Free Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled by Dorothy Gilman

of the workmen—Argub—brought two of his camels with him, but …”
    “Then I’ll go on a camel,” she told him. “American tourist who’s lost her tour group.”
    His frown deepened. “Of course he
might
loan the Land Rover during one of our noon siestas, but …” He shook his head. “Not today, though. It would need … well, negotiating. And meeting you.”
    “Then let’s go to breakfast and have me introduced,” she told him. “There’s also Barney with his shortwave radio; the embassy should be opening in an hour or two. You’ll ask him to try to get through about Farrell? John Sebastian Farrell.”
    Joe said wryly, “I think I liked you better last night before I learned all this.” He grinned. “So come along, Aunt, and meet everyone and see what we’re doing here.”
    By daylight Mrs. Pollifax had a very different view of the encampment; in the darkness she’d not seen the excavations,their many levels meticulously marked off by rods, nor the long stretch of open, canvas-shaded worktables extending out from the one adobe building that was the field office.
    Joe said, “The caravan route between the Euphrates and Damascus ran through here. What we’ve found is either an Umayyad
khan
—inn, or caravansary—you can see two of the vaulted arches we’ve uncovered—or possibly a military outpost.… After all, the Qasr al-Hirt is only about thirty miles from here. Good morning, everyone,” he said as they reached the long dining tent. “Look who’s arrived last evening—my Aunt Emily Pollifax, removing herself from a guided tour to say hello. Dr. Robinson …”
    The man at the head of the table politely rose, looking startled: tall, spare, with a short gray beard, his face shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat. He said doubtfully, “Yes er that is, welcome.”
    Following this, names were flung at her: Barney from Brooklyn—she took special note of him—Fritz from Austria; Amy Madison, whose tent she’d almost shared last night; Julie and Curtis Lowell from California; Awwad; their Syrian archaeologist; and Branmin, supervisor of the workmen. At the second table sat the workers: Argub—with two camels, she remembered; Mustafa—she noted him especially, too—Fayah, Ali, Hamed, Hassan, Mahmud … the remainder blurred.
    Room was made for her at the table next to Dr. Robinson and she at once began to artfully overwhelm him with conversation: how she wanted to learn
everything
about the Umayyads that her nephew researched, how she longed to see more of the desert, and while she waited for her cousin, delayed in Tadmor, would Dr. Robinson possibly allow her to help in the work so long as she didn’t get in the way?
    Across the table Joe listened to her with amusement;
The
witch
, he thought,
she’s certainly determined to get that Land Rover
. Her offer to help was masterful, too, since three of their party had left early: his bunkmate and Amy’s, due to university commitments, and Cecil Burton for a family emergency, leaving them definitely shorthanded.
    With breakfast finished Dr. Robinson excused himself and Mrs. Pollifax caught Joe’s eye and said, “Barney, please?”
    “Ah yes, Barney,” he said. “Good man, Barney, ex-wrestler, ex-army.” He called him over, saying, “My aunt has a question to ask you.”
    She liked Barney at once, older than Joe, a friendly bear of a man with broad shoulders, a battered nose and a cheerful face, the sort of brash New Yorker with whom she was familiar, and she shook his huge hand.
    He grinned. “We assumed all of Joe’s relatives would be Umayyads. What can I do for you?”
    “Could you get a message through to Damascus on your shortwave radio? To the embassy, for instance?”
    “Damascus!” he exclaimed. “Hell no—if you’ll excuse the language.”
    “Why?” asked Joe. “Weather?”
    He shook his head. “Not enough power. What we have here is really a ham radio, its frequencies are in the middle-range band—enough to reach