Mrs Pollifax Unveiled Part 3

They spent the remainder of Monday in finding a way to get to Palmyra the next morning. They did not want the company of a guide for the entire day. Buses needed reservations a day in advance, and the possibility of service taxis sounded doubtful. Eventually they concluded their research by arranging, through the hotel, a one-way Transtour car with driver, an overnight at a hotel in Tadmor, and a reservation for a similar car to return them to Damascus in the morning.

And since the next day would be Tuesday there was a note handed to them at the desk from the emba.s.sy, inviting them to discuss pertinent matters Tuesday morning at eleven o'clock .

"I wonder what they'd tell us," mused Mrs. Pollifax, tearing up the note. "I shall retire early with my broken camera and guidebook and catch up on sleep. You can carouse if you'd like," she kindly told Farrell.

"Carouse?" he said with amus.e.m.e.nt. "My dear d.u.c.h.ess, having inched past the age of forty, and following a fourteen-hour flight, I have to confess sleep has enormous appeal to me, too."

Her driver the next morning was an affable young man named Khalid. He spoke English "and much French, too," he announced with a flashing smile, and he had been trained for guiding tour groups, "But not many Americans yet," he added regretfully. "They say bad things about us that make us very sad. So far only three American groups for me over the summer." Having divested himself of this he began to fling cheerful comments over his shoulder as they started their drive to Palmyra , while Farrell glanced behind to see if they were being followed. "Bilad-es-Sham," he said, was the Arab name for Syria, and once Damascus was a famous and beautiful oasis -"very green," he a.s.sured them, "very green and sweet in a country so much desert. And please," he said, "if you wish a picture with camera anytime, I will stop."

"Unfortunately," Mrs. Pollifax told him, "my camera broke in Damascus . No more pictures."

"Broke? Is broken!" he said in horror, as if a tourist without a camera was unthinkable. "In Tadmor there are Konic shops." He briefly turned his head to give them a happy smile. "With your permission we stop there, there may be a fresh camera for you."

"Gray car," said Farrell, having just glanced back at the road behind them. "Up to you, d.u.c.h.ess."

"If we could . .. Cyrus knows so much more history than I do that I know he'd appreciate some snapshots of Palmyra ," and to Khalid, "If there is time .. , yes!"

"Good," he said, and continued his over-the-shoulder remarks as they pa.s.sed through the modest industrial section of the city. "Business!" he said, nodding toward a factory and shaking his head. "Exporting goods no problem, but to import -ya rabb!- many snarls and troubles."

"Very old cars," commented Farrell. "But you have oil."

Khalid chuckled. "Before 1981 the oil in Syria 's earth was heavy, not rich, but there was an underground earthquake in the eighties that changed it." He laughed. "We think oil flowed in from Iraq -good light oil suddenly!"

They were reaching the desert now, flat, tawny sand with tufts of gra.s.s, soon turning into pebbles and stones, a barren landscape except for a hazy blue mountain at a distance off to their left, and the great arc of blue sky overhead.

"Soon Tadmor," said Khalid.

" Palmyra or Tadmor?" asked Mrs. Pollifax, puzzled.

"Ah, the town she has always been Tadmor. Once it was called the City of Dates -you will see. But Palmyra -the Romans named it City of Palms -but no palms," he added humorously. "Now what is your hotel?"

"The Zen.o.bia," said Farrell.

He nodded vigorously. "Good place, inside the town and inside Palmyra ruins also, you can walk with ease. The town has beautiful dates to sell; on your evening stroll you may find good Bedouin weavings, too, they bring them into Tadmor from the desert, but first we find you camera, yes?"

Reaching Tadmor, Khalid turned down a cobbled street lined with colorful signs. They pa.s.sed an open market hung with huge cl.u.s.ters of dates, yellow, dark red, brown and black, and Mrs. Pollifax wished she could take a picture of this, and of the street, which had all the flavor of the Middle East .

Khalid stopped the car in front of a Konic sign. "I go with you," he said. "He may not speak such good English as me." They walked through the door into a dusty shop with lines of kerosene tins stacked along one wall, an ancient rifle suspended from the ceiling, an a.s.sortment of dull bra.s.s and copper pots, cases of cola, and gla.s.s jars and boxes on the shelves. A man shuffled out from an inner room, his lined brown face brightening at sight of them.

"Cameras?" he said. "Yes!" he exclaimed, and walking over to a wooden chest he opened it and delved into it, dug deep, and brought up a huge, dusty, forlorn-looking black box, and then another one equally as dusty and old. "Cameras," he said proudly. "Russkies."

"Russkies?" Farrell said in astonishment, touching one. "You mean these are Russian cameras?"

He nodded and announced that he would sell the somewhat smaller one for fifty American dollars, the larger for seventy-five.

"One could scarcely sling one of these over one's shoulder," said Mrs. Pollifax, looking at them with interest. "Or find film for them, either; they must be at least fifty years old."

"You buy?"

"Shukren, but no -la," she said. "I'm sorry."

Khalid, embarra.s.sed, said, "Perhaps another shop?"

Farrell intervened gently. "I think we'd better go on now to our hotel." Secretly he was wondering, with considerable amus.e.m.e.nt, what their surveillants must be making of this; as they left the shop he saw the familiar gray car parked discreetly at some distance up the street.

For a mere overnight stay Farrell had piled his gear into a knapsack, while Mrs. Pollifax had packed what she needed in an open straw bag with handles, into which she had added her new djellaba -or galabiyyas, as the merchant had called it-for the warmth of it at night. Finding a group of German tourists lined up at the hotel's registration desk, and knowing they already had a reservation, they were delighted to find a terrace that overlooked the ruins of Palmyra and where they could wait for the group to disperse. They retreated there at once, bags in hand, although not before Mrs. Pollifax had seized upon a copy of Palmyra : History, Monuments & Museum -"just what Cyrus will enjoy," she told Farrell. Once they were settled Farrell disappeared and returned with two plates of baba ghan-noj, a beer and a cola, and they ate lunch gazing out upon the remains of the long-ago city that had been Palmyra, reduced now to acres of truncated columns, arches, walls and temples, the earth littered with fallen blocks of stone.

"Cyrus told me something of this," she mused. " Palmyra is where Queen Zen.o.bia ruled, much loved and very successful until - Such a musical name, isn't it?"

"Until what?" asked Farrell, chasing the last shred of eggplant with a slice of bread.

"Until what I don't remember, except that eventually she was captured by the Romans and taken back to Rome to be paraded in gold chains."

"And now has a hotel named for her." Farrell nodded. "Such is immortality."

"Cynic," she retorted, and turned to her guidebook for directions. Their hotel stood just inside the walls of Palmyra , very near the streets of Tadmor. She said, "It looks as if we need only leave the hotel, turn to the right, and walk down the road past what's called the Temple of Baalshamin to reach the Monumental Arch that stands at the end of the main avenue." With a glance at Farrell she added, "We'd better go now; the noon call to prayer ended ten or fifteen minutes ago, we'll be late if we don't stir ourselves, register, and leave."

"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 gla.s.ses, 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 rough-hewn 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 pa.s.sing 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.1" 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 a.s.sumed it would be easy. One must be allowed, I suppose, a moment or two of uneasiness. 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 Zen.o.bia," 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 n.o.ble 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, d.u.c.h.ess. 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. "Batt al," he said, "hbital! " 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 G.o.d," said Mrs. Pollifax. "Farrell-" "Yes," he said grimly. "It's our friend. The same man. Our contact."

5.

They 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, d.u.c.h.ess, 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 gla.s.ses 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 midpa.s.sage 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 pa.s.s.

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. .h.i.t 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 sc.r.a.ped 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 pa.s.sport 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? Amerik ani?"

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 pa.s.sed 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, "Yaila! Yaila!" 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 gla.s.s 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 subt.i.tles in Arabic. Thank heaven she still had her purse, she remembered, with aspirin in it as well as her pa.s.sport and money. She opened it and managed to choke down three aspirin without water and rea.s.sured the boy, saying, "Noam, 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 Emba.s.sy 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 gla.s.ses 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.

He would know this, she thought. It was what Carstairs had asked of them, and they had a name and a destination now.

Her headache was subsiding and she'd stopped shivering from shock; touching her forehead she found the woman had placed a bandage over it. She would soon stand up and try to walk.

Presently the woman walked quietly into the room and placed something beside her, and opening her eyes Mrs. Pollifax saw that she was carrying her straw carry-on bag that had dropped in the alley when she fell. She sat up, surprised, and looked questioningly at the woman, who only smiled and nodded. The boy followed her into the room. He said, "She see it there. Is yours?"

Mrs. Pollifax nodded, and said, "How do I leave when .., when aswan -dark?"