooking dinner at the time—but she surprised me even then. She was safe, she’d survived, she was being honored for her courage and she didn’t show the slightest sign of being relieved or excited. In fact she had no personality at all.”

“None whatsoever,” agreed Carstairs. “An enigma.”

“And yet think what she did,” marveled Farrell. “But if the news was so big at the time, why was there nothing in the newspapers about her disappearance? Or was there?”

Carstairs said dryly, “Naturally it was assumed that Miss Pym would be wined and dined somewhere—by the airline or by our embassy—but when she couldn’t be found at any hotel in the city the embassy thought it wise to issue a statement that she’d been taken to a hospital to be treated for nervous exhaustion.” He shrugged. “And with no concerned parents or relatives—”

“None?” said Mrs. Pollifax.

“None … and thus the story died. Tactfully,” he added, “because a member of our State Department was due to arrive the next day to once again discuss possible peace talks between Assad and Israel.”

Farrell nodded. “Which al-Assad refuses to discuss unless
Israel will consider returning the Golan Heights they took over after the Six-Day War in 1967.”

“Yes,” said Carstairs, “but to depart for the moment from the immediate, let me tell you what we
do
know. The two hijackers on the plane have been identified as members of a group called Crusaders of the Faith. At this particular time in history there are terrorist groups who get their training in Syria, groups that Assad is content to shelter,
possibly
arm, but allow to train while denying their existence. But we have no idea who the people were who abducted Miss Pym.”

Puzzled, Mrs. Pollifax said, “But what I don’t understand is how Farrell and I can possibly find a girl who disappeared in Syria, of all places, when nobody else could find her and neither of us speaks Arabic.”

“You’ll not be without help,” said Carstairs.

“Help?”

Farrell gave Carstairs a keen glance. “May I ask by whom?”

“No,” said Carstairs sharply.

This was interesting but Mrs. Pollifax had a question to ask. She said thoughtfully, “If the people who abducted Miss Pym happen to belong to the same group as the hijackers—these Crusaders of the Faith—this brings in the element of revenge, doesn’t it? After all, Miss Pym interfered with
somebody’s
plans: one hijacker killed, the other captured. She may have been killed minutes after being kidnapped.”

“Oh yes,” agreed Carstairs, “and frankly that’s what both the embassy and the State Department believe … that she’s dead. On the other hand,” he added smoothly, “we have resources and sources the embassy in Damascus lacks, and that we don’t always share with them.”

“Such as?”

“Certain rumors have reached us,” Carstairs said, “that Amanda Pym is still alive.”

“Reliable rumors?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.

“Bazaar rumors but reliable.”

“So that’s why we’re here,” Farrell said, nodding.

“That’s why you’re here, yes. The two prevalent questions are, why there have been no demands for ransom, and—if revenge was behind her abduction—why it appears that she may still be alive. If she’s alive we want to know how and why and where, and who abducted her, and who she is, and get her out of Syria. We feel it’s far less provocative to send a woman who happens to be related to Miss Pym in some way.” He added dryly, “More innocent, shall we say? Now hand over your passports so we can secure those visas. There are no direct flights to Syria from our country, so you’ll fly early on Sunday to London and continue your trip on their Syrian Arab Airlines. We’ll cable the embassy to reserve you rooms at the Cham Palace—adjoining rooms if they have them, so you can keep a firm eye on each other, since I’d prefer that neither of
you
be abducted. Anything else, Bishop?”

Bishop promptly said, “Plane tickets, passports, Syrian and U.S. money …”

“Oh yes, and a guidebook for each of you. They’ll be delivered to each of you by courier no later than Saturday, along with hotel reservations and funds.” He looked from Mrs. Pollifax to Farrell and frowned. “If I didn’t believe you experienced enough, and qualified—” He stopped and said gruffly, “Just don’t take any damn-fool risks.”

Mrs. Pollifax smiled.
“Now
he tells us.”

“I find it downright paternal of him,” Farrell told her with a grin.

“So that’s it,” concluded Carstairs, “unless … any questions?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax quietly. “I think there’s more to this, isn’t there? You let slip the fact that you not only want to know if Amanda Pym is alive but also
who
she is.”

Carstairs gave her a long look. “My mistake,” he admitted. “It slipped out.”

“Well?”

He was silent and then he said reluctantly, “We find ourselves very curious about this enigmatic Miss Pym. You saw her on film … it troubles us that we can learn almost nothing about her except for a few bare facts: she comes from a small Pennsylvania farming town, Roseville, population less than ten thousand … father owned a discount store and is dead, mother recently died, but no one in Roseville seems to have really known Amanda Pym. She’s twenty-three years old but she seems to have moved through life not being noticed at all, just the sort of person who is susceptible and easily used. We’ve begun to wonder if Amanda could be more than she appears to be.”