Elusive Mrs. Pollifax (12 page)

He looked surprised. “But you have given me the hat, which you tell me contains passports. Your job is complete, you can be out of Bulgaria by tomorrow noon.”

She shook her head. “That’s impossible, absolutely impossible.”

“Why?”

She thought what a
lived
man he looked, square and shaggy, his lined face burned dark by sun and wind. “I don’t like people trying to kill me,” she said quietly. “I liked Philip Trenda and he’s Debby’s friend. He’s very young, and I don’t believe anyone else in Bulgaria–including, perhaps, the American Embassy–really cares.”

“But you do?”

“Someone
must
,” she said fiercely.

“Then we will meet again,” Tsanko told her, and he picked up the bird’s nest hat and returned it to her. It was a gesture that completely took Mrs. Pollifax aback. He was handing her the passports–the lives of his friends–as a promise. “We will meet in the morning, I hope. If possible, Encho will come to the hotel for you. Encho lives here in Tarnovo, he drives a government taxi for tourists. He also speaks a little English.

“But now it is past midnight,” he said, rising. “Balkantourist will be upset enough with your being in Tarnovo instead of Borovets, and two men have been killed tonight,
wiped off the face of the earth. This is dangerous in any country. It will be a busy night for us.”

Mrs. Pollifax held out the hat to him. “You’ve just given me back what I was assigned to deliver to you. Surely it’s not professional for me to accept this?”

He smiled faintly and there was the hint of a twinkle in his eyes. “I am not sure either of us is professional, is this not possible?”

She looked at him in astonishment, and something like recognition arose between them.

“It is a long walk back,” he said, escorting her to the cave’s entrance. “When you have seen the Bulgarian mountains in moonlight you see my country at its best. Sleep well, Amerikanski,” he added.

She nodded, and she and Debby followed Kosta from the cave.

At CIA headquarters in Langley Field, Virginia, it had been a trying Thursday. An ambassador had been abducted in South America the night before, and this morning an agent was missing in Hong Kong. There was also the continuing puzzle of young Philip Trenda, whose arrest was filling the front pages of the newspapers. Yesterday the State Department had asked Carstairs to see what he could discover about the situation through less conventional channels. It was a nuisance being called in on the job. Carstairs had already been summoned Upstairs twice for conferences and his routine work was piling up on the desk.

Having been involved in this crisis for only twenty-four hours Carstairs admitted to almost no progress and no new leads at all. He glanced now over a routine report on the affair from a B. Eastlake at the United States Embassy in Sofia. It was an abbreviated memo, a digest of the hour-by-hour reports coming from Sofia. Halfway down the first page Carstairs noticed a reference by Eastlake to two American tourists who had come to
the Embassy on Tuesday. They had managed to suggest that Philip had been lured into Bulgaria by a young Yugoslavian traveling under a German passport.

There were always people to suggest this sort of thing and Carstairs noted that quite rightly Eastlake placed small faith in the story. He had given it only three lines in the report.

But Eastlake’s job was judicial and diplomatic; Carstairs, on the other hand, lived and worked in a world of improbabilities, fantasies and the completely irrational. He pressed the buzzer for Bishop and handed him the report.

“Get me detailed information about these two tourists Eastlake talked to in Sofia. Exactly what was said, and why, and what sort of people they are. I want to know today.”

“Right, sir,” said Bishop, and went out.

Carstairs sighed. Nothing about Trenda’s arrest made the slightest sense so far. The State Department couldn’t figure out what the Bulgarians were up to, or what they planned to do. The Embassy in Sofia had still not been allowed to contact young Trenda. There were no details at all about the espionage charges, and none of this boded well for Philip. So far as Carstairs had been able to discover, the boy had no connection with political or subversive groups. He’d gone to public schools and then to the University of Illinois. He was the only child of a rich man. He wrote poetry, and the nearest he’d come to revolt against any system at all was a short article in his school paper on the current injustices of the draft. If he’d been engaged in suspicious activities they surely must have begun after he reached Europe in June. At this moment his being accused of espionage seemed utterly far-fetched, but of course it had to be checked out, and thoroughly.

Carstairs realized he felt desperately sorry for the boy. In only one area of his arrest had he been lucky: someone
had caught the story at once, and it had captured the attention of newspapers all over Europe. This was an enormous help to him, although Carstairs knew how fickle such publicity could be, too. If Trenda wasn’t freed soon–by the sheer weight of that publicity–a fresh crisis would move him off the front pages and the story would gradually die. He’d seen it happen. That would leave the State Department in charge, and sometimes the diplomatic exchanges went on ad infinitum. Three or four years from now Trenda might emerge from prison in Bulgaria and rate a small story on page two. Readers would say with a frown, “Familiar name, Trenda … good God, has he been in prison all these
years?
”

Bishop knocked and walked in, his usually cheerful face clouded. “Something new from Sofia?” asked Carstairs.

“From Sofia, yes,” said Bishop stiffly. “Nothing to do with the Trenda affair, however. It’s the weekly
pâté de foie gras
report from Assen Radev. It’s just been decoded.”

Carstairs’ glance sharpened. “Is Mrs. Pollifax all right? Did he switch the coats?”

Bishop only looked disapproving as he handed over the report.

He read:
WHO IS THIS
10573
YOU SENT STOP ANY EXCHANGE OF COATS IMPOSSIBLE STOP REPEAT IMPOSSIBLE STOP EVEN BURGLARY FAILED STOP NEVER STAYS IN ONE PLACE STOP NOW GONE TO BOROVETS BUT ISN’T THERE STOP AM RETURNING TO WORK STOP WHY ARE SECRET POLICE TRAILING
10573
STOP
.

When he had finished reading it Carstairs began to slowly, softly swear. When he ran out of expletives he added in an exhausted voice, “Those damn fools Upstairs. And Radev certainly has a neat way of planting bomb-shells, hasn’t he? Why are the secret police trailing Mrs. Pollifax indeed!”

Bishop’s face softened. “It could be Tsanko’s men
trailing her, couldn’t it? Radev may have misunderstood the situation.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Carstairs bitterly.

Bishop shook his head.

When he’d gone Carstairs lit a cigarette and considered this new complication. It wasn’t only the reference to secret police that troubled him, he didn’t like the sound of Mrs. Pollifax going off to Borovets and not arriving there. Had she been arrested? And why Borovets? She had a car, it was true, but nothing had been said about her leaving Sofia. The tailor shop was in Sofia, and Tsanko was in Sofia. He didn’t like it. Damn it, he thought, he’d told her to make a fast exit if anything looked suspicious. Why the hell hadn’t she bolted?

He thought furiously, She trusts too many people.

He’d told Bishop this wasn’t Sears Roebuck and it wasn’t Gimbels they worked for, but he knew that he’d meant it for himself. He loathed worrying like this about one of his people. He considered putting through a transatlantic call to the Hotel Rila to check on her, and then he discarded the idea as idiotic. His call would be monitored. Even if he reached Mrs. Pollifax he couldn’t possibly say, “Get rid of the coat you’re wearing–burn it, hide it, cut it up, give it to somebody.” She wouldn’t have the slightest idea what he meant–it was the hat she’d been assigned to protect, not her coat–and the people monitoring his call would have only
too
clear an idea of what he meant.

Damn, he thought, and as Bishop walked in again he snapped, “Well?”

There was a twinkle in Bishop’s eye. What was more alarming, he’d brought Carstairs a cup of steaming hot coffee. Bishop never volunteered coffee unless it was for purposes of fortification during a difficult moment.

Almost cheerfully Bishop said, “The State Department has been in touch with Eastlake at the U. S. Embassy in Sofia, sir. You remember you asked for details on the
two tourists who suggested Trenda might have been deliberately brought into Bulgaria?”

“Of course,” Carstairs said.

“Here’s the report. You might like to take a look at the names of those tourists first–they’re at the bottom of the page. Names and passport numbers.”

Carstairs grasped the paper and allowed his glance to drop to the bottom. He read: Mrs. Virgil Pollifax, Apt. 4-B, Hemlock Arms, New Brunswick, N.J., U.S.A.

He exploded. “What the hell! Bishop,” he demanded furiously, “can you tell me what the devil Mrs. Pollifax is doing mixing into something that’s none of her business? Doesn’t she realize she has eight passports in her hat, not to mention that blasted coat Radev’s been incapable of switching?”

“She doesn’t know about the coat, sir,” Bishop reminded him silkily.

“But doesn’t she realize she’s not in New Brunswick, New Jersey? Doesn’t she understand she’s not supposed to
meddle?
Bishop, what the hell are you grinning about?”

“You, sir. Mrs. Pollifax is so much like you.”

“What?” snapped Carstairs.

Bishop nodded. “She goes off on tangents. Operates on impulse and trusts her intuition. When she stops upsetting you, sir, it’ll be because she’s turned into a well-behaved, well-trained and completely predictable operator. You’ll sleep nights and stop swearing. And then she’ll be like all your professional agents, and of no use to you at all, will she?”

Carstairs glared at him. “Are you suggesting I run this department on nothing but impulse and intuition, Bishop?”

“I have never known you to follow the book, sir,” said Bishop serenely. “That’s why you’re so successful isn’t it? Incidentally, your telephone’s buzzing, sir.”

Angrily, Carstairs flipped switches and barked into the receiver. He listened and his expression changed. Hanging
up he said, “Something’s happening. The Bulgarian Embassy’s going to make an important announcement in ten minutes.”

Mrs. Pollifax was awakened at nine o’clock the next morning in Tarnovo by an urgent hammering on the door and a message–acted out in pantomine–that she was wanted at once on the telephone in the lobby. Mrs. Pollifax threw her coat over her pajamas and hurried downstairs.

She had expected it to be Nevena, and braced herself. But it was not Nevena, it was the American Embassy in Sofia, and after being told to wait she at last heard the faint but unmistakable voice of Mr. Eastlake.

“However did you find me!” she exclaimed.

Eastlake’s voice sounded tired. “With difficulty. Have you heard from Balkantourist this morning?”

“No.”

“You will,” he said dryly. “They told me where you are. They seem rather angry, though. There was some kind of accident?”

“Among other things,” she said. He couldn’t have called about the accident and she told him so.

“Quite true,” he said. “I recall your concern about
young Trenda, and knowing that you’re still in the country I thought you might enjoy your vacation more if you knew he’s being released this afternoon. At two o’clock, at the Embassy.”

“Released?” echoed Mrs. Pollifax incredulously.

“Released. You sound surprised.”

“Surprised but delighted,” she said hastily. She wondered how she could possibly explain her intense surprise, when Philip’s confinement had brought three attempts on her life, the latest of them last night. “At two o’clock, you said?”

“Yes. If you have that young Debby’s address you might like to reassure her as well, although she’s bound to be reading it in the major western Europe newspapers.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax, and then, “What made them … that is …”

“Diplomatic pressure, I imagine,” Eastlake said crisply. “I suspect the Kremlin intervened as well. Because of Bemish’s early dispatches the news has been headlined since Tuesday morning in London, Paris, New York, Oslo.… But all’s well that ends well, eh, Mrs. Pollifax? Happy journeying.”

“Yes … and thank you so much,” she said, hanging up and hurried upstairs to tell Debby. “Philip’s being released at two this afternoon in Sofia.”

Debby sat bolt upright. “Great!” she shouted and rolled to her feet in that same beautifully fluid athletic manner that had so dazzled Mrs. Pollifax on the night of the burglary.

“Breakfast first, and then packing,” said Mrs. Pollifax hurriedly, but even so she was summoned to her second telephone call while still in bare feet.

This time it was Nevena, a very excited and aggrieved Nevena, who wanted to know what Mrs. Pollifax was doing in Tarnovo when she was supposed to be in Borovets.

“Well,” said Mrs. Pollifax, drawing a deep breath, “I met some people who told me Tarnovo was too beautiful
to be missed. I met them only a block from the hotel when I took a wrong turning–”

“How could you take a wrong turning?” demanded Nevena. “The directions were plain, very clear. I saw them. They said–”

“I took this wrong turning,” continued Mrs. Pollifax blandly, “and I met these people.”

“What people?”

“English, I think, or Canadian. The man was quite tall and had a scar. On his left cheek,” she added artistically. “And I decided to go to Tarnovo instead.”

She could almost hear Nevena’s foot stamping. “You Americans,” she said indignantly. “You see what happens now, your car is wrecked. They wake me up to say it will take very long to fix the car and you will need a new car in Tarnovo when all the time you are supposed to be in Borovets. First you come to Sofia and are to stay, and then you meet some people who tell you Sofia is not the real Bulgaria–”

She has an excellent memory, thought Mrs. Pollifax.

“And now you meet some other peoples–”