Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled (14 page)

“Better, Duchess.” He smiled. “You lost me for a little while, you know.”

She nodded. “I realize that, but I’ve been there, too, Farrell.… I didn’t lose you for long,” she reminded him. “And it was
very
understandable.” But this was not a wise subject and she quickly changed it by saying lightly, “You may not even have to walk all those miles to the village tonight. The way Joe is embracing the criminal life he may very well steal the Land Rover.”

“
Very
bad influence,” agreed Farrell gravely.

They heard the crunch of gravel outside and Joe reappeared, waving a competent-looking tool. “Got it,” he said. “Barney was actually insulted that I thought his toolbox wouldn’t include this. But we’ll need more robes, won’t we? The sort peasants wear—
abayas
, not djellabas. For me at least.”

They had become “we,” which amused Farrell. “Yes, but you might inquire about a Land Rover again for tonight.”

“Oh, it’s already revved up,” Joe said. “I didn’t ask this time; Dr. Robinson’s asleep by now—”

Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell exchanged smiles at this.

“—and anyway, you paid him enough money for an entire week of gasoline. Farrell and I can sleep in the Land Rover at the village until sunup, you know, so we’ll be dead sure to get the sheep moving by daylight.”

“But the villagers will surely be asleep by now.”

Joe dismissed this with, “Oh yes, but I know which house the headman lives in—the oddest houses, shaped like beehives. I suppose it keeps them cool. Barney and I rode back on the cart once just to see the village, and the headman gave us tea. That’s when we saw the sheep; they’ll be taking them to the hills soon for the winter. They’ll like this money,” he said frankly. “They’re really quite poor. With all this”—he brought the wad of bills from his pocket—“I don’t think he’ll mind being waked up.”

“We’ve created a monster,” said Farrell.

Mrs. Pollifax laughed. “Yes, but such a
nice
one, and delightfully efficient.” She glanced at her watch. “Nearly half-past ten—you’d better head for the village now, hadn’t you?”

Joe handed her the wire cutters. “Guard these with your life, will you? And have a good sleep.”

Mrs. Pollifax followed them out of the tent and watched them climb into the Land Rover and take off, heading west this time. Before finding her way into Amy’s tent and her own cot she lingered a few minutes in the chill desert night, watching the red taillight of the Land Rover, its front lights briefly illuminating shrubs and rocks and casting strange shadows before it disappeared from sight, while overhead the full moon had begun its journey across a dark indigo blue night sky.
Mrs. Pollifax shivered; it was terribly important not to think of what lay ahead of them, or how they would ever get out of Syria, with or without Amanda Pym. Sleep was also important, and with a sigh she entered Amy’s tent to begin the long night and even longer day ahead of them.

M
rs. Pollifax slept uneasily, woke, slept, and woke again at the first hint of silvery predawn light. The night was over at last, and having slept in her clothes she wrapped herself in the djellaba, and carrying a blanket tiptoed out of the tent. The camp looked oddly forlorn until she saw the Land Rover parked in its usual place in the shade of the field office, and in surprise she hurried to Joe’s tent.

Farrell was there, sound asleep and clutching an odd bundle of black woolen cloth, but at her entrance he at once opened his eyes. “Hi, Duchess,” he said and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

She had to smile, for he looked a complete ruffian now, still unshaven since Damascus and wearing a four days’ stubble of beard. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to Joe’s empty cot. “There’s much to talk about.”

“Where’s Joe?”

“With the sheep, on his way back by now with two boys named Rachid and Hisham. Once they started he sent me ahead, and I’ll take over with the sheep when they get here and herd them toward the sniper camp. We’ve done a lot of talking, Duchess; after all, he’s been here for three seasons and knows a hell of a lot more than we do, as well as knowing the language. I thought naively that we could cross the desert to Damascus.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately Joe says it’s nearly two hundred and fifty miles, so it has to be by bus.”

“Ouch,” she said with a shiver. “Dangerous.”

He nodded. “It could be, but Joe says they don’t stop the buses very often now for ID checks. One of the Deir Ez Zor buses stops at Tadmor and then goes on to Damascus—a long trip—six hours; another goes up to Homs, but he’ll know which one we need. He suggests we get the bus at a village or town named As Sikhneh tonight and—”

“I know the place,” she told him. “The man who brought me here was delivering food there.”

“Good. He says it’s the best and least conspicuous place to catch the bus, especially in the middle of the night. He’s also bought some things to wear. You and I must go as Bedouins—the Pym girl, too, if we can get her out. He’ll go in his American clothes because he’s been on the bus before, they know him, he has all the papers connecting him to Tell Khamseh in case there
should
be a police check, and he thinks they won’t bother
us
—
if
,” he added dryly, “we look authentic Bedouin.”

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Pollifax.

Farrell grinned. “Don’t worry, you just have to wear this rather dirty
abaya
and look strong and plump, and I’ve kohl to outline eyes—for
her,”
he added, as if to name her would bring them bad luck. “Also a black robe and headscarf for her, and cheap sandals.” He shook his head. “I think Carstairs must have been psychic to have given us so much money.”

“And in Syrian pound notes, too,” she reminded him. “One wonders how they reach Langley, Virginia, and let’s hope they’re not forged! I think he knew,” she added thoughtfully. “He’s never given us so much before … he can really be uncanny at times.” She frowned. “But the bus at As Sikhneh? How on earth do we get to As Sikhneh?”

Farrell hesitated. “You’re not going to like this, Duchess, I didn’t at first. Joe’s had a little talk with Barney—”

“Oh
no
.” Mrs. Pollifax gasped. “To involve
him
?”

“Hush, it’s all right. Barney said he very definitely doesn’t want to know what the hell Joe’s up to, no questions asked. He’s a good friend, he’ll ask for the Land Rover tonight to go off alone into the desert to look for another hamster.”

“For a
what
?”

Farrell grinned. “It seems the golden hamster was discovered here in Syria. It’s a desert creature, and Barney’s tamed one and keeps him in a cage in his tent, and calls him Jack. Hamsters are nocturnal, so night is the time to look for them, and he’s done it before. They’re actually called the Syrian hamster, and he’ll probably tell you all about them on the way. Stop laughing, Duchess.”

“I can’t help it,” she said. “Hamsters and sheep!”

“Well, to proceed: Barney will have the Land Rover parked without lights near enough to the sniper camp for a quick getaway tonight, after which he drives us the forty or so miles to As Sikhneh and we wait there—and no doubt wait and
wait
for a bus, with Joe—traveling American—giving no indication that he knows us. From the village he’s bringing loaves of
khobz
—we subsist on bread—and we can’t be seen drinking bottled water, that’s for tourists.”

“A small sacrifice,” she told him. “Farrell …”

“Hmmm?”

“Never mind,” she said, and wished that she’d slept better. For a few days here at the digs she’d felt safe, it had been a welcome haven, but to think of leaving it now brought a sense of dismay. There was something about night, too; night was for sleep, it arrived at day’s end, when one was presumably tired and vulnerable. She’d felt this way before, she recognized it and knew that it had to be tamed. There was work to do, it was why she was here.

“What is it?” asked Farrell, concerned.

She forcibly turned her thoughts away from the night to apply herself to the practical. “I think for the next hour, if someone has a needle and thread, I’ll sew pockets into each of these
abayas
,” she told him. “After all, we can’t dress as Bedouins and carry purses or knapsacks.” And since the camp was stirring now she left and went back to Amy’s tent to ask if she had a sewing kit.

I
t was another long day of waiting. While some of the workers continued in Site Two, sweeping and digging, measuring levels and recording them, others—Amy among them—had begun packing crates for their departure, the crates to be shipped to the Antiquities Department in Damascus, where they would be assessed, cleaned and dated, and the discoveries divided between Syria’s museums and the American university that had sponsored the expedition.

Mrs. Pollifax, having sewn pockets in each robe for their passports and money, helped as much as she was allowed. Having time now to more properly observe the work still being done, she could see how the caravansary had begun to take on a recognizable shape as more paving stones of its floor had been uncovered. In Jordan Mrs. Pollifax had seen a restored caravansary, bare and stark, and bearing no hint of the travelers who in ancient times drove their camels into it, to bed down with them for the night before continuing their journey; it had seemed just another museum, and she’d not given serious thought to the romance of caravans arriving from distant and improbable places, crossing deserts and over mountain passes. Here, now, was a real caravansary emerging out
of the earth, and she wondered what they’d brought so far to trade and sell.

“Bars of silver,” Amy told her when she asked. “Gold and spices and silks—but most of all frankincense, which they offered to their gods. And also,” she added bluntly, “they used both frankincense and myrrh as perfumes, because they didn’t bathe often.”

“Frankincense and myrrh!” exclaimed Mrs. Pollifax. “How biblical.”

“Oh, but long before Christ was born,” said Amy flatly. “Assyrian inscriptions have been found that refer to Tadmor as long ago as 1150
B.C.
, meaning that Tadmor was already on the transdesert route.”

“So long ago! What
was
the route?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.

“It usually began in South Yemen—the Hadhramaut—winding its way up through Saudi Arabia, past Mecca, and from there traveled to what’s now Jordan, but at Petra the caravans would split and go in different directions.” She added with a sudden smile, “We’ve had some excitement this season, something more than shards of pottery and tablets and seals and water jugs.”

“Excitement?”

Amy nodded. “I’ll show you. They’re not crated yet, they’re in the field office under lock and key. We’re hoping this could bring us more funding next year.”

“Suspense mounts,” said Mrs. Pollifax as they walked toward the building. “What is it?”

“You’ll see.… You may have noticed that in Site Two we’ve reached the floor of the caravansary with its paving stones. One of those stones was loose, and a week ago a workman pried it up and found a cache of valuables hidden there,
very,
very
old, which suggests the caravansary was here even before the Qasr al-Hirt.”

“That
is
exciting,” agreed Mrs. Pollifax.

“We think, from what we found, that a long time ago this inn must have been attacked by marauders, and one of the merchants—for every six camels carrying frankincense and silks he was allowed one camel for personal belongings—we think this man, whoever he was, hid what mattered most to him so the marauders wouldn’t rob him of it. Buried treasure—in a great hurry—out of desperation.” She admitted with a smile, “We make up stories about that man, and what might have taken place here—all of us—because what he’d buried he never retrieved. And we wonder and speculate what happened to him during the attack, whether he was captured or killed.”

She led Mrs. Pollifax to a corner of the field office and removed the padlock from a separate small crate and opened it. “Just look,” she said, and placed in Mrs. Pollifax’s hand a necklace of medallions, each circle carved with a time-blurred face of a woman.

“Lovely,” breathed Mrs. Pollifax. “Brass?”

“No, gold, pure gold … it just needs cleaning. In Damascus it’ll be dated, but Dr. Robinson is sure that it’s over a thousand years old. And here’s a necklace of bone and ivory, and this might interest you,” she added, presenting Mrs. Pollifax with a small pouch of amber-colored powder. “It’s raw frankincense, and still fragrant. Smell it.”

“Ummmm,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax, sniffing, but what moved her even more was a small box that Amy handed her, in which lay a faded bouquet. “Flowers from the frankincense tree,” said Amy, and leaning over it Mrs. Pollifax marveled
at its being preserved in the earth almost intact: its yellow petals had faded somewhat, but each bore a heart of red in its center, and a very faint scent lingered. “And what story have you given this?”

“That’s the romance of it all,” Amy admitted, her weather-beaten face softening. “We like to think the bouquet was given to him by someone he loved very much. As a token, a talisman, to take with him.”

“But he never returned,” said Mrs. Pollifax sadly. Like Joe’s Babylonian prayer, here was another ghost from the past, leaving them to wonder who and what and if, never to be answered.

“Apparently not,” said Amy, placing the box tenderly back in the crate and locking it, and then, “
What
in heaven’s name is that noise outside?”

Listening, Mrs. Pollifax smiled. “It sounds like sheep,” and she left Amy to hurry outside.

What she saw was Joe leading a herd of sheep that stretched back almost a quarter of a mile behind him; he had kept them at a distance, on the outskirts of the camp, but they were protesting noisily as they passed: sheep of all colors—black, brown, white, cream—prodded in the rear by Joe’s Bedouin companions keeping them on the move with their sticks.

Amy, joining her, said with a frown, “I wondered what had happened to Joe today.” She shook her head. “Has he gone out of his mind? Such a conscientious young man, but how childish of him to play at being a shepherd!”