Palm for Mrs. Pollifax (18 page)

“The CIA sent me,” she said dryly, “and I’ve never heard them accused of god-like qualities.”

“But she is unprotected now,” he went on in a troubled voice. “Madame, I am very worried about her.”

She groped for his hand and squeezed it. “I think she’ll be all right while they look for you, Hafez. They’re not desperate yet and two hostages are better than one. But what’s behind all this, Hafez, have they told you?”

He sighed. “No, but I am sure it has something to do with my father being general of the Zabyan army.”

“You mean
the
general?” Her knowledge of army hierarchies had never been clear and it had always seemed to her that generals tended to multiply like corporative vice-presidents or rabbits.

“Yes, madame. It’s always been said that no one could ever use the army to overthrow the government as long as my father is general. Because he is very loyal, very dedicated to Jarroud’s cause.”

“They have found a way to divide his loyalties now,” she pointed out softly. “I wonder what they’re up to.” A coup, probably, she thought. One began by blackmailing a general, who would then turn over his army or not turn it over, depending upon how vulnerable he was—but Parviz was vulnerable now, indeed. It was true that he could compromise by agreeing to keep his army out of the arena, but that would be just as effective for the coup-makers as joining them. In any direction he turned he would be rendered helpless. He could save his family or his king but it was unlikely that he could do both. It was a diabolical trap. It was also very well-planned, she realized, because Parviz would have had a week to search for his family and that was long enough to scour the Middle East but who would think of looking for them in a quiet convalescent clinic in Switzerland?

But although Mrs. Pollifax worked hard at picturing a coup d’etat in Zabya it remained an abstract for her, a geometry problem lacking flesh and bones. She had no passion for making or unmaking history. Rulers came to power and rulers lost their power through votes, old age or violence. They had their brief fling at immortality and departed; it was history’s victims for whom she felt compassion. What mattered the more to her at this moment was keeping Hafez and Madame Parviz alive while the actors played out their intrigues on a stage elsewhere.

“This isn’t a fair question, Hafez,” she said, “but when
your father receives the cable sent this morning what do you think he will do? What manner of man is he?”

“Well, he is a man of much integrity, madame. I cannot imagine his turning over the country or the king to wicked people.” He sighed. “I do not know what he will do, madame. If he thinks me safe, and if they promise not to kill the king—why, then, to save bloodshed he
might
do as these people ask. But only to avoid a great bloodletting. I don’t know, you see.”

If they would promise—she tried to think of what promises a man like Sabry would keep. “What influence has your mother?”

“Oh, she is dead, madame. When I was a child she died.”

“You’re the whole family then?” She was startled. “You, your grandmother, and your father?”

“Yes, madame.”

Mrs. Pollifax shivered, and her list of victims expanded. Even King Solomon, she thought, might have a little trouble with this one.

“My father loves the king, they are like brothers,” went on Hafez in a low voice. “My father says Jarroud thinks of the people and wants them to be less poor, which really they should be because the oil belongs to them. My father was very poor once, too, madame. They say it is my father who always reminds the king of the people.” He hesitated. “Madame, I cannot answer your question.”

She nodded. “Of course you can’t. Tell me instead about the sheik. He’s involved in this somewhere?”

“Oh yes, madame. It was his private plane that brought us here to Switzerland. His plane has been pointed out to me many times so I know this.”

So there it was, thought Mrs. Pollifax, as the remaining pieces of the puzzle slipped into place. She was remembering the king’s birthday party on Tuesday—oh, perfect, she reflected. The army would be much in evidence, out in force and proudly displayed, yet every attention would be
diverted to the festival and to the visiting heads of state. Given the right coincidences, careful planning and shrewd arrangements the day would end with the king deposed or dead and the government taken over by—

By the sheik, of course, she thought. Of
course
the sheik. She remembered the flash of his smile, the dark handsome face of the man whom Robin had called one of the richest men in the world. She thought,
What does one do with so much money? He’s already explored the world of the senses—of women, cars, jewels—and now he’s moved on to the world of the ascetic, and he is still young. What next?

She knew the answer because it followed a logical pattern: he would want power. Given power, he would be able to manipulate, to create and to change. It was the ultimate toy, the deepest psychological lust of all because it held within it all the satisfactions of the sensual as well as the ascetic.

Her hand moved to the sheik’s suitcase behind her that had been so important to Sabry that it couldn’t be left behind. I have Hafez and I have this, she thought, and wondered what they would do to get them back.

In the adjoining room Fouad moaned, and Mrs. Pollifax put away her thoughts and nudged Hafez. “We’d better look at Fouad,” she told him, and distributing the contents of her lap she led the way into the next chamber. They bent over the chest with a lighted match. This time Fouad’s eyes lifted to stare without intelligence at the pinpoint of flame above him. Another half hour or so, she guessed, and he would remember who they were and why he was in the chest.

She groped for a place to sit. “I have Hafez and I have their suitcase,” she repeated … It must be one o’clock by now, already Monday morning. The caretaker of the castle would be asleep in his apartment by the gate, and the highway would be nearly empty of cars but she did not believe for a moment that Sabry had abandoned his post outside.
At first he would have been angry, and then he would have been puzzled because Fouad was strong, shrewd, and armed with a gun. It would be inconceivable to him that Fouad could disappear in the company of an elderly woman and a boy. But that incredulity would have returned to anger by now, and given time to check and double-check she thought that Sabry must be quite certain the three of them were still in the castle.
Someone
would be on guard outside—waiting, watching …

Hafez tapped her on the arm. “What is it, madame, you sigh so heavily! And don’t you prefer a chest? You are seated on the latrine.”

“Latrine?” She was startled, and one hand moved to the ancient, splintery surface to discover that he was right, she was sitting on the long bench-top that concealed the latrine, while below—“Hafez!” she said in a surprised voice and began to smile in the darkness. “Hafez, I’ve been waiting for inspiration and you’ve just given it to me.
Think
, Hafez! Think what’s below me!”

“Lake Geneva,” he said doubtfully. “And rocks.”

“No, no, a way out of the castle, Hafez. A way
out
.”

“Down that chimney?” he said incredulously. “But, madams—how could one get down? It is two floors high, surely?”

“I’m thinking of the coil of rope,” she told him eagerly. “I managed a rope once, over Robin’s balcony. It will all depend on the strength of the rope. We must be resourceful, Hafez.”

“Rope …” Hafez said reflectively, and his voice suddenly quickened. “Oh,
yes
, madame! Here, try it, feel it. Do you think—?”

“Let’s tie it to the suitcase and drop the suitcase down the chute and see what happens,” she urged. “Give me a hand, Hafez. Light a match.”

Matches flared briefly, one after the other. They secured one end of the rope to the iron bolt of the window shutter on the wall nearby, and the other end she knotted to the
handle of the suitcase. Gently they lowered the weight down the cute; it bumped softly here and there against the stones, and hung suspended, swaying back and forth.

“It didn’t break,” whispered Hafez. “How far down do you think it went?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Twenty feet, thirty. It’s a long rope.” She was assessing twenty pounds of suitcase against Hafez’s weight and her own and she was not sure that she liked the odds. To entrust their lives to a rope that had lain in a damp chest for days, months, even perhaps for years—

Hafez abruptly placed his hand on her arm. He said in a low voice, “Madame.”

She heard it, too, and stiffened. Not far away—it came from one of the rooms nearby—a voice had lifted in momentary anger.

“Munir’s voice,” whispered Hafez. “Madame, they’re
inside the castle
.”

Inside the castle … Her astonishment fought against the chill of terror. How
could
they be inside, what entrance had they discovered that she and Hafez had missed? She tried to think. A ladder? The thought of a ladder jarred her out of paralysis. If they had a ladder they could scale the outside wall and gain the lower roofs, and from there—yes, they could do it if the ladder was long enough—they could reach one of those barless windows on the stairs to the Defense Tower and this would bring them into the corridor two rooms away. There was no magic about it, then; they had brought equipment and were coming in after them.

She turned quickly to Hafez, her decision made for her, and placed the end of the rope in Hafez’s hand. “Go first,” she told him sternly, “hand over hand, not too fast. If I can’t make it, take the suitcase to Robin. The walls will be near enough to touch with your feet if you panic.”

“I do not panic,” Hafez whispered scornfully, and she saw his shadowy form step over the side and vanish. The
rope groaned a little, and behind her the shutter creaked as it felt his weight but the knots held, the rope remained steady.

In the chest across the room Fouad groaned and moved, one knee hitting the top of the chest with a thud, In the corridor beyond the chest a beam of light flashed across the stones, lifted and vanished. A low voice said, “Fool! Keep the light away from the window!” It was Sabry’s voice. She climbed over the side of the opening and waited, holding her breath. When she felt two tugs on the rope she thought—madness!—but she didn’t hesitate.

It was dark and cold in the chute. The rope strained at her weight. She placed a hand under her to check her descent but even so she went down in an insane rush. The weight of the suitcase had turned the rope into a plumb line so that it moved in slow giddy circles between top and bottom. Her hands burned from the coarse hemp. Down—down—Something brushed past her, wings fluttering, and then she reached the suitcase and dangled there uncertainly. “Jump, madame,” whispered Hafez excitedly. “You’ve made it! It’s not far.”

She let go, slid across wet rocks and promptly sat down in the water, head spinning dizzily. “Please, madame—do hurry,” gasped Hafez, cutting away the suitcase with his knife. “Quickly, madame!”

She stumbled to her feet. Hafez handed her the gun and the knife, lifted the suitcase and waded out of the opening into the shallows of Lake Geneva. She followed. The water was up to her knees. She had neglected to remove her shoes and the rocks underfoot were slippery with lichen. As they moved slowly around the castle in the direction of the shore she alternately stumbled, rose, slipped and fell again. She was drenched when they reached the cobbled shore and as she waded out of the water she stopped and looked up at the dark castle serrating the skyline. Suddenly a thin beam of light impaled her and vanished.
Out of the darkness a familiar voice said, “Good God, it’s really you?”

It was a voice from another world. Mrs. Pollifax stood uncertainly at the water’s edge, caught in the act of wringing water from her skirts. “Robin?” she faltered.

“Over here—in a rowboat,” came his stage whisper, and she heard the creak of oar locks and a muted splash of water. “Climb in,” she heard him say, and then he added flippantly, “Whatever kept you so long?”

“And now let’s get the hell out of here,”
Robin said, steadying her as she fell into the boat. “They’ve good ears, those two, they’re at the gate.” He sat down, picked up the oars and began to row.

“Monsieur, they are not at the gate,” whispered Hafez, “they’re inside the castle.”

“Good Lord,” he said, and rowed faster.

The darkness was thinning and shapes were beginning to separate themselves from the opaque blackness of night. She could see the point of land toward which Robin rowed, and then the silhouette of rocks through which he threaded the boat as he headed toward a more distant cove. He spoke only once. “Are those
teeth
I hear chattering?”

Hafez giggled.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax with dignity. They rounded the point and a minute later the boat hit the graveled shore
and ground to a stop. The castle could no longer be seen; it was hidden by trees.

“I’ve got a car,” Robin said. “A rented one. It’s up there off the road, straight ahead through the trees.”

“You’re a miracle, Robin,” she said. “It’s the greatest piece of luck your being here.”

“Luck!” he growled, helping Hafez out with the suitcase. “It was getting too damned crowded at the front of the castle, that’s all. The lake was the only place left for me. Could you hurry a little? The sooner we get out of this place the happier I’ll feel. There’s a blanket in the back seat of the car,” he added. “Get moving while I tie up the boat.”

When he joined them in the car Mrs. Pollifax and Hafez had already found the blanket and were huddled under it together. Climbing in behind the wheel he turned and gave her a stern glance. “Look here, I’ve never felt so helpless in my life,” he said, “I’ve spent the whole night debating whether to go to the police, telling myself I’d call them within the hour, then postponing because I didn’t want to upset your applecart, but don’t you think it’s time I drive like hell now to a police station?”

“Now?” gasped Hafez, and turning to Mrs. Pollifax he said desperately, “Madame, my grandmother—”