Elusive Mrs. Pollifax (22 page)

“You have perhaps forgotten me,” he said, bringing out a gun. “My name is Nikki.”

“Yes, I
had
forgotten you,” she admitted. “Foolishly,” she added in a low voice.

“You may turn around now–slowly, hands up,” he said. “You will forget the suitcase, Mrs. Pollifax, you are my prisoner and before I let you go I must know how to find my friend Debby and my friend Carleton Bemish.”

Slowly Mrs. Pollifax turned, hands lifted.

“Now. First you will tell me where Karlo Bemish and Titko Yugov are to be found.”

Mrs. Pollifax’s first reaction was one of relief: Nikki was still twenty-four hours behind them, he didn’t know about the prison raid, his mind was stubbornly fixed on Tarnovo, which felt to her like a century ago. Her second reaction was the more realistic. Dzhagarov had all the time in the world, and a gun, and he was a dangerous man. She might have to die tonight.

“I didn’t think you cared about Mr. Bemish,” she said lightly. “You certainly exploited him rather cruelly, didn’t you?”

Nikki shrugged. “He asked for it. What a bore, that man, always talking of his millionaire brother-in-law in America! An obsession. When he learned Phil would be visiting Yugoslavia in July he had the audacity to try and bribe me so that he might go to Belgrade and collect a few dollars from the boy.” He laughed savagely. “A few thousand was all he wanted, can you imagine? What a small mind!”

“I wonder if I might lower my hands,” said Mrs. Pollifax hopefully.

“No.” He left the doorway and moved across the room toward her. As he passed the bed he reached out and shoved her suitcase to the floor, kicking it viciously across the room. “So much for your departure,” he said contemptuously. “I want to know where Bemish can be found. I want to know where Debby is. She’s been in
Bulgaria all this time, she did not leave with the others. Why?”

“Debby left Bulgaria last night,” she told him. “If you ask at the desk you’ll discover she picked up her passport late yesterday afternoon. She’s gone.”

“No one by that name flew out of Sofia yesterday or last night or early this morning. She is still here.” He moved behind her and placed the point of his pistol at the back of her neck. It felt cold against her flesh. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Pollifax.

“Where is Bemish?”

“I don’t know,” repeated Mrs. Pollifax.

The pistol burrowed deeper. “I will count to four,” he said. “If you do not speak I will kill you.”

“Yes,” she said numbly.

“One,” said Nikki.

Mrs. Pollifax closed her eyes. She remembered that Tsanko was safe and that he had taken to safety the four men who had been rescued. The four would presently be leaving Bulgaria by bus, car and boat. Assen Radev had been given his well-earned passport and perhaps–knowing Radev–was already across the border.

“Two,” said Nikki.

But they all needed time, she thought: Debby and Philip, especially.

“Try Bemish first,” suggested Nikki smoothly. “You were in Tarnovo that same night he disappeared. You saw him–of course you saw him.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t see him.”

“Three,” said Nikki, and waited.

Mrs. Pollifax also waited. It would be a sudden and clean death, she thought, and she had always known the odds were against her dying in bed at home in New Brunswick, New Jersey.

Suddenly Nikki laughed and removed the gun from her neck. “You have strong nerves. You think I kill you
so quickly–here of all places–without learning what I wish to know? Pick up the suitcase on the floor and close it.”

Mrs. Pollifax sighed, crossed the room and placed the suitcase on the bed.

“Put the coat on and pick up the purse,” he directed. When she had done this he added, “Now carry the suitcase out the door ahead of me. You will proceed down the hall to the elevator, then to the lobby, out of the lobby to my car. Walk!”

She picked up the empty suitcase and went to the door. “Where are we going?” she asked quietly.

“Headquarters. They will know how to deal with you there. The new head of security, General Ignatov, will see that you talk–he knows all the ways. Don’t turn around!” he said sharply. “I shall be directly behind you, gun in pocket.”

Mrs. Pollifax walked steadily down the hall to the elevator. If there was a long wait for the elevator, she thought, it might be possible to draw close enough to Dzhagarov to catch him off balance with a kick and a shin strike.

Unfortunately the elevator was standing at the sixth floor, depressingly empty, its doors wide open.

“In,” said Nikki, and joined her only when she had walked to the rear.

They descended, facing each other. When the elevator stopped he said, “Walk out now. Speak to no one and cross the lobby. A car is outside, the safety catch is off my gun. No tricks.”

The doors of the elevator slid open and Mrs. Pollifax walked out into the lobby. She realized that she was about to enter a Bulgaria that no tourists were allowed to see, and the lobby was her last glimpse of the familiar.

“So there you are, Mrs. Pollifax!” cried an indignant and familiar voice. Nevena stood beside the desk, hands on hips. “How insulting you are, Mrs. Pollifax! I am here
at 7
P
.
M
. sharp last night and you are not here, now they call from the hotel to say you are back, and again I must leave my work to find you!
Bora!
It is too much.”

Mrs. Pollifax stopped uncertainly, the gun at her back.

“You have your suitcase–good,” continued Nevena, walking toward her. “They tell me you have been given passport as well. You will come at once, please, this is gravest dishonor for you. Yes, yes, what is it, Comrade Dzhagarov?” she asked impatiently.

“She is mine,” Nikki told her coldly, and began speaking to her rapidly in Bulgarian.

“Nonsense–she is mine,” Nevena interrupted sharply. “Speak in English, Comrade Dzhagarov, or you will make the scandal. People are listening, you understand? This woman is not yours, she is to leave country at once, she is
persona non grata
. Balkantourist is
finis
with her. Kaput!”

Nikki said icily, “I tell you she is mine, Comrade Chernokolev. I have orders she must go to headquarters for interrogation.”

“Show me the orders,” Nevena said angrily.

Nikki shrugged. “They are not written. You wish to cross General Ignatov?”

“General Ignatov!” Nevena laughed. “Idiot–he was arrested only a few hours ago. By now he is on his way to Panchevsky Institute.”

“Arrested?” repeated Nikki. “I do not believe you. What a liar you are!”

She shrugged. “Please yourself, comrade, but you would do well not to speak his name. I will be kind and forget you spoke of him.”

Nikki looked shaken. “This is not possible. On what charges?”

Nevena looked at him scornfully. “His home is searched last night while he is at celebration. Big fortune in Russian rubles is found there.”

“So?”

“The rubles were counterfeit,” Nevena said curtly, and
grasping Mrs. Pollifax firmly by the arm she led her out of the door to a waiting car.

“You see the trouble you make,” Nevena continued as she pushed her into the car. “It is Sunday, I do not work on Sunday.” She started the motor and they hurtled forward. “I anticipate viewing of Party Chairman Brezhnev’s arrival from Moscow and now you make the work for me,
more
work.”

Mrs. Pollifax turned her head and looked at her wordlessly.

“They already begin the ropes along the street,” went on Nevena hotly, “and I doubt gravely we get to aerodrome in time for the early plane to Belgrade. Soon they stop cars.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax, testing her voice and surprised to find that she could still speak.

“Dzhagarov is arrogant,” said Nevena. “As for you, Mrs. Pollifax–please. You are too old for travel. Go home to your children, your grandchildren, you understand?”

Mrs. Pollifax drew a deep breath; it was beginning to dawn upon her that she was going to survive this day, after all. The cool, early morning air was reviving her; it occurred to her that she had been very near to a state of collapse back at the hotel. She realized that Nevena had no idea at all that she had just saved her life, and this struck her as incredible and wonderful and a little hilarious, and this, too, revived her. “Yes,” she said to Nevena, and her eyes turned to Mount Vitosha and then to the sun spilling gold across the road and to the clusters of vivid blue asters.

“Do me the favor of staying in your home,” went on Nevena, driving very fast, her profile stern. “You have not the gift of coordination.”

“No,” Mrs. Pollifax said humbly.

Nevena swerved to avoid a flock of sheep crossing the road.
“Nahot,”
she said under her breath, and sent the
car racing down still another country road. “You Americans must learn the purpose, the punctualness. I forgive much because you are old, but never come back to my country, you understand?”

“I understand,” said Mrs. Pollifax, clinging to her seat.

They emerged on a broad boulevard. “You see the police collecting,” pointed out Nevena reproachfully. “Chairman Brezhnev must already be landing at the aerodrome, we may be cut off. I drive quick, but I do not know. When the glorious leader of the Soviet Union comes to our country it is great honor.”

“It’s going to be a lovely day,” ventured Mrs. Pollifax. “For his arrival,” she added quickly as Nevena gave her a suspicious glance.

“We make good time–there is entrance to aerodrome,” Nevena announced, and with a quick glance at her watch added, “We have ten minutes to get you to Customs, half an hour to plane departure.” But as they began the long drive into the terminal Nevena clucked suddenly and with exasperation. “We are to be stopped,” she said.

A barricade had been set up just this side of the terminal, and uniformed police were standing around it. They gestured the car to the side and Nevena handed one of the guards her credentials, speaking vivaciously and pointing ahead. The guard shook his head.

Nevena said with a shrug, “Well, we must stop, but not for long, and it is gravest honor for you, Mrs. Pollifax–you also will observe the Chairman Brezhnev pass by. The procession is just leaving the air terminal.” She parked the car and climbed out. “Come if you please,” she said indifferently. “For me this is happy moment, I see the Chairman after all.”

Mrs. Pollifax climbed out of the car and joined Nevena by the side of the road–it seemed a very small way in which to repay Nevena for saving her life. She stood quietly as the procession of cars slowly approached: first the uniformed men on motorcycles, then one long, black,
closed limousine–“There is Chairman Brezhnev with our Premier!” cried Nevena, stiffening in a salute–and following this came three open limousines filled with wooden-faced men in black suits.

How stiff and Slavic they looked, thought Mrs. Pollifax, amused, and then her glance rested upon one of the men in the second limousine and she stared in astonishment. There was no mistaking that profile, that square jaw, those shaggy brows. She said, “Who …” and then she stopped and cleared her throat and said, “Who are the men in the cars following your Premier, Nevena?”

“Members of our Politburo.” said Nevena, not turning. “High officials of our government.”

I have an appointment early in the morning
, Tsanko had said.

The heads remained fixed, like statues–he did not see her–and standing behind Nevena, unseen by her, Mrs. Pollifax lifted a hand and gravely saluted, too.

It was early Monday morning in Langley Field, Virginia, and just six o’clock as Carstairs entered his office. With the Trenda affair so tragically ended by the boy’s death there was a great deal of back work to clear away. It was all very well to begin a day at the leisurely hour of nine if dealing with American affairs, but at that hour in America it was already 2
P.M.
in Europe.

As Carstairs sat down at his desk Bishop suddenly appeared in the doorway of the adjacent room, yawning and shaking his head. Carstairs said in astonishment, “Good God, what on earth are you doing here at this hour?”

Bishop peered at him through glazed eyes. “Sleeping. I had a date. Seemed a hell of a lot simpler to come here at four o’clock in the morning than go all the way back to my apartment.”

“You look like death itself,” Carstairs told him with a shudder. “Go and wash your face and get us some coffee.”

“Adrenalin would be better,” Bishop said bleakly and went out rubbing his eyes.

Carstairs returned to the pile of reports on his desk from South America, Iraq, Helsinki and Vienna. There was still nothing from Bulgaria and this began to be alarming. He’d sent an urgent message to Assen Radev through emergency channels demanding that Radev track down and recover both Mrs. Pollifax and her coat. That message had gone off four days ago, on Wednesday night, with instructions that its arrival be verified at once–and no verification had come through. He didn’t like it, he didn’t like any part of the summing up: nothing from Radev since the last routine message reporting the secret police tailing Mrs. Pollifax, and nothing from Mrs. Pollifax, who should have left Bulgaria yesterday, on Sunday.

What did it mean–betrayal?… God, it was hard not knowing.

Bishop reappeared carrying a pot of coffee and looking decently shaved and alert again. “Morning,” he said cheerfully. “The medical records on young Trenda have just come through from his family doctor.” He tossed them on the desk.

“I suppose there’s absolutely no history of rheumatic fever or heart deficiency?”

“None at all, sir.”

“Just as we thought,” said Carstairs gloomily, his eyes scanning the records. “I assume his father will agree to an autopsy as soon as he’s brought back the body?”

Bishop hesitated. “I understand not, sir.”

“What?” Bishop was shocked and incredulous. “Why the hell not?”

“He left for Europe Saturday night, you know, after refusing to speak to reporters at the airport. Earlier, in Chicago–just after the announcement of his son’s death–he said very flatly ‘no autopsy.’ ”

The desk was suddenly too confining for Carstairs and he sprang to his feet and began pacing. “There’s something horribly wrong here,” he said, “and I’m not seeing where yet.”