Mrs. Pollifax and the Whirling Dervish Page 2

  She looked at the envelope and then at Bishop. "May one ask who these people are?"

  "Informants," he said.

  "I see . . , surely there's more?"

  He shrugged. "Certain rumors have reached us but I'm not sure that Carstairs would feel they're anything to trouble your head about."

  She said silkily, "My head likes to be troubled, Bishop."

  "I know . . ." He thought a minute, hesitated and nodded. "All right, I'll say this: we've become alarmed that one of the seven people may not match his photograph."

  Her eyes widened. "An imposter among your seven?"

  "Yes," he added grimly, "Someone who may have taken over the identity of one of the people in the network—I shudder to think how—and who may be intent on corrupting, exposing or destroying the others in the network—and more than this, my dear Mrs. P., I am not at liberty to tell either you or Janko. Except to add," he said, "that you will travel by car from village to village, and Janko's instructions are to make no contact with any of the seven but to be quite certain each face matches its photograph, because names can be changed but not faces."

  "Very true," she agreed, "but what if—"

  "If there's a face that doesn't match," he went on, "you're to head for the nearest post office—"

  "Post office?"

  "Yes, in Morocco cables are sent from the government post office—not too easily found in the country you'll be driving through—and once you reach a hotel you'll verify your message with a telephone call to Baltimore, and since all longdistance calls go through Rabat, taking hours, we recommend discretion in what you report to us."

  "Yes," she said, nodding. "And that's it?"

  He smiled. "I think you'll find it challenging enough just to locate these seven people without anyone knowing what you're up to. That's where Janko's Arabic is so important. Two Westerners asking directions to an obscure person in an obscure village would be hellishly conspicuous and raise no end of , trouble."

  She found this logical and nodded. "And how will I recognize Mr. Janko?"

  Bishop laughed. "You don't need to, he'll find you, but you can expect a man with—as Carstairs phrases it—a fierce black moustache and fierce black eyebrows and more than a soupçon of arrogance. However, if by any chance you should miss connecting at the airport in Fez he'll be at the Palais Jamai hotel and we've booked you a room next to his."

  "The Palais Jamai," she repeated.

  "I've also captured an Arabic phrase book for you," he said, reaching into his briefcase. "A French one, too, since Morocco was a French protectorate until 1956. But I think you'll find a fair number of people who understand English, at least in the larger towns and of course in Fez, and the phrase book has a nice little introduction to Morocco as well as a map." He dug deeper into his briefcase. "And here are your plane tickets— there are only three flights a week from Kennedy airport so be sure you're early—and here's Moroccan and American money, traveler's checks, your hotel reservation in Fez—after that you're on your own—and here's the usual cable address and phone number in Baltimore if . . ."

  "If," she repeated gravely.

  "Yes, if ... We hope all is well but the information we've begun receiving through the pipeline has suddenly become rather garbled and simply doesn't check out with other available sources. Anything else? No, I think I've covered everything." He sat back, smiled at her and buttered his fourth blueberry muffin. "Any questions?"

  "Yes," she said. "What's Morocco like?"

  "Poor," he told her. "It all looked very promising after independence in ‘56 but now the country's been fighting a war for fourteen years that's costing it a million bucks a day so a lot of plans have been shelved. You'll find it poor."

  "War?" she said in surprise. "With whom? What war?"

  He reached over to the phrase book he'd given her and opened its pages to the map. "See this area in the south of Morocco?"

  She nodded. "It's all yellow, which means desert, doesn't it?"

  "Right. That's Western Sahara, about the bleakest and most inhospitable country anyone could fight over, but home to the people of the Sahara—the Saharans, mostly nomads—who have always lived there. It was a Spanish protectorate," he explained, "until Spain moved out in 1975, and at that time the Saharans were promised a vote of self-determination—a plebiscite under the United Nations—so that they could choose independence or alignment with another country. Unfortunately the vote was never held because Morocco immediately moved in to claim and occupy Western Sahara."

  "That sounds rather greedy," murmured Mrs. Pollifax. "I take it the Saharans decided to fight?"

  He nodded. "They're called the Polisarios, these people of the Western Sahara who have been fighting to get their land back for fourteen years. Actually they waged a pretty damn good guerilla war for a long time. Not from their own country —they had to abandon that—but from Algeria, which offered them humanitarian and military aid, and so they fight from a base in the Algerian desert around Tindouf." He said ruefully, "I might add that they've also waged a relentless war on the diplomatic front as well. They call themselves the Saharan Arab Democratic Republic—a country in exile—and are now bona fide members of the Organization of African Unity, and recognized by sixty-nine non-aligned countries .., all this without a country."

  "Do we recognize them, too?" she asked, puzzled. "The United States?"

  He smiled faintly. "On the contrary, our government's been supporting Morocco in their war against them. We've been pouring money, equipment and advisors into Morocco, not to mention helicopters, tanks, air-to-ground missiles, ammunition and an electronic wall to keep the Polisarios out of Western Sahara."

  At the look of astonishment on her face he said, "You weren't aware? I don't suppose many Americans inquire as to where their tax dollars go .., a pit)'. Occasionally Congress has demurred at the cost but it's important on the theory that if the King of Morocco loses his war he could lose his throne; if he compromises and ends the war he could also lose his throne —there have already been several coup attempts—and he's preferable, as usual, to the unknown, right?" He smiled. "But I think we must dispense with the history lesson because what's important are the lives of seven people—or six, if one of them's a fake—but I did want to explain to you why the country's poor, and why it's advisable to keep a very tight hold on your purse—you'll find many beggars—and lock your door every night." He stopped, looking at her closely. "What's the matter, something wrong?"

  "For me, yes," she said, nodding. "I don't think I can agree to this job after all, Bishop, I don't like the sound of it. After hearing about this my sympathies are quite frankly with the Polisarios, and an assignment to check out seven people who spy on them—" She shook her head. "I'm sorry, I simply can't."

  He sat back and looked at her in dismay. "Damn it, I see I've been handling this very badly."

  "I don't see how you could have handled it any better," she told him.

  "All I did was explain why you should watch your purse—"

  "Yes, and also why."

  "Which is where I went haywire and handled it badly." He ran his fingers through his hair, scowling. "Look here," he said, lifting his head and beginning again. "I'm under intimidatingly strict orders from Carstairs to tell you nothing more—it's for your safety as well as ours—and I can’t tell you more. All I can say is, would you trust me if I tell you that this assignment could, given the right circumstances, contribute something to the conclusion of the war?"

  She regarded him suspiciously. "I don't see how."

  He sighed. "Well, I could point out that informants deal in information, and very often in information that governments try to conceal. I could, but inevitably it comes down to a matter of trust."

  "Trust?"

  "In Carstairs," he said, looking harassed and tense.

  He had reduced it to its starkest simplicity and she thought this quite unfair but there was no evading the fact that she did trust Carstairs. She had grown to respe
ct his integrity; he had never sent her knowingly into any assignment that might outrage her sensibilities and if he felt this trip actually contributed something to the end of a dreadful little war, then it was quite possible that it might.

  She said warily, "You force me to admit that I trust Car-stairs, yes."

  Almost plaintively Bishop said, "Will you reconsider, then?"

  He looked so miserable that she smiled. "I trust you, too, Bishop."

  "Thank you."

  "I have therefore reconsidered and I will go."

  He drew a deep breath of relief. "Thank God," he said fervently. "You gave me some bad moments, you know, it's going to take me time to recover. Time," he repeated in a dazed voice, and glanced at his watch. "Oh damn," he exploded, "it's late, I've got to rush off, it's not only late but I'm late."

  "You always have to rush," she pointed out.

  "Well, I do a great deal of sitting when I'm back at headquarters but, once I leave, Carstairs saddles me with unbelievable lists and I'm due in Manhattan by 4 p.m." He glanced wistfully at the plate that had recently held six muffins and was now empty. "Jolly good, those muffins, it's a pity I have to go. But look here, you will squash Janko very firmly, won't you, if he goes around insulting people?"

  She smiled. "I don't own an etiquette book but I'll encourage him to smile frequently."

  "Lots of luck," he said dryly, and closed his briefcase with a snap. Leaning over he kissed her on the top of her head. "And bless you for saying yes, and a million thanks."

  When Bishop had gone Mrs. Pollifax carried the envelope of snapshots upstairs, trying to recall what she knew of Morocco as she placed the photos on the bed next to her packed bags. She knew that the country occupied the upper left-hand corner of North Africa, with a coastline on both the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, and that Algeria was its neighbor on the east, and hadn't she also read that algebra had been invented in Morocco? Or discovered or created, or whatever one does with algebra, she thought crossly, having been thoroughly intimidated by the subject in her youth. She had of course seen and loved the film Casablanca, but Bishop had spoken only of Fez . . , and hadn't the Romans occupied North Africa long ago? "But I've forgotten my history," she lamented, and seating herself on the bed beside the envelope of photos she surrendered to curiosity, removed the pictures and looked at them one by one, and then looked at each one again and finally spread them out on the bed so that she could study each face.

  The photos had been thoughtfully numbered from one to seven. Arranging them in order and consulting the small map in the phrase book she learned the route that she and Janko would be taking through Morocco, and saw too how in each photo the scenery changed, moving from the narrow alleys in the old section of Fez to flat brown plains and a background of mountains, one of them capped with snow.

  The snapshots of the informants were clear but she guessed they'd been taken by an amateur, and possibly without the knowledge of the informants because none of the seven looked posed, and only one of them had glanced in the direction of the camera. The faces also showed her what Bishop meant when he emphasized that Morocco was a Moslem country: she was looking at seven men wearing long robes, with three of the faces bearded; one of them wore a fez and the others wore turbans. Turning over each photo she found their names and addresses strange to an American ear: Hamid ou Azu, Ibrahim Atubi, Youssef Sadrati, Omar Mahbuba, Muhammed Tuhami, Khaddour Nasiri, Sidi Tahar Bouseghine, and she saw that they lived in towns called Er-Rachidia and Erfoud, Tinehir, Ourzaate Zagora, Rouida . . . Only their professions were familiar, with the exception of one who was, mysteriously, a bathhouse keeper; the others were, respectively, a seller of brassware, a cafe waiter, a hotel waiter, a shopkeeper, a barber and a carpet merchant.

  She studied their faces for a long time but when she returned them to their envelope she didn't tuck them into her carry-on bag. Instead she began a search for the old money-belt that Cyrus treasured and had reluctantly replaced with a new one. She discovered it lying under his socks in a chest of drawers and found that her memory had been accurate: each of its three pockets was precisely the right size to hold snapshots. Discarding their envelope she fitted two photos into one pocket, two in the next, and three in the last: she would wear the money-belt to Morocco and not remove it until she could safely hand the photos to Janko.

  She smiled, realizing that seven faces had turned into seven real people now, and that a commitment had been made.

  Sunday

  2

  During the six-hour night-flight to Casablanca Mrs. Pollifax completed her homework. Although the snapshots remained securely hidden in Cyrus' money-belt she had copied on a sheet of paper the names and addresses of the seven informants and she spent an hour silently spelling out and memorizing them, and then another hour in checking the accuracy of her memory. When she was quite certain that seven names and addresses were indelibly engraved in her mind she tore the list into shreds and disposed of it in the lavatory; only then did she allow herself to sleep.

  The plane beginning its descent toward Casablanca's airport roused her from an unsatisfying nap. A glance at her wristwatch told her that by New York time it was three o'clock in the morning but from her window she saw that far below in Casablanca the sun had long since risen and a bright and sunny morning was already under way. According to the announcement over the intercom it was eight o'clock now, and she set her watch accordingly and hoped that she was in time for her plane connection to Fez.

  Two hours later, feeling rather battered by haste and the confusion of languages, her second flight was landing in Fez and her thoughts had transferred themselves to the meeting with Max Janko that lay ahead. She realized that a certain tension had begun to intrude and that she was bracing herself for this first meeting with Carstairs' angry young man. Disembarking she moved through crowds of people waiting to greet friends and relatives, almost all of them chattering away in French, their faces running the gamut from black to beige to white, and nearly half of the men wearing fierce black moustaches.

  But none of the fierce black moustaches approached Mrs. Pollifax.

  She waited patiently, her two bags beside her. After waiting a full thirty minutes she found a counter with a young man standing behind it, and discussed with him the possibility of Mr. Janko being paged over the loudspeaker system but presently it became apparent that the young man thought she was looking for a Mr. Page, and at this point she gave up, carried her bags to the street, climbed into a taxi and asked to be driven to the Palais Jamai.

  Her first impressions of the city through which they drove were vague: she was aware of a boulevard lined with trees and flowers, of narrower streets where the sun slanted across medieval walls with flaking paint, of here and there a balcony with delicate lacy grillwork, and there were certainly a large number of motorbikes abroad, but she was far more occupied with her emotions, which seethed. She was puzzled, tired, overstimulated, wary and not sure whether to be angry or philosophical about Janko not being at the airport to meet her. One must remain flexible, she reminded herself, but Bishop had implied that she would be met, and she saw no reason why she could not have been met . . . Drawing up to the Palais Jamai she thought it looked gloriously deluxe but for the moment she had no interest in its splendors; she only counted out dirhams to the driver of the cab and surrendered her two bags to a porter. Registering at the desk she inquired the number of Mr. Janko's room—it was 315—and after being escorted to room 314 she tipped the porter and went at once to 315 and knocked.

  A man's voice called, "Yes, who is it?"

  "Mrs. Pollifax, just arrived."

  "Oh, good."

  Steps could be heard, the door opened and Mrs. Pollifax was face-to-face with Janko. Cool eyes met hers measuringly, and in turn she measured him. A very confident young man, she decided, his erect posture and appraising glance told her that, as well as a look of arrogance that was startling. His eyes were shadowed by thick curly eyebrows almost as heavy as his glossy blac
k moustache; he was dressed casually in jeans and an open shirt that did not at all match his air of formal coolness.

  "Come in," he said, and having summed her up he looked amused.

  She glanced around the room, noting an unopened and unpacked suitcase. "You've just arrived?" she asked, hoping this might explain her tiresome wait at the airport.

  He didn't reply to this. He said, "Do sit down, you have the photographs, of course, but you're late, I expected you an hour ago."

  She was surprised. She said politely, "I was told that you'd meet me at the airport. If I'm later than expected it's because I waited there."

  His eyes rested on her without expression. "It was foolish of you to wait so long." As if aware of his coolness he smiled a very charming smile but she noticed that it didn't reach his eyes.

  She said again, firmly, "I was told you'd meet me at the airport. You found it impossible?"

  With a careless shrug he said, "I thought it entirely unnecessary."

  "Then my being late," she told him reasonably, "ought surely to have been anticipated."

  He looked a shade taken aback by this mild thrust, and shedding his coldness he smiled warmly. "Let us be done with this. If I offended you I am sorry but it was not given to me as a command to go to the airport, and there were certain things for me to do. Please sit down! You will accept my apology?"

  "Of course," she said amiably, but she remained standing.

  "Now if I may see the photographs, please," he said, extending a hand and waiting. "The photos with the names and addresses that you came to deliver to me. It is important that—" A knock on the door interrupted him and he called out impatiently, "It's not locked, come in."

  It was a porter who opened the door and bowed. "The car has been delivered, sir, and I have come for your luggage."

  "Yes yes," said Janko. "Tell them I'll be with them in five minutes but you can take my luggage now."