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Lemon in the Basket Page 20


  Al Asad was looking stern in the morning light, tall, presumably lean, and all business, whatever a king’s business may be. A man in white stood at either side of his striking figure.

  “The King of Alalaf—who speaks no English, by the way—”

  27

  Some distance away, at the automobile gate, there was a man in a rumpled dinner jacket, begging to enter.

  “You can’t go through here, sir.”

  “You don’t understand. I am Rufus Tyler. Tyler.” The man’s voice was shrill with strain.

  “I can’t help—”

  “Beg pardon,” said the other guard. “Tyler?”

  “Yes, Tyler. I am Rufus Tyler. Look,” Rufus held out his identification. “I have to speak to the King. There’s something I have to tell. It has to be told. Don’t you hear me? It has to be told. It will have to …” He looked exhausted and he sagged.

  “Are you related to Dr. Tyler, sir?”

  “Yes. Yes. I am the Doctor’s brother.” Rufus braced up. “Both of my brothers are out there. Let me through, before it’s too late. This is important. It has to be told. I tried. Please. Call somebody, then. My father is Judge Tyler. My mother is Maggie Mitchel. Tell somebody, will you please?”

  The guards were wavering. Then, Rufus was through. He began to run. The guards at the gate gazed after him dubiously. Then they had to jump to let the ambulance out. Now that its passenger was delivered, it had business elsewhere.

  Tamsen and Duncan, Mitch and Phillida, were drifting slowly behind the progress of the Prince and his entourage toward the plane. Duncan was the first to stiffen. “No,” he said sharply, and pushed through the people and away.

  Then Tamsen saw the running figure. She bit her own finger violently, not to scream. (Oh, no, not now!)

  Mitch turned and saw it. All heads began to turn. But Mitch pushed, decisively, the other way. “Get him up there, quickly,” he said. “Saiph, walk. Quickly.”

  Inga turned her head. She whirled her body around and took something from her pocket.

  Mitch said quietly, “None of that.” He grabbed her hand, and wrenched the gun out of it in so swift and brutal a movement that he was scarcely seen to have made it. Everyone else was now looking back toward the gate and the lone man, running in that exhausted stagger. Several guards were now running and converging on him.

  Mitch said, “Wait. Better not go up those steps. Some idiot might shoot. Stand tight around Saiph. You two, and you and you.” The bodyguards, the nurse, and the mother closed to a human square around the boy. Inga held her right hand in her left; her eyes blazed but she said nothing.

  Mitch took three strides to Phillida. “Open your purse.” She did so at once, and he dropped the gun therein. He pressed his car keys into her hand.

  Phillida said, “What must I do?”

  “Go to the car. Take Tamsen. Now. We’ll see.”

  Then Mitch began to run in an easy lope.

  Duncan was running hard. He saw that one of the guards was getting there first. He saw Rufus dodge and duck. But Rufus was inept. He was clumsy. He didn’t make it. The guard hit him a hard blow to his middle and Rufus doubled over, toppled, and went down.

  “Just a minute,” Duncan bellowed. Rufus was on the ground and the guard was pulling his arm to a lock. Others were swarming. But Duncan could now be fairly sure that Rufus was unconscious. So he shouted, “Hold it. That’s my brother.”

  Unconscious. (Silent!) Thank God, thought Duncan. Yet he couldn’t help noting that Rufus had failed again. Whatever he had intended to do, he had muffed it, as usual.

  “Let him go,” said Duncan, with moderate indignation. “That’s my brother.”

  Mitch now came trotting to enter the circle. “Yes, that’s my brother.” He crouched to examine Rufus once again. (Once again.) All three brothers were now locked within a circle of legs, uniformed and otherwise, and over their heads hung a cloud of babble. The camera couldn’t see in.

  “What happened?” Maggie was saying. “William, what happened?”

  “I don’t know, Maggie darling. Trust the boys. Trust the girls.”

  Duncan was saying into the Doctor’s ear, “Get him out of here. Get him away.”

  “I’m working on it,” Mitch said.

  “Throw your weight around,” Duncan said fiercely. “I’ll be the decoy.”

  When the Doctor rose to his feet, everybody became quiet to listen. “Wind’s out of him. Bumped his head, maybe. He’s not hurt,” the Doctor said, dourly.

  One of the guards from the gate was there. “He told us he had something to tell the King. He had his I.D. So we let him … He was in a rush …”

  “I’m sorry as hell, Doctor,” said the man who had hit Rufus. “But how could I know?”

  “Too bad the ambulance went,” said a man. “Look, we’ll call the Airport Hospital.”

  “Don’t do that,” said Mitch.

  “Listen, Doctor, that’s what it’s there for.”

  “He’s my brother,” said Mitch, “and my patient. I want him where I want him. Do you mind?”

  The men fell back from his anger. “Honest to John, Doctor,” said the one, “I sure hope he’s not bad. I didn’t know.”

  It was Duncan who said, “All right. You made a mistake. But that happens to be our brother.” He turned to the gate guard. “He told you he had something to say to the King?”

  “Yes, Mr. Tyler, that’s what he said. He said ‘before it’s too late.’ He said it was important.”

  “Well, he may not be hurt, but he’s not talking, is he?” said Duncan ferociously. “Let me through, please. I’m going to find out what this is about.”

  He walked rapidly away with the air of purpose that goes with decisive motion. It was attractive. He could tell that a large part of the pack, the news people (who also wanted to find out what this was about) were being drawn after him. Duncan did not know what he was going to do or say. But he appeared to know.

  There was still a tight knot around the Prince. But the old King stood apart, his robes fluttering in the breeze. On either side of him, his cohorts were fluttering like twin white hawks. All three faces were hot-and-cold with outrage and suspicion. They looked as if they each had only a toe on the ground. Duncan strode toward them, wishing he could say “Shoo! Fly away! Fly away!”

  Phillida was in the driver’s seat of Mitch’s car and Tamsen was beside her. “What are we going to do?” Tamsen’s eyes were bright with excitement.

  “We don’t know. We’re ready, that’s all.”

  “It’s another ballet? An improvisation?”

  “It’s a mess,” said Phillida. “How can he be gotten away from here?”

  Tamsen seemed to know how. “I suppose we are going to take him,” she said, gazing back toward the excitement. Phillida chewed her lip.

  The television men were having a fit. “Close up, can’t you?” “Damn white thing, on his head.” “Get Tyler, then.” “Guy’s in the way.” “Come on, buddy.” “I’m trying. I’m trying.”

  Duncan said to Al Asad, “Your Majesty, the man on the gate says that my brother wanted to tell you something.”

  The King said “Ah” in a condescending manner, as if he didn’t believe a word of it.

  “Damn,” said a television man. “Go, tell some of those birds to move, will ya?”

  But new guards were circling with locked arms, and against them the swarm pressed, making a wall.

  Duncan Tyler, for a man speaking to a monarch, was not being very humble. “The guard who hit him had no way of knowing who he was, or what he wanted. But the point is, what important message did my brother have for you? He has been knocked out. He is unconscious. He can’t tell you, now.”

  Al Asad’s eye was piercing, yet opaque.

  “Boy, is he ever out,” muttered a newsman helpfully.

  Duncan looked around him and said imperiously, “If you people can’t keep quiet, you will have to move away. This is important.”

&nb
sp; So they became quiet, but naturally, they pressed in ever closer.

  On camera, it looked not unlike a football huddle, in plain clothes.

  Off camera, two policemen, under the Doctor’s direction, were lifting a limp Rufus as gently as they could. They then began to carry him across the field. A half dozen men tagged along.

  “We get him,” said Phillida.

  “So I thought,” said Tamsen. She was smiling.

  Mitch had the men place Rufus tenderly on the back seat of the car. Rufus seemed to know nothing of what was happening. The Doctor squeezed in to bend over him, while the other men pressed to stare through the glass.

  “Can you drive, Phillida?” Mitch wasn’t looking at her nor she at him. “Of course,” she said.

  “Maggie’s. If there’s a chance. Just cool it. But take the first chance.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  Mitch backed out of the narrowness. An argument began at once. “Doctor, you’ve got to understand that we may be held responsible.” “We have our own facilities …” “If he’s not hurt, why not take him into the Lounge?” “After all, he is a witness.” “Insurance …” “No negligence, on our part …” “Must insist …”

  Mitch contrived to draw the arguing group slowly away.

  Three newsmen, including the very young one, had stuck to Rufus. They were not attending to the argument, but peering into the car with noses flat.

  Phillida said, “Will you gentlemen move, please? I must turn the car.” She had the motor on, the car was powerful. The men backed a wary few feet away. Tamsen was trying to think of something she could do to help.

  One of the King’s cohorts, the one named Colonel Hafsah (or something like that) was translating what Duncan had said. The King replied to it, then, coldly. The interpreter said, “His Majesty asks if you know what the message was?”

  “No, I do not,” said Duncan. He knew, by the tail of his eye, where Rufus was. He knew he had made a diversion, temporarily, but where did he go from here? He said, “I would like to ask if there wasn’t another member of your party? I don’t see Colonel Gorob. Where is he?”

  “Who he?” mumbled a newsman.

  “Hey! Hey! Hey!” said another. “They’re loading the Little Prince!”

  So the swarm trembled, being drawn two ways. The Doctor had shaken off his group and was standing at the bottom of the steps, superintending the embarkation of the Prince. Beside him stood the steward, all smiles.

  Duncan decided to surrender to the rival attraction. He said, “Excuse me,” not very humbly, and walked rapidly toward his brother Mitchel.

  The King said a sharp word. He and his cohorts began to move in a stately pace toward the plane. The guards kept guarding; the swarm was strung out, on both sides of the procession.

  On camera, the Little Prince was halfway up the steps.

  Duncan Tyler, remaining in his part, that of the puzzled, the indignant, the probing, said to the steward, “Is Colonel Gorob aboard?”

  “No, sir,” said the steward. He was going to swing up the steps himself, soon. The Prince was aboard. So was the Princess. The King was approaching.

  Duncan could now feel the white hawks at his back.

  “Where is this man?” said Duncan loudly.

  The steward said, “Colonel Gorob came aboard early to inspect, sir. I have not seen him since.”

  Duncan swung around and looked at Al Asad. The King’s eyes flickered. Al Asad said (In English! Sensation!), “Let the airplane be searched.”

  The camera had zoomed in and it was getting that face. “Wow!” The TV people were exultant. “Have we got a picture!”

  The guards began to surge and heave. The crowd was pushed and it milled; it divided. The guards were ruthlessly in control, now. Almost immediately the Little Prince reappeared and began to come down the steps. Behind him, people began to pour out of the plane.

  Tamsen cried, “Oh! Oh, look! Something is happening! Oh, what is happening?”

  Their contingent of newsmen began to run toward whatever was happening, this being their duty.

  So Phillida caused the car to move softly, softly, toward the gate.

  The guard there said, “Mrs. Tyler?” respectfully.

  “Doctor’s orders,” she said, in her bright casual way.

  “Not hurt too bad, is he?” The guard was looking in. “I probably should have got hold of your husband, Mrs. Tyler, before we let him through.”

  “But the Doctor was so busy with the Little Prince,” said Tamsen, with an air of warm understanding. “How could you have?”

  “I guess that’s right, too,” the guard said, not without gratitude. “Taking him over to the hospital? Want an escort?”

  The guard looked around. But all the motorcycles had long ago departed.

  “We’ll be fine,” said Phillida. “I’ve been told exactly what to do.”

  “O.K., then. Good luck, Mrs. Tyler.” He let them through. The ordinary people, just outside the gate, stood aside to let the car pass. They didn’t seem to realize that the two women (“Hey, that’s Phillida.” “The other one is Tamsen.” “Tyler.” “Tyler.”) had an unconscious man lying helplessly low, behind them.

  Then they were free and rolling. Phillida drove with grim care. Nobody seemed to be following them.

  “What if he comes to?” Tamsen whispered.

  “You may have to shoot him,” Phillida said. “Mitch put a gun in my purse. See if it’s loaded.”

  “I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t do that.” It was as if they were discussing some new and scandalous style.

  “Then hope for the best because if he comes to, we’ll have to handle it ourselves.”

  Tamsen was turned to look over at the limp man, lying on his back with long legs trailing to the floor at an uncomfortable-seeming angle. His face was flaccid. He looked as if he had been so tired that he had fallen asleep in his tracks and cared for nothing anymore.

  “It’s a whole damn hour to Maggie’s,” Phillida said. “Not much less.”

  “Never mind,” said Tamsen. “And don’t worry. He isn’t going to rise up and clobber you. Just drive. I’ll watch him.”

  What will I do, though? she wondered. She had not hunted Phillida’s purse for a gun. That was ridiculous! Impossible! You did not, you could not shoot a bullet at a living person for just being confused, for being not really responsible, even for being (in so mad and helpless a way) such a dangerous nuisance. No. Anyway, she couldn’t.

  Tamsen reflected that she had never even seen a gun except in some movie or play. She didn’t believe in guns. But what must she do, if Rufus became mobile? Understand him? The fact was, Tamsen did not understand him. That was impossible, too.

  She kept a sharp watch on his face, feeling her wound crack and sting with the pull of her shoulders, as Phillida swooped up to the Freeway and began to drive as fast as Mitch drove a car.

  It occurred to Tamsen that Rufus might be shamming again, as Mitch had once suspected. If so, that was pitiful. But had she the time to pity him, now? She must watch, and if his eyelids so much as fluttered …

  We could be killed, thought Tamsen. Very easily, all three of us, if Rufus rises up and does something violent in this speeding car. What must I do? Well, I’d better search my soul another time, she thought grimly. I know what I’m not going to do. I am not going to allow him to kill us by some blundering, mindless lurching. He must not, in whatever misery or distress, kill us all. And I won’t let him. She began to grope for Phillida’s purse.

  Neither she nor Phillida spoke another word. They seemed to know that they had better not chatter. It was as if time might go by unmeasured as in a dream, providing that no word, no exchange of idea, nothing broke into its passage and betrayed that it was passing.

  28

  Maggie was totally concentrating on the television show, where the crowd milled and the broadcaster recapitulated. The Judge kept patting her. “Trust the boys,” he kept muttering. “Trust the girls.”
Rufus was in hand. He knew that. So they would pull it off, or else they wouldn’t. He had braced for the camera to show them Rufus, blinking and mumbling (or perhaps not quite mumbling) but it had not. It kept hunting for glimpses of the King, or the Princess, but especially for any view of the Little Prince, everybody’s darling.

  Suddenly the broadcaster said, in a perfectly human and personal surprise, “What?”

  The camera began to steady on the door of the plane where a policeman had appeared.

  The broadcaster said, with caution, “There seems to have been a device of some kind.…” His voice gained confidence. “Ladies and gentlemen, there seems to have been an explosive device on the King’s jet. A bomb has been found!” Now he could not help an exultant excitement, “Ladies and gentlemen, you are getting this live!”

  But the Judge was already up, and at his desk, reaching for his telephone.

  Maggie rose and walked toward him. “William, who?”

  “It was never Rufus,” the Judge said, loudly enough to seem joyous, “who planted any bomb on the King’s plane. He couldn’t have managed that, Maggie darling. He simply isn’t, and never was, clever enough.”

  Lurlene just sat there, watching the confusing swirl of the crowd on the screen while the voice said, over and over again that, in a “most dramatic incident,” a bomb had just been found on the private plane of the King of Alalaf, “on which the Little Prince” … and so on, and so on. It seemed, now, that the plane would be searched, inch by inch. The Little Prince would not depart … no, no … until this had been thoroughly done. The royal party was being taken to the V.I.P. Lounge, in the building. “Ladies and gentlemen—” The camera showed a phalanx of people moving away from it. But it didn’t show Rufus.

  The Judge was saying into the phone, “Is there a good guess where he might be? Very fine thing if he could be picked up, quickly. No, this Colonel Gorob could pass for almost any Westerner. Reddish hair. Very freckled-faced. Medium tall.… No, I don’t think he can get at them now. But we had better be concerned that the blame for this is put where it belongs. And fast.… There are some people, including Colonel Gorob, who would like nothing better than the news going out of an American attack on the Prince. Oh, it would spread in ten minutes. The world’s too small. Even a rumor … Yes, of course, it is a big city. Well …”