Mrs. Pollifax and the Hong Kong Buddha

by Dorothy Gilman

  But Sheng Ti had little to report, and little that they didn't already know, except for the fact that Mr. Detwiler had not been seen in the shop all day—which had never happened before—and Mr. Feng had spent many hours up in his rooms above the store, but when those hours were pinpointed they turned out to match the times that Mr. Feng had mysteriously vanished from the building. He and Lotus, he said, had been left in charge of the shop all day, working so hard to package a backlog of orders that Lotus had gone early to bed, exhausted.

  "I stay," he announced. "I want you find Mrs. Poll-fax, please, she my friend from Turfan—from China. "

  Cyrus reached over and patted his hand. "You stay," he told him.

  At eleven o'clock a call came through from Duncan in the special unit, reporting that Donald Chang, to whom Sheng Ti had delivered diamonds, had been quietly arrested at the airport. He appeared to know nothing of any terrorist plans; he'd been bribed to separate and remove certain marked crates and packages that arrived by air, thus circumventing their inspection by Customs. He had believed them to be diamonds on which Mr. Feng preferred not to pay duty. There was still nothing, Duncan added, from the regular police who were searching for the two mythical lost tourists.

  At midnight Krugg reported no activity at Feng Imports and the building dark, and at quarter-past the hour the radio-detection van reported no transmitting activity.

  By one o'clock the suite had begun to acquire the look of an encampment. Cyrus had abandoned the couch to prowl restlessly around the room, whereupon Sheng Ti had taken over his couch and was sound asleep; Ruthie nodded sleepily in her chair; Mr. Hitchens idly turned the pages of a magazine, and the tables were strewn with crumpled napkins and paper coffee cups.

  Yet no one considered leaving; they remained incapable of exchanging this place for their own quiet, empty rooms, knowing that if anything happened it would happen here. And what they were all waiting for, thought Robin sadly, was news that Mrs. Pollifax had been found. He did not think any of them were going to be rewarded for their vigil but he understood it; he had seen the hope in their faces each time the phone or radio signaled a message. Sleep was blurring their anxiety now—as he only wished it might blur his and Cyrus's— but the agonizing part for him about this long wait was the sense of helplessness. Somewhere in the Western district of Hong Kong Mrs. Pollifax was enduring this long night, too, surrounded by terrorists who were obviously not going to risk long radio transmissions or be found in any house-to-house search. They were up against that juggernaut that was moving slowly and inexorably toward conclusion, grinding down everyone in its path.

  When the phone rang at half-past one, it was Robin who was nearest to it and who plucked it from its cradle. "Oh—yes, Your Excellency," he said, and at his words Cyrus stopped pacing, Marko turned from the radio to listen and Mr. Hitchens put down his magazine.

  "No, nothing yet on our missing agent," Robin was saying. "Her husband's here, however—yes, her husband, it was he who thought of the Army. Now what about the Army, sir? Given the extreme need for secrecy on this—" He paused, listening, and his eyes brightened. "That's certainly good news, sir, the best we could hear but when—" He broke off, his face tightening and when he spoke again his voice was grim. "Not until then? That's your earliest guess? Yes, I understand it's the middle of the night but under the circumstances—no, the only information we have is that it will probably take place inside of the week but it's a very unreliable report, sir, mere conjecture as I reported to you earlier—yes, the housekeeper . . . All right, it does help the situation, sir, but of course a certain uneasiness remains as to ... Yes, sir, I realize the situation. Very good, sir. Thank you."

  He hung up and said flatly, "Tomorrow—midafternoon." With a glance at his watch he added, "That's thirteen and a half hours from now ... He guarantees this can be put in motion by tomorrow, Friday, at 3 p.m., when details from the Army, in plainclothes, will begin patrolling the Peak and the tower there, the power station, radio station and Government House on a round-the-clock basis."

  "And why not sooner?" demanded Cyrus.

  Robin said dryly, "He has reminded me that terrorists inevitably time their attacks to coincide with the prime-time evening news, so that they can get fullest coverage. He feels that bearing this in mind we needn't be too impatient about the delay that is necessary while he goes through proper channels. He also reminded me that it is almost two o'clock in the morning, that the Executive Council must be notified, and the soldiers briefed."

  "Not good enough," Cyrus said flatly.

  "No, my friend," said Marko, "but it is something. Please—sit down, you will wear yourself out, there are still possibilities."

  At half-past two Duncan phoned with a report on the landlords of Dragon Alley, and Marko listened, scribbling furiously on a note pad. Turning to Cyrus and Robin he said, "This is the report on what property Charles Feng owns, all neatly concealed under company names, and, mon Dieu—just listen: under the name of Crystal Curio Enterprises the man owns half of Dragon Alley—numbers 31 1.2, 30, and 28—and there is your explanation of how he can somehow come and go without being seen. Under the title of Emperor Gems Limited he owns a warehouse, or godown, on the waterfront, and under the name of Green Jade Associates Limited there is a tailor shop. There may be more, his clerks are still searching ..." Turning back to the telephone he said to Duncan, "Try the warehouse and the tailor shop—but carefully, my friend."

  That was at half-past two. During the next hour there was only silence from both radio and telephone and they all waited at various levels of wakefulness, slumped in chairs or sprawled on couches.

  It was at 4 a.m. that Cyrus suddenly stood up and said, "I've had enough of this!" He strode over to Sheng Ti. "Wake up, Sheng Ti," he said, shaking him, and as the young man sat up and rubbed his eyes Cyrus turned and said crisply, "Marko—call in your surveiilants from Dragon Alley. Robin—wake up that third chap asleep in the bedroom . . . This feels too much like a wake to suit me, and it's the biggest damn waste of talent I've seen in years."

  Marko said with a smile, "Taking over, are you, my friend?"

  "Yes, damn it," Cyrus told him. "You may lose your jobs for this but the alternative for me could be losing my wife. This is what I suggest," he said, and then he shook his head and said flatly, "No, this is what we do.''

  And quietly, but with firm authority, he told them very explicitly what could be done while they waited for channels to be gone through and the wheels of bureaucracy to turn.

  16

  FRIDAY

  THERE HAD BEEN DARKNESS, AND THEN A DIM SMALL

  light. There had been a hook in the ceiling to which her bound wrists had been attached so that she hung suspended, just off the floor, while the man whose face she couldn't see asked questions, a great many questions, and then the nightmare had begun.

  She hadn't dreamed it, had she?

  She stirred, groaned and opened her eyes: something had changed, the dark room was gone and she was lying on the floor of a room that was brightly lighted, too brightly, it hurt her eyes and she closed them again, becoming aware now of searing hot flames running up and down her back and of something wet and sticky accompanying the tongues of flame. What was she doing here, she wondered, and where was she? There was too much for her to understand and she sank back into an oblivion that was part unconsciousness and part exhausted sleep.

  When she opened her eyes again it was to the pain of remembering precisely where she was, and why: she was in Hong Kong, and she'd been questioned and then beaten so that she would submit and tell the faceless man what she knew; and why he hadn't killed her she didn't know, but that would probably happen next, and in her weakness she began to cry soundlessly, remembering that Cyrus was on his way to join her, and never to see him again—never see another morning, another spring, another summer . . .

  Presently she grew angry at the waves of self-pity and grief and she thought crossly, It's not that I expected clean sheets but that I
resent very much ending my life on a filthy floor in a Hong Kong loft.

  That was better; anger was always better.

  "So you're still alive," said a voice sardonically from somewhere beyond her view.

  She opened her eyes and saw a foot nearby wearing a broken sandal, with a leg attached to the foot. Lacking the energy to lift her head and identify the voice it nevertheless reassured her: it was true, she was still alive, and now she remembered Eric the Red and being told by Alec Hao that the terrorist attack was planned for morning, and she wondered if it was morning yet. She told herself that it was time to stop feeling sorry for herself and learn what time it was. If she could lift her head. If she could move. If she could disentangle herself from the floor and sit up.

  Resolutely she lifted her head, ignoring the ringing in her ears and the room beginning to spin, and she saw the wall she had originally occupied when she was brought here, and Detwiler somberly watching her. "Detwiler," she murmured, and the sound of her voice pleased and steadied her. She began to grow aware of sounds now: of voices, of footsteps hurrying back and forth, a laugh, and—what was that creaking noise in the background, so familiar yet odd, reminding her of clothes being hung on a clothesline? Ah yes, it was the sound of objects attached by ropes to a pulley. The window, she remembered now . . . Alec had said the windows could be lifted out, that there was a van parked in the alley below to which they lowered things. The plans were in motion, then, it was morning and the terrorists were on the move and if this was so then it was time for her to be on the move, too—because, she thought, if you continue to lie here, Emily, they'll kill you, they certainly won't leave you behind.

  This thought startled her and she wondered where it had come from, and if it were true.

  But of course it's true, said the small voice inside of her: if you can't walk, can't even stand up, of what use are you to them? They certainly won't leave you behind alive.

  She wondered why it had occurred to her that she might go with them; did this small voice mean she might be used as a hostage?

  Why not, replied this inner gadfly, adding somewhat tartly, you might note that your back may be a bloody pulpy mess but they didn't touch your face, hands, legs or feet. Except for the blood running down your back you 're still presentable.

  This galvanized her: she must sit up, then, and perhaps—who could predict?—she might next be capable of standing, and eventually be able to walk, too. Miracles could still occur and she would settle for a small one now. She drew several deep breaths, coughed, drew in several more and then with one reckless herculean movement rolled herself to the wall and pushed herself into a sitting position, biting back a scream of pain as her torn back met the wall. She had just lifted her bound wrists to look at her watch—it read 6:03—when wave after wave of dizziness swept over her followed by nausea and then retching.

  Sweating, weak, emptied, she resisted the longing to attach herself to the floor again, and waited.

  Moments passed—hours—before she dared open her eyes again to discover that she felt steadier. Still, her situation was not very promising, she conceded, and now she began remembering what she had called karate mind in her classes with Lorvale Brown: the mobilizing of one's energy so that it could be directed to whatever part of the body one chose, usually the hand that would strike out with the speed and thrust of a bullet. She recalled the enormous concentration behind this, and the success of it, and she began to apply this formula now to her shaken body, resolutely summoning untapped reserves of strength to send to her arms, legs, feet. Illusion or not, it had an effect.

  Beside her Detwiler said wearily, "It's all over now, you know, there's no hope, they're leaving any minute ... by seven o'clock they'll have taken over the Peak."

  She turned her head to look at him and met his eyes. He looked haggard and gray, and she wondered if Mrs. O'Malley would even recognize him now.

  He said, "They made you talk?"

  She thought back to the hell she'd gone through, not wanting to remember but feeling it was necessary for a moment. "No," she said. "I told them I loved the Buddha you gave me and decided I must keep it. I told them I'd seen a similar Buddha in the hotel gift shop and I thought you wouldn't notice the difference."

  He looked startled. "You did that? You managed that? We could"—he moistened his lips with his tongue—"we could hear you scream—three times—and then your groans."

  Had she screamed? She supposed that she must have.

  "It was—terrible," he said, tears spilling from his eyes to run down his cheeks.

  This was not at all helpful; she turned away and looked to her left, at Alec Hao, and discovered him so deeply asleep that the sounds and movements around them hadn't reached him at all. Her glance went beyond him to the window, which was wide open now, and to the cluster of men standing beside it looking down into the alley, calling out orders, gesturing; and then her gaze fell on the radio sitting on a crate some distance down the aisle from her, the radio on which a message had come through on what must have been another day.

  Her eyes focused on it dreamily ... a black box sitting on a wooden crate some seven feet behind the men at the window, whose backs were turned to it.

  Radio . . . Marko had said, "For the radio-detection van there is a driver and the truck is a closed van, bristling with aerials inside, and once there is a signal . . ." and then, "at two and a half minutes they have gone beyond the safe limit . . . after two and a half minutes they are vulnerable to anyone who might wish to find them ..."

  Vulnerable to anyone who might wish to find them.

  She thought, If I could creep down this aisle to the radio 1 could flick on the transmitting switch. They wouldn't see me . . . not if I stayed low, crouched behind the crates . . . The only risky moment would come when I stand up to lean over and turn on the switch.

  If she could crawl ... If she could stand.

  She glanced down at her watch: it was six-fifteen and she might not have this much strength again; did she have enough ?

  Two and a half minutes was a long time, she noticed, seeing how slowly the second hand on her watch crept around the dial, but if the signal could last for two and a half minutes it would be heard and they could be traced and located.

  "What is it?" asked Detwiler, seeing the frown on her face.

  She said softly, "The radio ..."

  "What about it?"

  She turned her face toward him, "I've been thinking that if I could crawl over to it, and if the transmitters were turned on for two and a half minutes—"

  He scowled, not understanding. "What would that do? Who would hear?"

  She said simply, "It would be heard. A great deal has been happening, there are people—people hoping the radio may be used."

  His eyes widened. "You mean—others? People know?"

  "Yes—but not when," she told him. "Your papers— the plans you hid in the Buddha—are in good hands. So if I can get to the radio—I must ask, if the men should move away from the window could you possibly manage to create a diversion? The switch would have to— must—remain open for two and a half minutes."

  He was silent, his face thoughtful, and she thought that for the first time since she'd come here he looked like the Detwiler she'd met on Monday.

  "No," he said at last.

  Her consternation, her sense of betrayal, were like a stab opening up wounds again. "You won't help?"

  "No," he said softly, "I mean that I will go to the radio, not you." He turned to look at her. "You must-allow this." A curious little smile twisted his lips. "I've been of little use, and—I'm quite addicted, you know. Allow me to feel—be—a human being again."

  "But-"

  He touched her bound hands with his. "It's all right, you know—it's all right. It's the switch on the left side?"

  She nodded, "Flip it on and come back." Something about him worried her. "Come back and we'll time it together.''

  He smiled faintly, nodded, and rolling himself to his knees
he tipped forward and began to crawl awkwardly down the aisle. The men beyond were still occupied at the window, and when one did turn away to collect an additional box it was to another aisle that he went; Mr. Detwiler remained unseen.

  As he came to a stop under the radio Mrs. Pollifax tensed: this was the dangerous moment, when he would have to struggle to his feet, stand upright and lean over the crate to flick on the switch. She waited, holding her breath. Pulling himself into a kneeling position Detwiler glanced back at her once and she saw that he was asking for a signal. Backs were still turned; she nodded vigorously, watched him place his weight on one leg, stand, lean over and push on the switch.

  "Beautiful—oh, you dear man." whispered Mrs. Pollifax, and drew an exultant breath of relief. As he sank back to the floor out of sight she lifted her tied hands to consult her watch and to mark the second hand: it was precisely six-twenty-nine . . . except—Oh, God, she thought, seeing how slowly the second hand moved, it's going to take so long and how many times must the second hand crawl past the hour to two and a half minutes . . . 150 times?

  Four seconds, she whispered, counting. Five . . . eight. . . nine seconds . . .

  Detwiler was not returning. Snatching a quick glance at him she saw only his back as he crouched under the radio, hut she could give him no more attention and her eyes fled back to the second hand's movements on her watch. Fifty seconds . . . sixty . . . one minute!

  One minute and three seconds. One minute and five seconds . . . eight . . . nine . . .

  How astonishing time was, she thought, how arduous just one second, did people know this?

  One minute and fifty seconds . . . fifty-eight. Two minutes—the transmitter had been sending out its signal for two minutes.

  Two minutes and one second . . . and now Mrs. Pollifax allowed herself to hope . . . allowed herself to think of two men in a radio-detection van furiously turning those coordinates that Marko had described, their optimism mounting in tune with hers if only ... if only . . .