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Informationen zum Autor Dorothy Gilman Klappentext Working with her retired CIA friend John Farrell, Mrs. Pollifax must smuggle a manuscript out of Jordan, a document that encodes the shocking truth of Saddam Hussein's reign. Hardly are the two airborne when the coils of Middle Eastern intrigue begin to unwind. Mrs. Pollifax's seatmate is not the affable Arab businessman he pretends to be. It is not imagination that persuades Mrs. P. that wherever they go, she and Farrell are followed. To elude their pursuers in such a politically volatile country isn't easy. In fact, it can be downright deadly. . . . Leseprobe 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...
