recorded, turn on the machine, will you?” Turning to line one he said, “Carstairs here.”
Bishop sat down and waited for further instructions.
Rawlings, young and still fairly new to the Middle East, said, “Yes, sir. I want you to know this call’s being scrambled.”
“That bad?” said Carstairs lightly.
“Well, it’s from Damascus, sir, it just came in. The usual way.”
“Yes?” Carstairs’s voice was no longer flippant but deadly serious. “Talk.”
“From A-511, sir, code name Omar. The following message to be forwarded to you. It begins, and I quote, ‘Carpets not selling well, two sent to Palmyra.’ ” He hesitated, and then continued, “ ‘Fareeq killed at Palmyra—have confirmed, reconfirmed, and verified assassin unknown to police. Assassin mingled with group of tourists and escaped.’ That’s it, sir, end of agent’s message.”
Showing no immediate expression, Carstairs said noncommittally, “Thanks, Rawlings, I’ll keep in touch.” He hung up and exploded with a “Damn and damnation!”
Bishop, frowning, said, “Fareeq? I don’t recall an agent named Fareeq.”
“Not under that name, no—you’ll find him in our top
top
classified secret file.” Carstairs added savagely, “He was one of our most trusted surviving informants over there, and adamn fine man—and he’s dead? He was never a man to be careless … the question is why, and by whom.”
Bishop said doubtfully, “Can you really
believe
he wasn’t killed by the police?”
“If A-511 says not by the police then it was not by the police. Omar has connections, he’s reliable. Which means, who killed Fareeq and why, and what the hell was he doing in Palmyra?”
He reached over and switched on the machine and listened again to Rawlings’s message from a world away. “Two rugs sent to Palmyra,” he murmured, and then, “Oh God.”
“What?”
“It has to mean he’s made contact with Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell and he sent the two of
them
to Palmyra, presumably to meet Fareeq.”
“And now he’s dead.… Was he under surveillance, do you suppose?”
Carstairs shook his head and said drearily, “So far as I know, Fareeq has never been under suspicion, and he’d be too clever to be followed and not know it. It’s more likely that it’s Pollifax and Farrell who were being followed, which is fairly normal procedure over there, and Farrell and Pollifax knew this.”
“Then how—”
“I don’t know,” said Carstairs grimly. “My reaction, quite frankly, is one of horror, it implies that others may have been following the two of them. Palmyra’s a major tourist site, it’s possible their police surveillants lost sight of them, or assumed they’d be staying there an hour or two, and took a break. Whatever happened—if that was the case—the fact that Farrell and Pollifax stopped to speak to Fareeq signed his death warrant.”
“But that means—” Bishop stopped.
“Exactly,” said Carstairs, tight-lipped. “Get me the Cham Palace in Damascus, Bishop, and after that the embassy.”
The next thirty minutes were busy ones for Bishop. The hotel reported that Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell had ordered a car for Palmyra on Tuesday; so far as they knew they had not returned yet, since their keys remained untouched at the front desk. Calling the embassy, Carstairs was told with a hint of aggrievement that an appointment with Amanda Pym’s aunt had been made for Tuesday morning and that neither she nor her companion had appeared.
“I’m sure they’re all right,” Bishop said with all the brightness he could muster, even as he felt anxiety blossoming and taking root.
“Really?” growled Carstairs. “My conclusion is that news of two people arriving in Syria to inquire about Amanda Pym has been leaked. Widely shared, one might say, with people who know a great deal more about Amanda Pym than we do, and if they also know that she has no aunt it means they know Amanda
very
well.”
Bishop
Bishop sat down and waited for further instructions.
Rawlings, young and still fairly new to the Middle East, said, “Yes, sir. I want you to know this call’s being scrambled.”
“That bad?” said Carstairs lightly.
“Well, it’s from Damascus, sir, it just came in. The usual way.”
“Yes?” Carstairs’s voice was no longer flippant but deadly serious. “Talk.”
“From A-511, sir, code name Omar. The following message to be forwarded to you. It begins, and I quote, ‘Carpets not selling well, two sent to Palmyra.’ ” He hesitated, and then continued, “ ‘Fareeq killed at Palmyra—have confirmed, reconfirmed, and verified assassin unknown to police. Assassin mingled with group of tourists and escaped.’ That’s it, sir, end of agent’s message.”
Showing no immediate expression, Carstairs said noncommittally, “Thanks, Rawlings, I’ll keep in touch.” He hung up and exploded with a “Damn and damnation!”
Bishop, frowning, said, “Fareeq? I don’t recall an agent named Fareeq.”
“Not under that name, no—you’ll find him in our top
top
classified secret file.” Carstairs added savagely, “He was one of our most trusted surviving informants over there, and adamn fine man—and he’s dead? He was never a man to be careless … the question is why, and by whom.”
Bishop said doubtfully, “Can you really
believe
he wasn’t killed by the police?”
“If A-511 says not by the police then it was not by the police. Omar has connections, he’s reliable. Which means, who killed Fareeq and why, and what the hell was he doing in Palmyra?”
He reached over and switched on the machine and listened again to Rawlings’s message from a world away. “Two rugs sent to Palmyra,” he murmured, and then, “Oh God.”
“What?”
“It has to mean he’s made contact with Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell and he sent the two of
them
to Palmyra, presumably to meet Fareeq.”
“And now he’s dead.… Was he under surveillance, do you suppose?”
Carstairs shook his head and said drearily, “So far as I know, Fareeq has never been under suspicion, and he’d be too clever to be followed and not know it. It’s more likely that it’s Pollifax and Farrell who were being followed, which is fairly normal procedure over there, and Farrell and Pollifax knew this.”
“Then how—”
“I don’t know,” said Carstairs grimly. “My reaction, quite frankly, is one of horror, it implies that others may have been following the two of them. Palmyra’s a major tourist site, it’s possible their police surveillants lost sight of them, or assumed they’d be staying there an hour or two, and took a break. Whatever happened—if that was the case—the fact that Farrell and Pollifax stopped to speak to Fareeq signed his death warrant.”
“But that means—” Bishop stopped.
“Exactly,” said Carstairs, tight-lipped. “Get me the Cham Palace in Damascus, Bishop, and after that the embassy.”
The next thirty minutes were busy ones for Bishop. The hotel reported that Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell had ordered a car for Palmyra on Tuesday; so far as they knew they had not returned yet, since their keys remained untouched at the front desk. Calling the embassy, Carstairs was told with a hint of aggrievement that an appointment with Amanda Pym’s aunt had been made for Tuesday morning and that neither she nor her companion had appeared.
“I’m sure they’re all right,” Bishop said with all the brightness he could muster, even as he felt anxiety blossoming and taking root.
“Really?” growled Carstairs. “My conclusion is that news of two people arriving in Syria to inquire about Amanda Pym has been leaked. Widely shared, one might say, with people who know a great deal more about Amanda Pym than we do, and if they also know that she has no aunt it means they know Amanda
very
well.”
Bishop
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