Mrs. Pollifax, Innocent Tourist

Book 13: Mrs. Pollifax

by Dorothy Gilman

Genres: Traditional Mysteries; Spy Thrillers; Political Thrillers

Synopsis

In Dorothy Gilman’s best-selling mystery series, loveable grandmother Emily Pollifax has captured the hearts of millions with her secret CIA missions. Mrs. Pollifax, Innocent Tourist whisks the gray-haired agent into a perilous web of intrigue that spreads across the drifting sands of the volatile Middle East. An old CIA friend, Farrell, must collect an inflammatory manuscript smuggled out of Iraq into Jordan. Farrell has a simple request for Emily—provide cover during his trip to Jordan by posing as his fun-loving elderly cousin. But before the plane even lands, danger begins stalking the sprightly Mrs. Pollifax. Outwitting her wily opponents with her keen eye for the truth and her impeccable karate, Mrs. Pollifax is the lively senior citizen everyone dreams of someday becoming. You’ll feel you know the aging spy and her colorful opponents personally with Barbara Rosenblat’s outstanding narration.

Release date: June 30, 2020

Publisher: Fawcett

Print pages: 224

Sample

Chapter 1

Carstairs was seated at his desk at headquarters, yawning over an intelligence report laden with statistics, when Bishop opened the door and announced that John Sebastian Farrell was asking to see him.

Startled, Carstairs said, "Our Farrell?"

"Ours once, yes."

"Good heavens! Perhaps we can persuade him to—send him in, Bishop."

"No, you can't persuade me to sign up again," said Farrell, over Bishop's shoulder, and he walked boldly in, as insouciant as ever. "I've come for information, as well as to rob you of one of your more valuable commodities, so to speak."

"You terrify me," Carstairs told him with a smile. "Damn good to see you again, Farrell. I'd like to think your art gallery in Mexico City has begun to bore you—I have my fantasies—but pull up a chair and I'll ask Bishop to bring some coffee."

"I've already asked for coffee," Farrell told him, seating himself in the chair next to his desk. "Cheeky of me, of course—and I should have telephoned first, but after flying up from Mexico City yesterday to New York, and this morning from New York to—" He stopped as Bishop brought in two coffees and placed them on Carstairs's desk. "Thanks, Bishop."

"Go on," said Carstairs.

Farrell smiled pleasantly. "I'm here to ask if you've heard of a man named Antun Mahmoud. Publishes some sort of newspaper—in Arabic—in Manhattan."

Carstairs gave him a long look and said curtly, "Yes, but I'm surprised that you've heard of him."

"Is he reliable? Can he be trusted?"

Carstairs's eyes narrowed. "I'd like to know first just how you've heard of him."

"That sub rosa, hmmm?" murmured Farrell, looking pleased. "It explains what struck me as a bad case of paranoia."

Carstairs said sharply, "You've met the man?'

"Yes, last night in Manhattan. As soon as the plane landed, I called the number he'd given me."

"If you could enlighten me as to what this is all about . . ." began Carstairs.

Farrell said simply, "It concerns Dib Assen."

"Dib Assen," repeated Carstairs, startled. "You were friends, I know. I read of his death, was it a month ago? 'DISSIDENT IRAQI AUTHOR DIES IN PRISON.' "

Farrell nodded. "I'd known him for years, ever since he came here to lecture at Columbia on Islamic culture, art, and literature. We kept in touch, and God knows I tried to persuade him to move to America before it was too late, but he only laughed at the idea. However, I did extract one promise from him, namely to let me know if I could be of help in any way and at any time."

Carstairs's brows lifted. "And?"

Farrell said quietly, "There is a manuscript—safely hidden away before he was arrested. One of his friends in Iraq pledged to him that the manuscript would be smuggled out of the country to me, and only to me personally, should he die. To be delivered to his publishers."

"I see," murmured Carstairs.

"The friend's name is Ibrahim—no last name—and I was contacted by these people in Manhattan—this Antun Mahmoud—to say that Ibrahim hopes, Insha'-Allah, to meet me in Amman, Jordan, between the tenth of October and the thirteenth. And this is the seventh."

Carstairs whistled faintly. "Doesn't give you much time."

"No," agreed Farrell, "but you can imagine his difficulties in getting out of Iraq. Presumably it means he's made it."

"Presumably, yes," said Carstairs. "And you want to know if these New York people can be trusted."

"Definitely. If you could know what I had to go through, being interrogated by this Antun Mahmoud, not to mention where he took me! The most godawful place in the most godawful neighborhood. I also gave him rather a lot of money to arrange things."

Carstairs smiled. "He can be trusted, yes I won't tell you the position he held in Iraq before he fled the country, but he's important enough to still be a threat to them. In fact, since he came to the United States, we know of two assassination attempts on his life . . . Saddam is not forgiving! The newspaper that Antυn Mahmoud and his group publish is a monthly newsletter for fellow exiles. We believe their closest connection is with the Arab Organization for Human Rights. I must admit that we envy their news-gathering sources." He shrugged. "Once in a while they feed us information, but they'll have nothing to do with us in general, and we respect their resolve."

"Well, that's a relief," said Farrell. "But I have to add my second reason for being here. I insisted to them that I have 'cover.' They don't much like that, but something about this feels as shaky as—well, Jell-O. Especially when, at the last minute, it was pointed out to me that I'd have to keep returning for three or four mornings to the same meeting place."

"What meeting place?"

"They will give me that information tomorrow night, but I mean: if Ibrahim's late, a solitary American tourist hanging around some obscure corner of Amman? Damned conspicuous!" Watching Carstairs, he said firmly, "I insisted on a companion. An Innocent Tourist, eminently respectable, a woman, for instance, who wears outrageous hats and knows karate."

Carstairs grinned. "I see. Mrs. Pollifax, of course."

"Yes, do you mind? I mean, old chap, she does work for you, technically. I'd like to borrow her. If, of course, she can leave with me tomorrow night for Jordan, following that final briefing by Antun."

"Jordan," mused Carstairs. "This Ibrahim has a terrible desert and dangerous borders to cross. Did whatever message reached Antun say that the man hoped to reach Amman by the tenth, or that he was already there?"

Farrell sighed. "I believe the word was 'expected' I might also add that Antun Mahmoud's not at all happy about the Duchess—Mrs. Pollifax, that is—going with me; he insists on meeting her, too, before plane-time, which is nine P.M. tomorrow."

"She can't be seen entering their place," Carstairs pointed out sharply. "Even I don't know where they are just now."

Farrell nodded. "I'd think of a disguise of some sort. And thanks."

Carstairs flicked a switch on his intercom. "Bishop—"

"Yes, sir?"

"Get Mrs. Pollifax on the phone, Farrell hopes to borrow her if she's available."

Bishop's voice was cheerful. "She ought to be available, sir, I spoke with her only a few days ago. You recall young Kadi Hopkiik?"

"Indeed yes."

"Cyrus is introducing her to bird-watching; I believe they're still at the Cape. Cape Cod."

"Mrs. Pollifax too?"

"She said she doesn't enjoy crouching in marshes for hours, not after her experience in Albania."

Farrell chuckled. "Lake Scutari! I was with her, you know. We spent an entire night floating around that damn lake, clinging to a log."

Over the intercom Bishop laughed. "And she still smelled of goat in spite of it. Come to my office and weΊl see if she's at home."

As Farrell rose from his chair, Carstairs said curtly, "Just a minute."

Farrell waited, brows lifted questioningly.

"I think we'd like to see that novel by Dib Assen if you get hold of it."

Farrell smiled. "I thought history was your passion. I didn't know you read novels."

Carstairs hesitated. "There's one thing I guess you'd better know before you go charging off on this quixotic mission of yours. A word of warning, so to speak."

"Yes?"

"Until a few years ago Dib Assen not only wrote his novels, he did some work for us."

Farrell's jaw dropped. "I don't believe it."

"Try. I'm certain your friend Antun Mahmoud doesn't know, but it may—just may—have been learned in Baghdad. It could possibly be why he was imprisoned this time—he's been arrested before—but this time not released. They had time to make him talk, didn't they?"

Farrell winced. "And you're trying to say . . . "

Carstairs nodded. "I'm trying to say that his novel may not be entirely a novel. If so—and there are many ifs here, Farrell—there could be others interested in it if Assen was forced to talk before he died, or if some how it became known that a man is smuggling some of his papers out of Iraq. Still want to hazard your mission?"

Farrell said flatly, "I owe Dib Assen, I've told you that, but whether I should take the Duchess—"

Carstairs said dryly, "You'll need her more than ever, I'd say. Who on earth would suspect her? She can also keep an eye on you . . . Now go and see if Bishop's reached her on the phone—and good luck to you."