"It's not one I'm familiar with," said Mrs. Pollifax.

"Care to hear the lines of what's left of it?"

"Another Babylonian prayer?" asked Farrell cynically.

Joe paid him no attention. "There are lines missing, but they're in print, not copied. She must have torn it from a book to carry in her journal." Picking up the third sheet of paper, he read: I had been hungry all the years; My noon had come to dine; I, trembling, drew the table near, And touched the curious wine.

'Twas this on tables I had seen, When, turning, hungry, lone, I looked in windows for the wealth I could not hope to own.

"The rest of that is scorched but there are two other lines," Joe said.

I did not know the ample bread, 'Twas too unlike ...

"The only remaining line not scorched was," said Joe, " 'The plenty hurt me, 'twas so new, Myself felt ill and odd.' " A thoughtful silence followed these words.

"So what's your conclusion?" asked Farrell reluctantly.

Joe said angrily, "I think her parents lived like misers; I think she had a very depressed and depressing life. I think what made her a 'heroine' at the hijacking was suddenly realizing that she didn't know how to live -n.o.body had ever shown her how-and suddenly she didn't care. She may even have hoped they'd kill her."

Shocked, Farrell said, "You mean .., suicide?"

"People do reach that point in life," pointed out Mrs. Pollifax softly. "When there's no hope. It happens." As it did to me once, she remembered.

Farrell's glance had fallen to his bandaged wrists and Mrs. Pollifax guessed that he was looking, not at his wrists, but at his fear of being captured and in pain again, probing and examining his fears, and admitting to them at last. With a twisted smile he said, "All right, you've made your point, Joe. We can't leave her, but how the h.e.l.l we get her out of here is beyond me."

Joe said eagerly, "I'd help. The camp closes in ten days; I could quit early."

"To do what?" growled Farrell, and turning to Mrs. Pollifax, he added, "Well, d.u.c.h.ess? Imagination, inventiveness, resourcefulness, remember? Just how do you think two people -"

"No, three," put in Joe.

" -could invade a camp of snipers, find Amanda Pym, and get her, and all of us, out alive."

"I'd have to think," she said calmly.

"Then think, d.a.m.n it."

Mrs. Pollifax began thinking. Her thoughts had a tendency to move in a straight line, and with a simplicity that often startled other people. It would be folly, of course, to attempt to storm a camp full of snipers when they had no weapons, and she did not bother to consider this: one had to work with the tools available. She crisply divided the problem into three: how to get into the camp, how to s.n.a.t.c.h Amanda Pym and get out, and how to get away without being followed. It would have to be at night, of course. In her mind's eye she pictured the camp, its length, its breadth and the height of the wire fence, and she nodded.

Joe said eagerly, "You've thought of something?"

"Yes," she said. "Sheep."

11.

Sleep?" said Joe blankly. "Sheep?" repeated Farrell. "You said sheep7." She nodded. "Sheep," and turning to Joe, "You have to think carefully before you offer help, Joe, this would not be risk-free, it's not a matter of researching the Umayyads or the Babylonians, or digging up bones and pottery."

"I know," he said, nodding. "This is real. It feels time I get involved in something real. I could be useful, couldn't I?"

"Very useful," she said, "since you speak Arabic and we don't. Do you know if anyone in the camp has wire cutters?"

"Barney brings a tool kit with him every summer, we always kid him about being Mr. Fix-It. He must have wire cutters."

Farrell, listening to this, said again, "But sheep, d.u.c.h.ess? What on earth -"

"It's quite simple," she told him. "If a fair-sized hole can be cut in their fence, what could be more overwhelming and confusing than a herd of sheep moving into and through the sniper camp? Baaing all the way, I hope," she added. "And in the dark."

Farrell shook his head. "What you're thinking of is a stampede, d.u.c.h.ess, but it's cattle that stampede. Not sheep."

She said coldly, "They'll stampede if pushed. Joe, Amy told me the village people who bring water every few days raise sheep. She said at least a hundred, did she exaggerate?"

"No, not at all," said Joe eagerly. "A hundred at least. What they raise here are fat-tailed sheep, because they store fat in their tails and rump. They raise them for milk and for their wool."

"So there you are," she told Farrell triumphantly, and with a glance at her watch, "You said the village is about fifteen miles away?"

"Roughly yes," Joe said.

"Sheep move slowly," she added regretfully, "and if they stop to graze it would take most of tomorrow for them to arrive, so we'll have to get to work right away."

"No rest for the weary?" murmured Farrell.

"Sleep can be s.n.a.t.c.hed, but we must have wire cutters. Joe, see if Barney's awake, and if he isn't, wake him up and ask if he has wire cutters. After that it's vital the two of you get to the village, even if you have to walk -and now, tonight, to get the sheep moving by dawn. We can't take any chances, they've got to be here by sunset tomorrow. Where's our money?" She reached for her purse and drew out a wad of Syrian bills. Handing them to Joe she said, "Would this be enough?"

"For what?"

"To rent a suitable number of sheep for two days. You speak Arabic, thank G.o.d. Tell them their sheep will be returned to them -or most of them, one must a.s.sume. Hire one or two of their boys, too, they can help you herd the sheep and return them. But the sheep must be started no later than tomorrow at dawn."

Joe laughed. "This is crazy, really crazy. I'll wake up Barney now."

At once he was gone, leaving Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell to observe each other with interest. "Well, Farrell?" she said.

"I give up," he said, and grinned. "All I can say is, I wish your Garden Club could see you now, d.u.c.h.ess, sitting in a canvas tent in the middle of the Syrian desert , wearing somebody's djellaba, or whatever it's called, and plotting an attack on a sniper's camp with a herd of sheep. Incidentally," he added, "they can shoot at sheep as well as people."

Mrs. Pollifax said calmly, "I have always found that most people, awakened from a sound sleep at night, tend to lack their usual reflexes, at least for a few minutes. Besides which, the sheep will be well inside their compound before they're heard at the far end of it where the tents are." She hesitated and then, "Farrell, how are you ready7."

"Better, d.u.c.h.ess." He smiled. "You lost me for a little while, you know."

She nodded. "I realize that, but I've been there, too, Farrell. ... I didn't lose you for long," she reminded him. "And it was very understandable." But this was not a wise subject and she quickly changed it by saying lightly, "You may not even have to walk all those miles to the village tonight. The way Joe is embracing the criminal life he may very well steal the Land Rover."

"Very bad influence," agreed Farrell gravely.

They heard the crunch of gravel outside and Joe reappeared, waving a competent-looking tool. "Got it," he said. "Barney was actually insulted that I thought his toolbox wouldn't include this. But we'll need more robes, won't we? The sort peasants wear - aboyas, not djellabas. For me at least."

They had become "we," which amused Farrell. "Yes, but you might inquire about a Land Rover again for tonight."

"Oh, it's already revved up," Joe said. "I didn't ask this time; Dr. Robinson's asleep by now -"

Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell exchanged smiles at this.

" -and anyway, you paid him enough money for an entire week of gasoline. Farrell and I can sleep in the Land Rover at the village until sunup, you know, so we'll be dead sure to get the sheep moving by daylight."

"But the villagers will surely be asleep by now."

Joe dismissed this with, "Oh yes, but I know which house the headman lives in -the oddest houses, shaped like beehives. I suppose it keeps them cool. Barney and I rode back on the cart once just to see the village, and the headman gave us tea. That's when we saw the sheep; they'll be taking them to the hills soon for the winter. They'll like this money," he said frankly. "They're really quite poor. With all this"-he brought the wad of bills from his pocket-"I don't think he'll mind being waked up."

"We've created a monster," said Farrell.

Mrs. Pollifax laughed. "Yes, but such a nice one, and delightfully efficient." She glanced at her watch. "Nearly half-past ten -you'd better head for the village now, hadn't you?"

Joe handed her the wire cutters. "Guard these with your life, will you? And have a good sleep."

Mrs. Pollifax followed them out of the tent and watched them climb into the Land Rover and take off, heading west this time. Before finding her way into Amy's tent and her own cot she lingered a few minutes in the chill desert night, watching the red taillight of the Land Rover, its front lights briefly illuminating shrubs and rocks and casting strange shadows before it disappeared from sight, while overhead the full moon had begun its journey across a dark indigo blue night sky.

Mrs. Pollifax shivered; it was terribly important not to think of what lay ahead of them, or how they would ever get out of Syria , with or without Amanda Pym. Sleep was also important, and with a sigh she entered Amy's tent to begin the long night and even longer day ahead of them.

Mrs. Pollifax slept uneasily, woke, slept, and woke again at the first hint of silvery predawn light. The night was over at last, and having slept in her clothes she wrapped herself in the djellaba, and carrying a blanket tiptoed out of the tent. The camp looked oddly forlorn until she saw the Land Rover parked in its usual place in the shade of the field office, and in surprise she hurried to Joe's tent.

Farrell was there, sound asleep and clutching an odd bundle of black woolen cloth, but at her entrance he at once opened his eyes. "Hi, d.u.c.h.ess," he said and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

She had to smile, for he looked a complete ruffian now, still unshaven since Damascus and wearing a four days' stubble of beard. "Sit down," he said, gesturing to Joe's empty cot. "There's much to talk about."

"Where's Joe?"

"With the sheep, on his way back by now with two boys named Rachid and Hisham. Once they started he sent me ahead, and I'll take over with the sheep when they get here and herd them toward the sniper camp. We've done a lot of talking, d.u.c.h.ess; after all, he's been here for three seasons and knows a h.e.l.l of a lot more than we do, as well as knowing the language. I thought naively that we could cross the desert to Damascus ." He shook his head. "Unfortunately Joe says it's nearly two hundred and fifty miles, so it has to be by bus."

"Ouch," she said with a shiver. "Dangerous."

He nodded. "It could be, but Joe says they don't stop the buses very often now for ID checks. One of the Deir Ez Zor buses stops at Tadmor and then goes on to Damascus -a long trip-six hours; another goes up to Horns, but he'll know which one we need. He suggests we get the bus at a village or town named As Sikhneh tonight and-"

"I know the place," she told him. "The man who brought me here was delivering food there."

"Good. He says it's the best and least conspicuous place to catch the bus, especially in the middle of the night. He's also bought some things to wear. You and I must go as Bedouins - the Pym girl, too, if we can get her out. He'll go in his American clothes because he's been on the bus before, they know him, he has all the papers connecting him to Tell Khamseh in case there should be a police check, and he thinks they won't bother us-if," he added dryly, "we look authentic Bedouin."

"Oh dear," said Mrs. Pollifax.

Farrell grinned. "Don't worry, you just have to wear this rather dirty abaya and look strong and plump, and I've kohl to outline eyes -for her," he added, as if to name her would bring them bad luck. "Also a black robe and headscarf for her, and cheap sandals." He shook his head. "I think Carstairs must have been psychic to have given us so much money."

"And in Syrian pound notes, too," she reminded him. "One wonders how they reach Langley , Virginia , and let's hope they're not forged! I think he knew," she added thoughtfully. "He's never given us so much before .., he can really be uncanny at times." She frowned. "But the bus at As Sikhneh? How on earth do we get to As Sikhneh?"

Farrell hesitated. "You're not going to like this, d.u.c.h.ess, I didn't at first. Joe's had a little talk with Barney -"

"Oh no." Mrs. Pollifax gasped. "To involve him?"

"Hush, it's all right. Barney said he very definitely doesn't want to know what the h.e.l.l Joe's up to, no questions asked. He's a good friend, he'll ask for the Land Rover tonight to go off alone into the desert to look for another hamster."

"For a what!"

Farrell grinned. "It seems the golden hamster was discovered here in Syria . It's a desert creature, and Barney's tamed one and keeps him in a cage in his tent, and calls him Jack. Hamsters are nocturnal, so night is the time to look for them, and he's done it before. They're actually called the Syrian hamster, and he'll probably tell you all about them on the way. Stop laughing, d.u.c.h.ess."

"I can't help it," she said. "Hamsters and sheep!"

"Well, to proceed: Barney will have the Land Rover parked without lights near enough to the sniper camp for a quick getaway tonight, after which he drives us the forty or so miles to As Sikhneh and we wait there -and no doubt wait and wait for a bus, with Joe-traveling American-giving no indication that he knows us. From the village he's bringing loaves of khobz-we subsist on bread-and we can't be seen drinking bottled water, that's for tourists."

"A small sacrifice," she told him. "Farrell..."

"Hmmm?"

"Never mind," she said, and wished that she'd slept better. For a few days here at the digs she'd felt safe, it had been a welcome haven, but to think of leaving it now brought a sense of dismay. There was something about night, too; night was for sleep, it arrived at day's end, when one was presumably tired and vulnerable. She'd felt this way before, she recognized it and knew that it had to be tamed. There was work to do, it was why she was here.

"What is it?" asked Farrell, concerned.

She forcibly turned her thoughts away from the night to apply herself to the practical. "I think for the next hour, if someone has a needle and thread, I'll sew pockets into each of these abayas," she told him. "After all, we can't dress as Bedouins and carry purses or knapsacks." And since the camp was stirring now she left and went back to Amy's tent to ask if she had a sewing kit.

It was another long day of waiting. While some of the workers continued in Site Two, sweeping and digging, measuring levels and recording them, others-Amy among them-had begun packing crates for their departure, the crates to be shipped to the Antiquities Department in Damascus, where they would be a.s.sessed, cleaned and dated, and the discoveries divided between Syria's museums and the American university that had sponsored the expedition.

Mrs. Pollifax, having sewn pockets in each robe for their pa.s.sports and money, helped as much as she was allowed. Having time now to more properly observe the work still being done, she could see how the caravansary had begun to take on a recognizable shape as more paving stones of its floor had been uncovered. In Jordan Mrs. Pollifax had seen a restored caravansary, bare and stark, and bearing no hint of the travelers who in ancient times drove their camels into it, to bed down with them for the night before continuing their journey; it had seemed just another museum, and she'd not given serious thought to the romance of caravans arriving from distant and improbable places, crossing deserts and over mountain pa.s.ses. Here, now, was a real caravansary emerging out of the earth, and she wondered what they'd brought so far to trade and sell.

"Bars of silver," Amy told her when she asked. "Gold and spices and silks -but most of all frankincense, which they offered to their G.o.ds. And also," she added bluntly, "they used both frankincense and myrrh as perfumes, because they didn't bathe often."

"Frankincense and myrrh!" exclaimed Mrs. Pollifax. "How biblical."

"Oh, but long before Christ was born," said Amy flatly. "a.s.syrian inscriptions have been found that refer to Tadmor as long ago as 1150 B.C., meaning that Tadmor was already on the transdesert route."

"So long ago! What was the route?" asked Mrs. Pollifax.

"It usually began in South Yemen -the Hadhramaut- winding its way up through Saudi Arabia , past Mecca , and from there traveled to what's now Jordan , but at Petra the caravans would split and go in different directions." She added with a sudden smile, "We've had some excitement this season, something more than shards of pottery and tablets and seals and water jugs."

"Excitement?"

Amy nodded. "I'll show you. They're not crated yet, they're in the field office under lock and key. We're hoping this could bring us more funding next year."

"Suspense mounts," said Mrs. Pollifax as they walked toward the building. "What is it?"

"You'll see. .. . You may have noticed that in Site Two we've reached the floor of the caravansary with its paving stones. One of those stones was loose, and a week ago a workman pried it up and found a cache of valuables hidden there, very, very old, which suggests the caravansary was here even before the Qasr al-Hirt."

"That is exciting," agreed Mrs. Pollifax.

"We think, from what we found, that a long time ago this inn must have been attacked by marauders, and one of the merchants -for every six camels carrying frankincense and silks he was allowed one camel for personal belongings-we think this man, whoever he was, hid what mattered most to him so the marauders wouldn't rob him of it. Buried treasure- in a great hurry-out of desperation." She admitted with a smile, "We make up stories about that man, and what might have taken place here-all of us-because what he'd buried he never retrieved. And we wonder and speculate what happened to him during the attack, whether he was captured or killed." *

She led Mrs. Pollifax to a corner of the field office and removed the padlock from a separate small crate and opened it. "Just look," she said, and placed in Mrs. Pollifax's hand a necklace of medallions, each circle carved with a time-blurred face of a woman.

"Lovely," breathed Mrs. Pollifax. "Bra.s.s?"