Mrs. Pollifax Innocent Tourist Read online

  "You've been getting spoiled, Duchess," he told her. "You came out of Albania crawling with lice, didn't you? Relax."

  "Yes, but where are these mysterious people? There's nobody here, Farrell."

  "Probably making sure we weren't followed or seen entering."

  This was certainly a very educational evening, reflected Mrs. Pollifax, remembering the cheap rent-by-the-hour hotel to which Farrell had taken her, where he had amassed a collection of old clothes: a ragged trench coat, sneakers, and two worn sweaters to wear over her traveling clothes, their suitcases buried under the plastic bags and cola tins in the cart, the room had smelled of antiseptic and cheap perfume, and a flashing neon light outside the window had bathed the walls in red. It had amused her to speculate on just what Cyrus might have said if he'd seen his wife as a bag lady navigating a grocery cart down mean streets.

  The silence was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps on the floor above, followed by a door closing and the opening of a door at the end of the hall beyond the shop's counter, the man silhouetted against the light behind him said, "Come in. ... Quickly, please."

  Mrs. Pollifax pushed her grocery cart with alacrity, Farrell leading the way, they entered a windowless room garishly lit by fluorescent tubes on the ceiling and empty of furniture except for a desk, four chairs, and a copying machine, the two men seated at the desk wore black business suits, white shirts, and ties, and neither looked particularly foreign. Both had black mustaches that were possibly the most luxurious she had ever seen, and both had tan complexions, but there were distinct differences. Mrs. Pollifax knew immediately, for instance, that the older man was Antun Mahmoud even before Farrell introduced him. From his bearing and the shrewdness of his glance he could have been a general—as perhaps he had once been, she reflected; she judged him to be efficient, intelligent, impatient, and wary.

  His companion was an imitation of him but younger, softer.

  Both looked at her appraisingly.

  "Sit," said Antun sternly.

  Mrs. Pollifax abandoned her cart and sat, Antun's companion, however, gave her a shy smile.

  Antun peered at her, frowning. "Mr. Farrell gives you a high recommendation. You work for the CIA?"

  "Occasionally they've found me useful," she said.

  "Yes, but you simply don't look—"

  Farrell interrupted to say curtly, "She's experienced, trust me. Duchess, peel away those layers down to your Macy's suit and rescue that incredible-looking hat from its plastic bag."

  Mrs. Pollifax sighed and walked to the grocery cart, where she removed the ragged raincoat and the two threadbare sweaters to display a trim navy blue suit. Digging into the grocery cart she extracted one plastic bag, opened it, and removed from it the garden of yellow and pink roses laced to a wide brim of straw. When it was placed on her head she at once became what Carstairs of the CIA called with amusement his Very Innocent Tourist, and if the hat appeared to astonish the two men, it also appeared to explain her presence and to satisfy them.

  "Ah yes, very good," said Antun, nodding. "I understand. You have passports and visas?"

  "All set," Farrell told him, "except for where we meet this Ibrahim. You said mornings?"

  Antun nodded. "He will look for you at Karak castle, about eighty miles south of Amman, very old, near the town of Karak. You will need a guide since you don't speak Arabic."

  "A guide? Will he be—er—one of you?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.

  She had offended him, he said mockingly, " 'One of us?' No. Like any tourist we consulted a Manhattan travel agency. If you don't like this one—he will meet you*5t the airport—there is a list of four others. Hassan, give her the list."

  "Thank you," Mrs. Pollifax said meekly, and pocketed the list. "And do I leave here dressed as I came, in the old raincoat?"

  He said impatiently, "No, no, someone else will leave by the front door in those clothes, wheeling the cart and accompanied by a man, the two of you leave from the rear; there is a van waiting in the garage behind us." To Farrell he said, "This guide—his name is Youseff Jidoor—will meet you at Queen Alida Airport, holding up a sign saying Jidoor Tours."

  "Shoes," said Farrell, pointing. "Duchess, you're still in sneakers. It grows late, the plane—?"

  Antun nodded. "Fayad drives. You will be on time.

  If you are followed, Fayad is an expert at losing anyone interested."

  Curious, Mrs. Pollifax said, "Are you really watched?"

  Antun looked amused. "Sometimes—in the dark— one can see a cigarette carelessly lit in the supposedly empty room across the street." He reached into the drawer of the desk and drew out two envelopes. "Here are your plane tickets," he said, handing one to Farrell. "I am sorry the seats are not together, but since your insistence on this woman going with you came too late for us, such an arrangement was impossible." He gave Mrs. Pollifax the second envelope, adding, "And so, as we say, Allah yesellimak."

  "What does that mean?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.

  "God preserve you."

  "God preserve you, too," she said politely.

  The van had darkened windows, and the driver, Fayad, said only, "No worry!" The garage doors swung open and they shot out into the dark street like a stone released from a slingshot.

  Only now did Mrs. Pollifax think to ask, "How long is the flight ahead of us to Amman, Jordan?"

  Farrell sighed. "I hoped you'd never ask," he said. "We fly all night to Amsterdam, land there in the morning for refueling and passengers, and arrive in Amman sometime after lunch. Fourteen hours, roughly."

  "Fourteen hours," she repeated in shock. "Oh dear, I never sleep on planes, you know, which means I'll be jet-lagged out of my head, Farrell. I nap, but briefly, and that's not real sleep."

  "No," he admitted, "but on the other hand, I'll feel free to come and talk to you—tell a few jokes—during the small hours of the night."

  "But I do wish we had seats together," she said wistfully. "I'll probably be seated next to a crying child or someone who will fall asleep on my shoulder, which is always so difficult."

  Actually, once boarded, Mrs. Pollifax found herself in a seat in the rear and on the aisle, next to a rather plump, well-dressed man with a Wall Street Journal on his lap, he did not look at all the sort who would fall asleep on her shoulder; he rose at once to help her stow her carry-on bag under the seat and said admiringly, "Please—I congratulate you on your hat, it is very beautiful, like a garden."

  "Thank you," she said, removing it and tucking it on top of her carry-on bag.

  "Are you traveling to the Middle East?" he inquired cordially.

  "Yes, to Jordan."

  Beaming, he said, "Ah—my country. You will visit Jerash? Petra? Wadi Rum? The Dead Sea?"

  Since she had not had time to do any research about Jordan, she sidestepped this query. "You're Jordanian, then?"

  Their departure was being announced, and he fastened his seat belt. His face was round and affable, if slightly jowly, a receding hairline was compensated by a sleek black mustache. Fiftyish, she decided, and quite Savile Row in his dark suit, white tie, and white shirt.

  "Ah yes, but I get off in Amsterdam in the morning," he explained. "My business is there, the making of facsimilies of Jordanian antiquities for the tourists in Jordan to carry home with them."

  "You mean copies?" she suggested.

  He gave her a pitying glance. "On the contrary, they are works of art and sell very well. Jordan is being discovered—you see how crowded the plane is?"

  It was indeed crowded, every seat taken, with Farrell up front, near the movie screen, while she and this gentleman occupied seats in the very last row. Many of the passengers looked Middle Eastern, with the exception of one rather large tourist group making a great deal of noise.

  "We are airborne!" announced her companion triumphantly, and with a bow of his head, he introduced himself. "I am Mr. Nayef, and you?"

  "Mrs. Pollifax."

  "So strange a name! Pollifax?" When she nod
ded, he added, "Perhaps you are part of that tour group?" He waved a hand toward the noisy Americans still calling back and forth to one another. "No? How brave you American women are—and so free! You have friends, then, in Amman?"

  "No," said Mrs. Pollifax, wishing he would attend to his Wall Street Journal so that she could, in turn, bring out the travel guide that Farrell had loaned her.

  "But allow me to advise you, then," he said firmly. "You must above all see Petra, our famous rose red city, carved out of rock so long ago." Reaching under the seat for his attaché case, he said, "I show you what I make in my factory studio in Amsterdam. Not the E Khazna—the great treasury building—but this also is at Petra, a rendering of the Urn Tomb."

  What he handed her struck Mrs. Pollifax at first glance as a rather cheap and amateur-looking rectangle of thick plywood, to which a label had been affixed to inform in both English and Arabic, "Urn Tomb. Petra. Nabataean. Executed by Hassur Aid."

  'Turn it over," he told her reproachfully.

  "Sorry," she said, and was more pleasantly surprised by the other side. Mounted on the wooden plaque was a miniature landscape carved in three dimensions in polished white stone or plaster and cemented to the plywood. It portrayed a mountain of rock, each of its seams clearly defined by the artist's knife; in the center of the rock face was an entrance into the mountain, guarded by two columns that rose above a colonnade with a line of arched openings.

  "Polished white limestone—and by hand," emphasized Mr. Nayef, and leaning closer he confided, "If you would like to buy? In Jordan this would sell for sixty dinar, nearly one hundred U.S, dollar. I let you have it for half."

  "Quite a salesman," she told him with a smile. "Thank you, but my carry-on bag is full enough. I'll certainly look forward to seeing Petra—and the Urn Tomb, though."

  "You will enjoy Amman, too," he said, putting away the plaque. "It is built on seven hills, you know? Like Rome?"

  He did not wait for a response, a very small country, Jordan, he continued, mostly desert, there were still too many refugee camps, the Bedouin were very loyal to the king, who had survived many years despite too many wars, but the schools were free and the Jordan Valley green and fertile....

  By the time the dinner cart made its way up the aisle Mrs. Pollifax dared to hope that he might stop talking, but he droned on as they sat side by side eating dinner: about the influx of Palestinians, some very rich, some trapped in refugee camps. Playfully he suggested that she learn to pronounce As salam alaikum, which meant "May peace be with you," and in turn she must respond Alaikum as salam, and once she had mastered this he said, beaming, "Taib! Taib! which means 'good.' "

  At this point Mrs. Pollifax firmly ended the conversation.

  "I am going to brush my teeth," she announced, and delving into her carry-on bag, she extracted toothbrush, toothpaste, washcloth, and cold cream, and left him.

  When she returned Mr. Nayef was wearing earphones and was intently absorbed in the film being shown on the screen; after only the briefest of smiles he returned to the movie. Mrs. Pollifax closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, thus missing the film, but determined to prevent any further lectures once it ended.

  Presently, Mr. Nayef slept, and Mrs. Pollifax alternately napped and read a magazine and soon discovered that she had been wrong about Mr. Nayef: as his head sank lower and lower, she found him asleep against her shoulder. Farrell, making his rounds during the night, grinned and said, "Men do like your shoulder!" and later brought her a fresh magazine to read, the sky began to brighten, breakfast was served, and they landed in Amsterdam; at which point Mr. Nayef stirred and began to gather up his coat and his attaché case. "Amsterdam at last!" he exclaimed, and to Mrs. Pollifax, "It has been such a pleasure talking with you." Talking at me, she thought bitterly. "And to you I now say As salam alaikum, and you will please say—?"

  She sighed. "Alaikum as salam. " "Taib! Taib!" he said. "I bid you farewell." And with that he departed, and with his departure Mrs. Pollifax assumed—quite erroneously—that she had seen the last of the tiresome Mr. Nayef.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was nearly half-past four in the afternoon when they emerged from a seemingly endless line at customs. Baggage in hand they made their exodus past swarms of people waiting behind ropes, peering anxiously at each passenger, occasionally shouting and waving as friend or family emerged. It was with some relief that Mrs. Pollifax spotted a sign, jidoor tours, held high above the crowd; she pointed and waved, Farrell waved, and from under the sign appeared a young man, an attractive young man: a well-shaped face with twin slashes of thick brows over gray eyes so light they looked almost silver in his dark face, there was also what appeared to be the ubiquitous Middle Eastern black mustache over a generous mouth, he wore a dark blue zip-up jacket over a white shirt and black slacks. Seeing Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell, he smiled and pointed, and they met at the end of the ropes that contained the crowds.

  Apparently their names had not been given to him for he said, "Welcome to Amman. My name is Youseff Jidoor, but please call me Joseph—and your names?"

  His excellent English was a pleasing surprise. Farrell shook his hand, saying, "This is Mrs. Pollifax, otherwise referred to as the Duchess, and I'm Farrell."

  "A pleasure, a pleasure," he told them with a flash of white teeth against his tan skin. "My car is outside, shall we go now? This is your luggage?" He picked up their two suitcases and led them out into the street. "I have reserved two rooms for you at the Continental, is that okay?"

  Farrell and Mrs. Pollifax exchanged glances. "It sounds a bit posh," she told him. "We go dutch on this, I insist, Farrell. Remember the plunge of the peso!"

  He laughed. "Thank you but no, Duchess. My own paintings are selling very well in Arizona and Texas galleries, and I still restore old paintings. My bank account is quite solid these days, but nice of you to offer." To Joseph he said, "Have they mentioned to you that I'm here to meet a man who may be delayed?"

  Joseph looked at him wonderingly. "No, Mr. Farrell."

  "We may have to spend a few mornings at Karak castle, wherever that is, since the day to meet was not specific."

  "How interesting." Joseph nodded. "I will see to it that we take a lunch each day for what you call a picnic." He led them to a yellow taxi. "This is my car."

  "A taxi!" exclaimed Mrs. Pollifax.

  Joseph said very seriously, "I am just out of university, and when there are no tourists to guide I am a taxi driver. But," he hastened to assure them, "I am a very good guide, I took history in university, as well as literature, and have been a guide for one year now. Once at the hotel we can speak of plans for tomorrow?"

  "Perfect," said Mrs. Pollifax, climbing into the car.

  The sun was not shining, which surprised her: desert country, after all! They drove past row upon row of simple plastic greenhouses, and then a hill crowded with pale gray cement-block houses; under the sunless gray sky, the pale gray houses looked like gravestones marching up the hill. But it was the center of Amman that surprised her even more: tall office buildings stood next to vacant lots filled with piles of cement blocks and idle bulldozers, followed by grand villas and opulent houses. But there was so much building that it was like a vast downtown being taken apart and rebuilt, with many gaps of vacant land sandwiched between great new modern structures and everywhere the look of big money being spent.

  "The city glitters," murmured Mrs. Pollifax.

  Over his shoulder Joseph said, "Here, yes—this is central Amman, embassies, rich people's houses— rich Palestinians—but there are many refugee camps, too. Many, many!"

  They turned down a narrow side street lined with shops and colorful awnings; men in denim work clothes, long gray robes, long beige robes; men seated on the sidewalk gossiping; a few children but no women, they were then back to a busy main thoroughfare, where they drove through the crescent-shaped entry to the hotel, and it was very grand indeed. Leaving his blinker lights on, Joseph carried out their luggage and escorted th
em into the lobby to the registration desk.

  "I will leave you a few minutes while I park my car on the street," he told them. "But I will return to learn your plans, okay?" He smiled. "Over a cup of coffee, my treat."

  Mrs. Pollifax said lightly, "That I will leave to you, Farrell; come see me, I prefer to unpack." Having registered, she held up her key for Farrell. "Room 308," she told him; a porter picked up her suitcase, and she was ushered to the elevator.

  Once in room 308, after investigating bath, closets, and the view from her window, she brought her clothes out of her suitcase, shook out the wrinkles, and hung them in the closet. From her carry-on bag she removed toothbrush and toothpaste and delivered them to the bathroom. Returning to her carry-on bag she reached into it again and met with an unfamiliar object, she drew it out with a frown.

  It was the plaque that Mr. Nayef had tried to sell her on the plane, the carving of the Urn Tomb at Petra.

  Mrs. Pollifax looked at it with exasperation, apparently Mr. Nayef had reconsidered his sales pitch, and because she had admired the plaque—however politely—he had very kindly slipped it into her carry-on bag while she was in the lavatory. But what a nuisance, she thought. Generous of him, but not at all what she'd select as a souvenir, she tossed it into the wastebasket and then, feeling guilty, extracted it and examined it with hostility. On close inspection she saw that it was the thick plywood mounting that degraded it; the carving itself was the work of a gifted miniaturist. It was possible that Cyrus might like it, being more interested in ancient history than she was, and certainly he would know who the Nabataeans were, who had long ago carved the Urn Tomb out of a rock wall.

  Her box of writing paper was in the bottom of her carry-on bag, she dug it out and placed the plaque inside of it: a perfect fit, and then she removed one sheet of writing paper, sat down, and wrote, "Dear Cyrus, I've arrived at last, and—"