Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled by Dorothy Gilman

Congratulating him on his escape was meaningless, she knew. She had once, in Hong Kong, undergone torture—she still carried the scars on her back—and she remembered very well the state of her mind when she’d been rescued; mercifully it had been temporary, but she knew that what Farrell needed now was the commonplace, a familiar face, work to do, and sleep to heal a mind still dazed by meeting with the worst that one human being could inflict on another.
    He greeted her cheerfully, however, and knowing how resilient he was she was hopeful. “There’s food and water on the table beside your cot,” she told him. “I’ll be going out for an hour or two this evening. Since I’m posing as Joe’s aunt—and a mere tourist—it appears to be obligatory that I see the desert in the moonlight.”
    If he suspected more, he did not say so. “Then tell Joe to bequiet when he gets back because I plan to sleep and sleep and sleep.” He grinned. “Only way I can be of use to you by tomorrow. Sleep always does it for me.”
    Whatever Joe said to Dr. Robinson proved successful. The Land Rover drove up to her tent at seven o’clock, and climbing in beside Joe she found herself sitting on a mound of cloth. “What’s this?” she asked.
    “Djellabas,” he said. “Borrowed from Mustafa and Argub. As a joke, I told them. They’re in case we’re glimpsed from a distance.”
    “Joe,” she said, “I’m discovering new depths in you by the hour.”
    He laughed, and they set off in the direction they’d taken that morning, headlights shining until—with a glance at his compass—he announced, “Here’s where we start walking.”
    The moon was high in the sky, shedding a soft and hazy light that outshone the stars. The air was cool and refreshing, so cool that Mrs. Pollifax was glad to pull on the old brown djellaba woven of wool.
Borrowed car, borrowed djellaba, and borrowed spoons for digging
, she thought, and found it quite pleasant, walking in the night. “I wonder if we’ll see any lights at that camp,” she murmured.
    Joe shook his head. “Doubtful. No electricity. They could have a generator but it’s more likely they’ve kerosene lamps, as we do, and those earthworks are too high to see
them.”
    She had left her purse back in Amy’s tent, but Joe had borrowed a small burlap sack from the storeroom. When at last they sighted the hill in the distance they began the job of looking for the darker circle of charred earth. For this the moonlight was of little help and they lost a precious twenty minutes before Mrs. Pollifax stumbled across it, and at onceshe sank to her knees, spoon in hand. She dug while Joe kept watch, and without heed to what she uncovered she dug deep, spading everything—sand, pebbles, debris—into the sack that Joe held open for her. Extending the search beyond the fire she left a sizable hole behind her into which Joe made a hurried attempt to kick pebbles and earth.
    When at last she said, “Enough!” Joe slung the bag over his shoulder. “This must be how grave robbers feel,” he said as they walked away, not slowing their pace until the hill melted into the horizon, no longer visible.
    When they returned to Camp Five it was nearing eleven o’clock and the site was dark except for the soft glow of lanterns set among the tents. A guard was asleep on a bench outside the field office, and roused at the sound of the Land Rover. Joe called out a few words in Arabic and he lay down again, satisfied.
    “What we need is a hand screen,” Joe said. “To sift the wheat from the chaff. Tired?”
    “No,” she lied. The cut on her temple had come to life and was throbbing, and she was beginning to realize that she had arrived at the camp roughly forty-eight hours ago and that she, like Farrell, had endured a difficult trip. With her normal energy depleted she was drawing heavily now on reserves.
Or adrenaline, bless it
, she thought, but was not about to admit it. “I’m fine,” she