Elusive Mrs. Pollifax (21 page)

“I will.”

They heard the second explosion and then, abruptly, the sound of a siren began to shrill and was just as suddenly cut off as the lights all over the Institute died. Mrs. Bemish had reached the fuse box. “Now,” said Boris, and they hurried up the ladder.

Georgi and Kosta were bent low in the truck as it rolled through the gaping hole in the outer wall and continued, on momentum alone, through the Institute courtyard. As it neared the brick wall of the Institute, Georgi shouted, “Jump, my friend!”

They threw themselves out of the truck, rolling over and over until they crouched under the walls of the building. The truck roared through the wall, setting off the explosives wired under its hood; bricks and stones rained down all around them. “Now,” shouted Georgi, and they leaped over the rubble and ran into the cellblock. They were hailed by cheers from the cells and Georgi was grinning as he made his way through the dust. There was plenty of dynamite, he was thinking. He would first free their four friends, among them his brother, but while Kosta hurried the four out to Tsanko there would be time to release a few others as well. They might not get far, but what the hell, he thought; they could have a taste of freedom, smell the free air, feel like men again. He could give them choice at least.

He was opening the door of his brother’s cell when the lights went out.

In the inner courtyard Radev and Mrs. Pollifax were busy directing the geese consistently toward the stairs leading up into the higher cellblocks. Before the echo of the first explosion had died away at least six of the frightened geese had settled on the stair. As the second
explosion took place Mrs. Pollifax and Radev each seized a goose and ran up the stairs, driving the dozen others before them. They had reached the second-floor landing when the lights went out. Someone came running down the staircase, tripped over the geese and brushed past Mrs. Pollifax with an oath. With the goose under her arm Mrs. Pollifax continued to climb. A dark shape suddenly careened into her, almost knocking her over; a man grasped her arm, a match flared, a guard spoke sharply and Mrs. Pollifax lifted the goose, making noises in her throat and pointing skyward. The guard disgustedly gestured her aside, blew out the match and hurried on down the stairs.

She had lost Radev; the goose she carried had just learned that by arching his long neck he could peck at her chin and draw blood. With considerable relief Mrs. Pollifax reached the third floor and paused. The door stood open, knocked from its hinges, and she could hear the fluttering of wings ahead of her in the darkness.

She went in quietly, disoriented and suddenly without direction. She faced a long dark hall with a window at the far end; to her left lay another window. Between these stood cellblocks, line after line of them. She stood there, lost until a light flared at the window on her left. The light sputtered like a Fourth of July sparkler, made a small sound and then she saw Radev lean forward, silhouetted against the sky, and lift out the bars of the window. She dropped the goose and joined him just in time to help him pick up the rope Boris had shot across the yard and secure it to the bars of a cell.

Geese were honking. All over the building men were shouting. She called out, “Philip? Philip Trenda?”

“I have to be dreaming,” said an American voice from the cell next to the window.

“Over here,” she told Radev, and he lighted a match. In its glow they saw a white face with hollow eyes staring at them from behind bars, a face Mrs. Pollifax had
last seen at Customs, on Monday. She said inadequately, tears in her eyes, “Hello there,” and then: “We’ve come to get you out.”

Debby kneeled on the wall next to Boris, her teeth chattering. Once in a while they had gently tested the rope, but it remained slack and without support. It was awful, waiting, thought Debby. She tried to picture Mrs. Pollifax and Radev climbing the stairs to the third floor, tried to live it with them. She wished she could have gone with Radev; Tsanko had said no, a pretty young girl would draw too much attention at the gate.

They ought to be there now, she thought, and staring at the window she was rewarded by the sight of a small flicker of light. She whispered to Boris, “They’ve reached the window.”

Crouched low, Boris said, “
Da
, thank God!” He leaned over and tested the rope, tugging gently. Triumphantly he said, “It is anchored, we get ready now. Say your prayers!”

Now Mrs. Pollifax and Radev would have found Phil, the last bundle of dynamite would be applied to the lock of his cell and any moment he would be at the window, ready to cross. “How much more time?” she asked Boris.

He glanced down at his illuminated watch. “It is now 3:11.”

“He ought to be crossing,” she whispered. “Radev and Mrs. Pollifax ought to be going downstairs to the truck.”

“Patience,” said Boris.

Debby strained her eyes trying to peer through the darkness. She leaned over and felt the rope; it was secure, but there was no weight on it. She thought, I won’t panic, but he ought to be crossing. I’m not scared, I’m not. She realized that never before had she cared or felt so much about two people as she did at this moment. It was insane, it was as though her whole life had begun only a week ago. She was suddenly terrified for everyone
involved in this, but she was the most frightened for Phil and Mrs. Pollifax.

“Boris,” she said, her voice trembling.

He turned and she saw him nod. “
Da
–something is wrong,” he said heavily.

“I know,” she said, and stood up.

On the third floor of the Institute, Radev had stuffed dynamite into the lock of Philip’s cell and applied a match to it. As the light flared for a brief second Philip Trenda said to Mrs. Pollifax in astonishment, “I’ve seen you before! I know I’ve seen you before!”

“Ssh,” hissed Radev.

The fuse ignited and Mrs. Pollifax stepped back. There was the sound of a muffled
crack!
and they were in darkness again, but in that darkness Mrs. Pollifax felt someone breathing down her neck from behind. She said in a low voice, “Assen?”

But Radev was opening the door of the cell. She said, “Who …?” but before she could turn around she felt a gun pressed into the small of her back.

Radev had not noticed. The person behind Mrs. Pollifax suddenly spoke to Radev roughly, in Bulgarian, and Radev growled in his throat and turned.

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Pollifax. “Who is it?”

“It’s Miroslav, the guard.”

“He has a gun in my back,” protested Mrs. Pollifax.

Radev spoke sharply to the man and the gun was removed. In the darkness Miroslav and Radev shifted positions cautiously. Miroslav backed to the window to stand outlined against it, gun in hand. Radev moved away from Philip’s cell in order to conceal the rope tied to its bars. They stood like this in silence and then Radev spoke to the man in anger.

It was torture not knowing what they said. Radev’s voice was biting; Miroslav’s was calm. The man had been well paid–and not even in counterfeit rubles, after all,
but in authentic Bulgarian
leva
–but still he stood with his gun directed at them, not willing to let them go. “What
is
it?” cried Mrs. Pollifax impatiently.

“The dog,” said Radev, and spat on the floor. “The
dog
. He took the bribe, now he says he gets more money turning us in and getting a medal. He didn’t know I was going to release the American capitalist spy.”

Mrs. Pollifax heard Philip say, “Oh God.”

“He’s barricading the window,” went on Radev, “and he says in a few minutes both lights and guards will return. He has only to wait.”

“Does he speak English?”

“No.”

“Have you any dynamite left?”

“No.”

“He hasn’t noticed the rope yet. If one of us could just reach him and hold him long enough for Philip to get to the window …”

Radev’s voice was cynical. “You wish to volunteer? That’s exactly what he’s waiting for.” Then in a peculiar voice he added, “Wait. Something is happening.”

“What?” demanded Mrs. Pollifax.

“Ssh,” he said, and then: “Pray God the lights do not come on. The rope is tight, do you understand?”

“Tight,” echoed Mrs. Pollifax uncomprehendingly and then she realized that in concealing the rope Radev stood where he could also touch it, and her heart began to beat very fast. “Talk to him,” she said in a low voice. “Keep him talking, Radev.”

“Da.”

Mrs. Pollifax fixed her eyes on the barless window behind Miroslav. She saw a hand grasp the window sill and then the silhouette of a slim body drag itself up to the sill. In a clear conversational voice Mrs. Pollifax addressed the shadow. “The guard stands with a gun, and with his back to the window.
His back to the window!
”
The figure was crouched there now, black against the sky. It was Debby.

Tackle, she thought silently. Tackle, Debby,
tackle!

Debby stood up, remained poised for a second on the sill and then hurled herself toward the floor of the cellblock, taking Miroslav with her. With trembling fingers Mrs. Pollifax lighted a match. It was enough for Radev; he found Miroslav, bent over him and wrested the gun from his hands. A moment later Debby stood up. Behind her there was the sound of bone hitting bone, a groan and then Radev said, “He’s out cold.”

“Debby–oh thank God you made it,” gasped Mrs. Pollifax.

“Debby?” repeated Philip incredulously. “Debby’s here?”

“I’m here,” Debby said in a steady voice. “Phil, there’s a rope attached to the window and you have to go quickly, hand over hand, so that the rest of us can follow. Can you?”

“With pleasure,” he said fervently.

Radev said, “We can’t all go by rope, there isn’t time. I have Miroslav’s gun. How about it, Mrs. Pollifax? Shall we make a fast retreat by the stairs into hell knows what?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax. She reached out, grasped Debby’s hand and squeezed it. “You won’t wait too long?”

“I won’t,” promised Debby.

Mrs. Pollifax and Radev walked down the hall to the staircase. A goose rushed at them and Radev scooped it up and pushed it into Mrs. Pollifax’s arms. They descended as quickly as they dared in the darkness, braced for discovery at any minute. They reached the last landing and then the inner courtyard and now they saw why they had not been challenged yet: fires had broken out following the explosions and the courtyard was filled with black smoke. They jumped into the truck and Radev backed and turned it and they drove through the first
gate. At the second gate Radev called out to the solitary guard at the sentry box.

The guard came running. To Mrs. Pollifax’s surprise Radev cut the guard’s questions short with a laugh reached over and took the goose from her and tossed it into the man’s arms. A moment later the guard opened the gates for them.

“He wanted only to ask about the fire,” said Radev. “I told him he will have roast geese for dinner.”

As they drove through the gates the lights and the siren of Panchevsky Institute came on simultaneously. Mrs. Pollifax looked down at her watch: it was precisely 3:27. She said blankly, “It’s over. It’s over, Radev, and we’re still alive!”

“Beginner’s luck, eh, Comrade Pollifax?” said Radev.

Minutes later they reached the appointed rendezvous in a park at the edge of Sofia, and what was most satisfying of all, Debby and Boris and Philip were in the car behind them.

Outside the Hotel Rila a man was sweeping the street with a broom of thick twigs tied around a crooked stick. The sky brightened during the past hour and there was a suffusion of pink in the east where the sun was rising. As Mrs. Pollifax mounted the steps of the hotel she turned and saw Georgi and the small blue car disappear for the last time and then she entered the lobby, properly dressed as a tourist again, her purse over her arm. A dozing desk clerk jerked awake and stared at her reproachfully. She wrote the number of her room on his memo pad and he handed her the key. He also handed over her passport, which had been placed in the box, and she tucked it into her purse.

As she ascended in the elevator to the sixth floor she felt a sense of sadness. It was completely illogical, she reminded herself, because the sacking of Panchevsky Institute had been accomplished without bloodshed and with a success beyond all expectation. What was more, the passports she had delivered to Tsanko were about
to save five lives as well as give new lives to Mrs. Bemish and Assen Radev.

I’m just very tired, she thought.

She tried to remember that she and Debby, Philip and Mrs. Bemish would be meeting on Monday in Zurich, in front of the bank to which Petrov Trendafilov would bring the ransom, but even this didn’t lift her sagging spirits.

She tried also to remember Philip’s astonishment at meeting her again, or the flash of Assen Radev’s grin as he said, “Beginner’s luck, eh, Comrade Pollifax?” But another voice blotted them out, a voice that she would remember the rest of her life:
I am not sure either of us is professional, is this not so?… I am good communist, a patriot and also–God help me–a humanist.… You have become very dear to me, Amerikanski
.

The elevator opened at the sixth floor and she walked down the hall to her room and inserted the key into the lock. She already missed Debby, but Debby would be making her way to the airport alone after she had helped to change Philip into Anton Schoenstein, a German with German credentials and clothes. She opened the door and flicked on the lights and brought her suitcase from the closet and carried it to the bed. Moving to the bureau, she picked up comb, brush and cold cream. She glanced at herself in the mirror and was startled to see how little changed she looked after twenty-seven minutes inside Panchevsky Institute. Perhaps one day next year–very suddenly–new lines would etch themselves on her face and she could say,
Those are Panchevsky lines
.

Suddenly in the mirror she saw the door to the bathroom open silently. A foot–a black boot–inserted itself against the door and Nikolai Dzhagarov moved into the doorway and stood watching her. Their glances met in the mirror.