She had been right about the drugs, then, and obviously Detwiler was to be of no help. She was abruptly realizing, too, that in removing the papers from Mr. Detwiler's Buddha she had given him an unexpected gift, and herself a great deal of trouble, for when it was discovered that her Buddha didn't contain Detwiler's papers the attention would at once shift from him to her. She sighed over the most deadly error that she'd ever made: the supposition that she would be taken to the import shop. Why hadn't she and Robin and Marko copied out the contents of those plans Detwiler had made? It would have been assumed, then, that she was only an innocent bystander but, by substituting another Buddha she had in effect exposed and condemned herself, and it would be she who was questioned and pressured. It was not a pleasant thought, not when it would be terrorists who would be doing the questioning . . .
She said to him, "You knew when we met who I was, and why I was here?"
Detwiler nodded miserably.
"Does Mr. Feng know this too?"
A sob escaped him. "Probably—I don't know—don't know what I've told him. He began—I think he said he began with small amounts of drugs in my food—at the shop, at lunch—months ago. And then—after a while I scarcely knew what was wrong, things blurred, and then he told me—told me—" He lifted his bound hands to his face and wept. "Told me I was part of his plan— and that's when he brought out the needles and said I couldn't go home." He drew up his knees and leaned his head forward, gulping down sobs and shivering.
Looking at him Mrs. Pollifax tried to remember the suave and immaculate Detwiler she'd met on Monday, only four days ago, the man who had coolly asserted himself with Mr. Peng and had given her the Buddha. For weeks he must have been drifting back and forth between that man and this one, she thought, depending always on Mr. Feng for his rational moments. There were no gold cuff links or black silk suit today, the sandals he wore were torn and the cotton pants and shirt were wrinkled. She thought of his elegant house, of the elegant dinner parties that Mrs. O'Malley had described and she felt a stab of compassion for the wreck of a man beside her.
Alec Hao leaned forward to say accusingly, "Who are you, anyway? I heard you, I heard him. "
With a sense of relief she turned away from Detwiler. "I'm Emily Pollifax, and I believe you're Alec Hao?"
He looked at her with astonishment. "How—?"
From your picture in the newspapers—Mr. Hitchens has been very worried about you."
"Hitchins! You know him? Did they get him too? Has he found my father yet?" His voice was eager but suspicion lingered in his eyes.
Bruises had turned his left cheekbone purple, his lips were swollen and one of his front teeth had been chipped, but he was young and resilient and he merely looked like a college boy who had emerged from a boxing match that had gone on for too long. But there was also anger in Alec Hao, the kind of anger that Detwiler had been incapable of sustaining, she thought, and this had preserved him so that she felt he could deal with the truth. She said gently, "Your father's dead, Alec."
He drew a long shuddering sigh, swallowed hard and nodded. "I guess I'm not surprised—not now. I think I stopped hoping three days ago. I mean, I'm surprised that I'm alive myself after being here three days." His voice trembled. "Did they—was it fast?"
"Fast and I think unexpected," she told him, keeping her voice low and calm. "He looked—surprised. It was a bullet in the temple." Leaning closer she added, "They had planned it to look like a suicide; there was a scrap of paper with his writing on it, and the gun placed in his hand, but I removed them both."
"You saw him?" he said, astonished.
She nodded. "Mr. Hitchens and I found him—the next morning—in the same hut where you were captured. Mr. Hitchens and I flew in on the same plane from San Francisco," she explained, "and we had breakfast together, and so when he came back from the hut that night he was badly hurt and came to my room for help."
"Then you're a—a friend," he said in surprise. "Not that it makes any difference now, but still—"
"I know."
"He used to be," Alec said bitterly, with a jerk of his head toward Detwiler. "He knew my father and they were friends but they got to him, Mr. Feng and these people. Don't trust him, you mustn't."
"In the shape he's in now, no one could trust him," she said simply. "I do think, though, that he's tried to do his best against frightening odds."
He snorted at this. "You know him?"
"We—uh—have mutual friends," she said, "which is why I called on him Monday, after reaching Hong Kong. But you—" With a quick smile she changed this subject. "They've been rough on you here?"
"Sort of," he said with an attempt at a smile, "but it's over now. They plan to take over Hong Kong, did you know that? I laughed when I heard it but I'm not laughing any more." He jerked his head in the direction of the activity just beyond the wooden crates. "Know what they're mixing over there?"
She shook her head.
"Potash and diesel fuel. Plain old potash and diesel fuel you can get anywhere—it makes bombs. Last night they went out with explosives they planted somewhere in the city. From what I overheard, the bombs have long-term fuses that'll go off at different times over the next two and three days. They lower things out of those two windows over there, to a van they've hidden in the alley below. The windows are built so they can be lifted out easily. I suppose they're terrorists, aren't they?"
She nodded. "The Liberation 80's Group."
"What?" He looked staggered. "You mean that's what my dad stumbled into? My God, no wonder—" He shuddered. "No wonder, no wonder!"
"But Mr. Feng's the head man, isn't he?"
Alec looked at her in surprise. "That old man who wanders in and out? I've seen him dole out money once or twice, but what would Liberation 80's want with him ?''
There was no ready answer to that, and Mrs. Pollifax turned back to Detwiler. Placing her tied wrists on his arm she leaned close to him. "Mr. Detwiler," she said, "can you hear me?"
He looked up, his eyes glazed, lips trembling.
"Mr. Feng," she said. "What does he want?"
For a moment Detwiler looked as if he neither saw nor heard her and then with an effort he steadied himself, but still his words came out in gasps. "Worked— slaved—for years he said." He stopped to wet his lips. "A bloody f-f-fanatic—and I never knew. One big suicidal—kamikaze," He gave up and lifted his bound hands over his head in a clumsy description of exploding fireworks. "Because Peking government—not legal. Only Taiwan. Nationalists. "
She looked at him in amazement and then she said, "How stupid and how cruel," and turned back to Alec. "Do you happen to have any idea when they plan this takeover of Hong Kong?"
"Oh yes," he said, "it's set for tomorrow morning. Around seven."
It was her turn to be staggered. "Tomorrow?" she gasped, stunned by this news. "Tomorrow morning . . . you mean Friday?"
He shrugged. "I don't even know what today is,"
"Thursday," she told him automatically.
"Okay, then it's Friday or whatever tomorrow is."
"But that leaves us no time!" she cried.
"For What?" he asked in surprise.
"For stopping them. For getting out of here."
He looked at her incredulously. "Stopping them? Are you mad? There's nothing we can do, look at us. Look at them. "
She was looking, and hearing, too. Funny sounds of static were coming from a collection of tubes and wires linked to a black box that held a kinship to Robin's radio at the hotel. One of the welders strolled over to the box that was sitting some ten or twelve feet away from her in the next aisle, and when he removed his goggles she saw that it was Eric the Red. She watched him flick on a switch, pick up a pair of earphones and as he listened he turned and stared at Mrs. Pollifax.
She did not appreciate his singling her out with those cold empty eyes, and she felt a chill of foreboding.
Abruptly he put down the headpiece, flicked off the switch and walked down th
e aisle to her. Stopping in front of her, towering over her, he stared down at her and then he slapped her hard across her right cheek. "The Buddha was the wrong one," he said coldly in accented English. "Not the one you were given by Detwiler."
Beside her Mrs. Pollifax felt a sudden movement from Detwiler as Eric the Red's words penetrated his misery. Detwiler had turned his head to stare at her in astonishment, and with a dawning hope for himself.
Eric the Red reached down, seized her by the shirt and dragged her to her feet. "We will see how much you know and what you did with the papers inside that statue."
Mrs. Pollifax thought bleakly, // begins now . . . and she prayed for strength as he dragged her out of the room.
15
it WAS HALF-PAST SEVEN WHEN ROBIN AND MARKO had finished describing to Cyrus the sequence of events and discoveries that had led to this hour. They were a somber trio as they sat near the silent radio in Robin's suite, surrounded by empty coffee cups and maps. There had been a moment, Robin noticed, when Cyrus turned white, but he'd rallied and remained calm, continuing to weigh facts as they were presented to him and questioning them as judiciously as if he still occupied his judge's bench. Robin could see that Marko was impressed, as was he: Cyrus was going to be all right; he might even prove to be a rock, and if so, thought Robin dryly, a very large rock, for it had not taken him long to see that Cyrus's six feet four inches of bulk held no fat, and that his air of drowsiness, his economical manner of speaking, concealed a mind that was quick and keen.
"So we're not in the best of shape," concluded Robin reluctantly. "This takeover of the Colony appears to have been painstakingly plotted over a long period of time. It's gained that kind of momentum that well-laid plans do acquire, until we've come to feel rather like gnats buzzing around a juggernaut. We can only tell you that Mrs. Pollifax disappeared at eleven o'clock this morning, and we guess now that it was Mr. Feng who occupied the taxi she entered because he walked back into his shop at twelve-fifteen, and it's a sample of our frustration that we hadn't even known that he'd left his shop."
"Following which," added Marko, "the radio-detection van reported a high-powered one-minute transmission from that approximate area, not long enough to be traced, but we're guessing it came from Feng Imports. Of Detwiler there's been no sign at all."
Cyrus nodded. "And you've not discovered how this Mr. Feng has come and gone from Feng Imports without your knowing of it? Does he suspect he's being watched?"
Robin hesitated. "We're fairly certain he hasn't spotted his surveillants," he said slowly. "At least we feel there are a number of things he could do if he suspected this, and he's done none of them. The first time he left it was in the dark of night, and since there are almost no lights in the alley we assumed he was just lucky. But of course he very obviously went out this morning— obviously, since we saw him come back—so that blew our comforting theory. Marko's working on the theory that he may have access to one or two adjacent buildings and have set up an escape route for the terrorists that he occasionally uses himself. Marko's sent out a query as to who owns the building next the shop. We're in touch now, you see, with a hand-picked group from Hong Kong special unit, but—"
"How many?" interrupted Cyrus.
"Seven," put in Marko. "Seven plus Duncan the head man."
"—but tracing landlords in Hong Kong is a very complicated business," finished Robin, "and on the subject of those seven hand-picked policemen I can't tell you how severely handicapped we've felt by not knowing whom to trust. We dare not take risks in that area! There's one route we prefer not to take, and that's to call in the press and publicize the situation. This might save Hong Kong—a happy issue—but we're very much afraid the Liberation 80's group would find the means and the contacts to be smuggled out of Hong Kong— there has to be some connection with the Triad here— and six months from now they'd only surface in another corner of the globe to work their deviltry. As members of an international police organization—" He shook his head. "You understand the responsibility, I'm sure. We want to not only recover Mrs. Pollifax but abort their mission and capture every damn member of the group and put them out of commission forever."
"And how much do you feel they know about your involvement?" pressed Cyrus.
Marko said gently, "If Mrs. Pollifax was accurate in her guesses of the situation, they would have known absolutely nothing until Detwiler confessed about the Buddha and what he'd concealed inside of it. Following this they would have understood that Mrs. Pollifax had— er—connections with Detwiler's intelligence-gathering activities, although Mr. Feng may have guessed this from the beginning."
"And now?" Cyrus's voice was even.
Marko spread out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "We do not know."
"You mean it will be up to Emily."
Robin suddenly found it more comfortable to avoid Cyrus's eyes and to look at the floor.
Without expression Cyrus said, "All right, I think I've got the picture. Like to hear now what you're planning—you do have plans," he said tactfully, with the lift of an eyebrow. "You still have Feng Imports under surveillance?"
Marko nodded. "Yes, now that the—how do you say it, the cat is out of the sack, but yes. Also—at our request—the Governor has asked that regular police begin a door-to-door search for two missing English tourists, last reported"—he pointed to the map—"in the area where Mr. Hitchens targeted some activity. Or disturbing vibrations," he added dryly.
"Those two mythical tourists being part of the frustration," commented Robin. "We simply can't chance an informer getting word to Detwiler or Feng that Interpol is involved and so we have to come up with these ridiculous subterfuges."
Cyrus said pointedly, "They'll know something's up when they examine Emily's Buddha, won't they?"
This was met with an uncomfortable silence.
"You understand it's my wife they've captured," Cyrus pointed out dryly. "My impression is, you're not doing enough. Walking on eggs. Tied up in knots, damn it. You need manpower."
"Agreed," said Robin.
Cyrus nodded. "Then, damn it, if you can't trust the police call in the Army, the British have soldiers stationed here, haven't they? Ask for a platoon, a squad, whatever the British call a detail. Use 'em. Position them. Not likely they've been bribed."
Robin whistled. "If it could be done!" he said with longing, and then, "It can scarcely help Mrs. Pollifax, though."
Cyrus gave him a steady look. "Don't know what can help Emily just now, do you? No fool Emily, she'll do all she can . . . Been in tight spots before. A little luck and we'll find her—that radio-detection van, perhaps, or of those regular police knocking on the right door. Can't count on it, though. Best hope is they'll save her for a hostage."
Robin thought to himself that if that was their best hope it was a pretty damn feeble one because Mrs. Pollifax might be a captive of the terrorists for days—an entire week—and there was no knowing what might happen to her in the meantime.
"For myself," said Marko, "I am stricken by apologies that I wish to express. Robin and I have been feeling sorry for ourselves here in our dismay at this event, and it is you who gives the perspective, you who go at once to the heart and return us to action. Robin, go at once and call His Excellency and ask for soldiers."
"Right," said Robin, springing to his feet, and strode into the next room to make his call.
Half an hour later, when he returned to the living room, he found Marko introducing Cyrus to Mr. Hitchens and Ruthie. "We just couldn't enjoy ourselves," Mr. Hitchens was earnestly explaining to Cyrus. "Not while your wife's still missing; so we decided to come and see what's happening."
Marko turned to Robin. "What's happening is what I want to hear from Robin. You reached the Governor?"
Robin made a face. "Yes, but it took ages to track him down, he's at a dinner party and the connection was ghastly—all chitter-chatter and music in the background—but I think he caught the message. He's calling us back later
... If I understood him correctly, with that foul connection we had, the calling out of the Army, even a handful of men, has to go through one or two channels."
"And what the hell does that mean?" inquired Cyrus with an edge to his voice.
Ruthie said, "He's appointed by the Queen, do you suppose he has to consult with her?"
"Doubtful," said Marko. "I believe there's an Executive Council, it could be that, and of course it's a damnably awkward hour of the night to contact anyone." With a charming smile he said, "Why don't we all sit down? I will call room service and while it is not necessary that we talk we can at least eat, and as you can see we have many chairs and couches here."
Ruthie, giving Cyrus a warm smile, said, "What it amounts to, you know, is that misery appreciates company. How are you doing, Cyrus?"
"Tolerably well," Cyrus said, but Robin noticed how tired he looked, and felt a stab of compassion.
As the others moved away, Marko held back Mr. Hitchens to ask in a low voice, "Would it be of help to Cyrus if you used your talents to reassure him?"
"Dear God no," blurted out Mr. Hitchens. "I've tried—I really tried . . . She's in a small dark room, and there's a man—" His voice trembled. "I couldn't continue; it's terribly unprofessional of me, but you see I know her, which makes such a difference. But things are not going well for her.''
"I understand you," Marko said quietly, and releasing his arm, he moved to the telephone to call room service.
At ten o'clock Sheng Ti telephoned Robin, having been unable to reach Mrs. Pollifax in room 614. "You still have that taxi money?" asked Robin. "Good—hop into a cab and come at once to the Hilton Hong Kong's front entrance, I'll meet you there."
When Sheng Ti was brought into the suite, it was obvious that he was in shock from hearing of Mrs. Pollifax's disappearance, because he scarcely noticed the luxury into which he was thrust, and impatiently shook his head at the food offered him. Learning that Cyrus was Mrs. Pollifax's husband he went at once to him, fervently shook his hand and sat down close beside him on the couch as if he were the closest connection to Mrs. Pollifax that he could find.
Mrs. Pollifax and the Hong Kong Buddha Page 15