Elusive Mrs. Pollifax (16 page)

“You are naïve,” Tsanko told her bluntly.

“Not at all–I’m well aware of the risks and I’d insist upon sharing them. I’ve not come here empty-handed, either,” she told him heatedly. “Did you know that Mrs. Bemish works at Panchevsky Institute? She works nights in the kitchen from eight o’clock to six in the morning, and don’t forget that Philip is her nephew. She was utterly appalled to hear that he’s here in prison because of her husband.”

Tsanko said in astonishment, “You’ve seen her? You’ve told her?”

Mrs. Pollifax nodded. “Yes, of course, and I have every reason to believe she’ll help us. I think I can also promise you the help of Assen Radev.”

Tsanko looked at her in horror. “You know this Radev who followed you?”

“You explained him when you told me about the coat,” she said. “I think he’s a professional agent for the CIA.”

The reaction to this was rewarding to say the least. Tsanko said incredulously, “How is this?”

“I at once opened up the lining of my coat to see why it’s of such interest,” she told him, and brought out the sample bill, handing it to him. “This is what I found. It seems I’ve brought rather a lot of money into your country without knowing it. I think Assen Radev was supposed to exchange coats with me very quickly and quietly. He certainly tried–he must have been my burglar.”

Georgi said eagerly, “It is I who searched the valise. He walk around Sofia all the time carrying this bag. What a surprise, a coat so explicitly like yours.”

“It was a surprise for me, too,” said Mrs. Pollifax frankly.

“But this is Russian money,” Tsanko said in surprise.

She nodded.

He was considering this with a frown. “And even if Radev is a CIA agent it doesn’t promise his help.”

Mrs. Pollifax smiled at him forgivingly. “You might leave that to me,” she suggested gently.

Tsanko turned to the others and they began speaking excitedly together in Bulgarian. When he turned back to Mrs. Pollifax he said, “Georgi is eager, as only young people can be. Kosta is gloomy, Volko interested and Boris–”

“Dismayed,” said Boris heavily.

“Why?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.

He sighed. “I beg you to look at us, are we a group for violence? We have not even a gun among us. Have we?” he asked the others.

Volko said with a smile, “No, Boris.”

“You see?”

Volko added pleasantly, “But you forget, comrade, that my factory makes Very pistols, parachute flares and fireworks. Such things are made of explosives.”

“Splendid!” said Mrs. Pollifax, beaming at him.

Georgi said, “Boris, in class you teach us of violence, how is it you speak so negative now? You teach us how we fight the Turks and the Nazis–”

“But did I never point out we lose each time?” said Boris sarcastically.

Volko held up a hand. “Please, I would like to hear more of the Amerikanski’s plan.”

“Plan? How can there be a plan yet?” asked Mrs. Pollifax. “First we have to enlist Assen Radev and Mrs. Bemish, and then gather information about this Panchevsky Institute.”

Tsanko said grimly, “This last I give you now. It is impregnable, an ancient building, a castle. The Turks did their torturing in it. It is a large, square, stone building in the middle of the city. Around it has been built a high stone wall with sentry boxes and lights at each corner of the wall. Streets go right past it …”

Mrs. Pollifax said thoughtfully, “Why don’t we go and take a look at it right now? Is there a car available?”

The men exchanged glances. “Certainly not in a car,” Tsanko murmured. “We must not be seen together.”

“One of the trucks, perhaps?” said Volko. “There is one in the alley, a closed-up–how do you say,
van?
Georgi, you could wear coveralls and drive.”

“Ypa,”
he said, grinning.

“It will be dangerous,” said Boris. “My God, if we are stopped …”

Tsanko laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “Then the Amerikanski will rescue you, too, from Panchevsky Institute, my friend. Come, shall we go?”

Crouched in the rear of the van, Mrs. Pollifax watched their progress over Georgi’s shoulder. It was early twilight. The lights of the cafes in the tourist district spilled out across the cobblestones along with the sound of strident nasal folk songs shouted into microphones that distorted the sound. A few people strolled along the pavement glancing into shop windows, but once they left the hotel area behind them all attempt at night life was abandoned and the streets were almost deserted.

They had driven for about ten minutes when Georgi said, “There it is ahead of us. The wall.”

It loomed in the distance, an anachronism in this newly created suburban boulevard, an ugly Chinese wall cutting across their path, bisecting the road and forcing it to split to right and to left. The boulevard had a mild downhill grade. At the bottom Georgi braked in the shadow of the wall and turned, following it to the right. They came out in a broad square–“This is the front, the entrance,” said Georgi–and Mrs. Pollifax peered over his shoulder at an expanse of flood-lit cobblestones, two
shabby stone pillars embracing the iron gate, and a sentry’s kiosk. Then the van passed, turning left to follow the wall down a narrow side street. On the opposite side from which they had entered the square, Georgi braked the van to a stop and they parked.

They were silent. The whole neighborhood was silent, as if crushed by this monstrosity of stone. Across this street on which they had parked, Mrs. Pollifax could look up at the wall as it rose fifteen or twenty feet above them. No actual light could be seen anywhere, yet an illumination like marsh mist hung over the compound, as though on the other side of the wall the sun had risen and it was noon.

“Damn,” said Debby in a stifled, angry voice.

Mrs. Pollifax realized that Tsanko and the others were waiting for her to speak, their faces turned toward her, and she could think of nothing to say. Her eyes followed the wall down the street, picking out the silhouette of the sentry box mounted on the wall at the corner, where it turned at right angles. It was a relatively primitive sentry box, no more than an enclosure against rain or snow, its windows glassless and open; as far as she could see there were no sentries inside. “Drive around the corner, Georgi, let’s look at the sentry box,” she said.

Volko said, “We should not go around all the way again, we have been the only traffic on the square.”

She nodded. “Once will do, surely.”

The car moved, and now other heads peered to look at the sentry station, too; Mrs. Pollifax could still see no men inside, although as they continued slowly along the last side of the square they met a guard ambling along the top of the wall, a machine gun strapped to his back. Then they were again on the boulevard from which they had entered the square; Georgi accelerated the car and they sped up the boulevard.

“Well?” said Tsanko, leaning over, and his eyes were kind. “You are ready to give it up now?”

Mrs. Pollifax looked at him and then looked away, not answering. The sight of the wall had sobered her; she was still stricken by the visual impact of its height, length, solidity, but above all by its officialness. Nor was this lessened by the knowledge that it was only a wall. There was nothing rational about a wall, whether it encircled Berlin, San Quentin or the ghettos of Warsaw. A wall was a symbol, fortified as much by the idea behind it as by bricks and guns.

But she also remembered that inside this wall lived Philip Trenda, who was going to be killed in a few days. He was young and far from home and he had never wanted to come to Bulgaria, and Debby had said he liked Leonard Cohen and Simon and Garfunkel.

She said angrily, “I like Simon and Garfunkel, too. No, I’m not ready to give up, do you understand?”

They returned to the warehouse and sat down with cups of weak tea. The hot water was drawn from one of the furnace boilers by Volko, and Mrs. Pollifax shared three tea bags she carried in her purse. The silence proved oddly companionable. It was broken at last by Volko.

“This is not impossible, you know,” he said thoughtfully. “The spirit counts for most. You recall, Tsanko and Boris, some of the tricks we play on the Nazis?”

“Twenty-eight years ago,” put in Boris.

“
Da
. We have fewer muscles, but the more brains,” pointed out Tsanko.

“You really have access to explosives?” Mrs. Pollifax asked Volko.

He made a gesture that encompassed the basement and the entire warehouse. “Access?” he said modestly. “Is all here. Mostly fireworks this month, enough for May Day in every socialist country.”

“Well, now,” said Mrs. Pollifax, her eyes brightening.
“For myself, I know a little karate. Debby, what could you contribute?”

Debby looked astonished. “You mean you’d let me help?”

“You’d have to,” pointed out Mrs. Pollifax.

Debby considered this with great seriousness. “I wish I could think of something,” she confessed. “I can drive a motorcycle. And I’m good on the parallel bars and the ropes, and come to think of it I know a lot about knots. All those years of summer camp, you know? Maybe I could tie up a guard.”

Knots, motorcycle
, wrote Mrs. Pollifax, pencil in hand.

They glanced next at Boris, who sat beside Debby looking glum. “Please,” he said. “For this I know nothing.”

“Come, come, Boris,” said Tsanko, “you were once a champion at shooting. I see the gold medals on your wall.”

“Really?” said Georgi eagerly.

Boris gave him a dark look. “What I shoot, Georgi, was the bow and the arrows.”

“Oh,” said Georgi dispiritedly.

“I am wondering,” said Mrs. Pollifax thoughtfully, “if Panchevsky Institute’s reputation may not be our greatest asset. In my experience this sort of thing induces carelessness.” Fixing Boris with a stern eye, she said, “After all, if
you
had a reputation like that–terrifying–what else would you need? You could relax.”

“Already you are terrifying
me
,” Boris said. He smiled and the effect upon his gloomy features was dazzling. “I think you must be like one of our witches in the Balkan mountains.”

“She thinks in a straight line,” said Tsanko. “There are no detours in this woman. So. She has made a point–Panchevsky Institute may be impregnable, but human nature is not.”

Volko glanced at his watch. “It grows late. I suggest
lists of what is available to us, and much careful thinking of this idea.”

“And then when we’ve contacted Mrs. Bemish and Radev we can put them all together!” finished Mrs. Pollifax triumphantly. “In the meantime I’ll volunteer to visit Assen Radev tomorrow. I can try to persuade Balkantourist to arrange a tour of his goose farm. You can tell me where it is and how to find it?” she asked Tsanko.

“It is the Dobri Vapcarow Collective farm, in the village of Dobri Vapcarow. You understand it is not
his
geese, this is socialist state. The geese are raised for their livers, which are one of our most successful exports to the Western world. For the making of
pâté de foie gras
,” he explained.

“How very capitalistic,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax. “But I mustn’t visit this goose farm with the money still in my coat. Is there a way to remove it overnight?”

“There is our tailor comrade,” put in Volko.

“Good! And if the coat could be returned to me in the morning, quite early, at the Rila?”

“You give us a busy night again,” said Tsanko, handing her a piece of paper. “This is the name of the collective. I have written it in Bulgarian and in English.”

“What about Mrs. Bemish?” asked Debby. “She said she’d die for her brother.”

“A momentary aberration, perhaps,” commented Mrs. Pollifax. “But yes–what about Mrs. Bemish?”

“I know where she lives,” said Georgi eagerly. “I could telephone her tomorrow to say I have message for her. Does she know yet her husband has been killed?”

Tsanko shook his head. “How can she know when he is buried in the rocks of Tsaravets Hill? Only Nikki will guess. But of course she will be alarmed by the absence, it has been twenty-four hours now.”

Boris said, “You go and see this woman, Georgi, and she will tell the police about you and I will lose my best student.”

“I’ll take the chance,” Georgi said fiercely. “Someone has to be liaison, like army.”

Tsanko intervened with a sigh. “This is a problem for all of us. I have no desire to be seen by these two people, this Radev and Mrs. Bemish. You understand the danger for us if we can be identified?”

Debby said joyously, “Stocking masks!”

Mrs. Pollifax clapped her hands. “Bravo, Debby!” Seeing the others look blank, she explained. “This is what was first used in our Brink’s holdups. The silk stocking over the head blurs the features completely. I can contribute several pairs, and you’ll see.”

“Holdups?” said Volko, puzzled. “Brink?”

Boris said firmly, “James Cagney, Volko. You recall the American movies we enjoy so much?”

Mrs. Pollifax checked her watch and stood up. “It’s getting late,” she said regretfully. “Debby and I should go back to the hotel before anyone wonders where we’ve gone. In any case, if I’m going to request a visit to a goose farm I’ll have to telephone Balkantourist at once.” She added sadly, “They don’t seem to like sudden jolts.”

It was agreed that the blue car would call for them at the hotel at five o’clock tomorrow. “Do not be discouraged, Amerikanski,” Tsanko told her. “We are neither fools nor cowards. You give us hope.”

It had been a long day and Mrs. Pollifax was looking forward to her first night of uninterrupted sleep since arriving in Bulgaria. She and Debby said good night in the hall and Mrs. Pollifax waited, watching, while Debby unlocked the door of her room, gave her a peace sign and went inside. Disguising a yawn–it was only half-past nine–she unlocked her own door.

The lights were on. Seated opposite the door in a chair was Nevena.

“Why, Nevena,” said Mrs. Pollifax warmly, “just the person I wanted to see!”

“So, Mrs. Pollifax,” said Nevena grimly.

It was at that moment that Mrs. Pollifax remembered the long list of her indiscretions with Balkantourist and the number of necessary apologies that had accumulated. She was relieved that Debby–whose presence in Bulgaria was still on tenuous grounds, as yet unrealized by both Eastlake and Balkantourist–was safely out of sight. “I was about to telephone Balkantourist,” Mrs. Pollifax said truthfully.