Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station Read Free Page B

for him on his return. This
would spare him at least one or two weeks of worry—and he would worry, she conceded; he
would know at once why she was going, and there was no way to reassure him that
it was a routine assignment. ”Routine?” she could hear him say. ”Went to Zambia on a
routine assignment, didn’t you, Emily? Just to take pictures, stay out of
trouble? All hell broke loose, nearly got killed, both of us, and caught an
assassin. Don’t mention routine to me, m’dear.”
    And of course at the back of her mind, not ready for admittance yet,
lurked an awareness of the tension she had sensed in Bishop. She thought now,
uneasily, He knows much more than
I’ve been told; he really hoped I’d say no.
    Lifting her eyes she glanced around at her safe, familiar apartment—at
the sunlight striping the worn oriental rug, the books lining one wall, the
tubs of geraniums at the window— and she remembered the number of times she’d
left it without knowing what lay ahead of her, or if she would ever see it
again. She said aloud, ”Yet I’m here. Very definitely still here. Somehow.” One
had to have faith, she reminded herself, and on impulse left the brochures and
walked over to her desk and removed from one of its drawers a collection of
envelopes bearing colorful and exotic stamps. Maybe I keep them for just such a moment, she thought, knowing
their contents by heart: a recent letter from her dear friend John Sebastian
Farrell in Africa; a birth announcement from Colin and Sabbahat Ramsey in
Turkey; a holiday message from the King of Zabya with a note from his son
Hafez, and Christmas cards from Robin and Court Bourke-Jones, from the
Trendafilovs, from Magda and Sir Hubert, all of them people she’d met on her
adventures.
    Last of all she drew out a soiled and wrinkled postcard that had reached
her just last year, a card addressed to Mrs. Emily Pollifax, New Brunswick, New
Jersey, the United States of America—no street address, no zip code—so that
only a very enterprising postman had rescued it for her. On one side was the
picture of a castle; on the opposite side the words: You remain here still with me, Amerikanski. I do not forget. Tsanko. 1
    Yes, she thought softly, her life had become
very rich since that day she found it so purposeless that she had tried to give
it away. So many new experiences and so many new friends...
    With a glance at the clock she put away the collection of cards and
letters, and carrying her cup of tea into the bedroom she quickly changed into
slacks and a shirt. An hour later she was in a back room at police
headquarters, wearing her brown karate belt and making obeisances to retired
police lieutenant Lorvale Brown before advanced instructions began. Presently
shouts of hi-yah filled
the air because Lorvale believed in attacking with sudden blood-curdling shouts
as well as a slice of the hand.
    The next day Bishop called and told her to add two more names to the
tour group, that of Iris Damson of Oklahoma, and Joseph P. Forbes from
Illinois.
    ”Is he my coagent?” she blithely inquired. ”Or she?”
    He said with equal cheerfulness, ”I’m told it’s raining today in Hong Kong .”
    ”Then may I ask instead—now that I’ve had more time to go over the list
you gave me—why I’m to carry with me four pounds of chocolate, two pairs of
thermal socks, and such an incredible supply of vitamin pills and dried
fruits?”
    ”It’s just a sneaky way to keep you from taking too many clothes,” he
told her. ”Now don’t you think you’ve asked enough questions?”
    ”Obviously,” she said, and rang off.
    During the next nine days Mrs. Pollifax addressed her Garden Club on The
Care and Feeding of Geraniums, including their propagation from seed, studied
maps and old National Geographies, bought a simple Chinese phrase book for the traveler, and began taking malaria
tablets. She invested in a rough straw hat with a swashbuckling brim, notified
children and friends of her