Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station

Chapter Two
    M rs. Pollifax sat in Carstairs’ office with a cup of
coffee in one hand and a sandwich in the other, her hat an inverted bowl of
blue felt with such a cockeyed twist to its brim that Bishop guessed it had
been frequently sat on and squashed. He saw her glance at Carstairs, seated
behind his desk, and then at him, and now she said gently, ”Yes, the weather’s
been unseasonably cool for May, and my trip to Langley Field very pleasant,
we’ve discussed my geraniums and how I met Cyrus Reed in Zambia, but I really
do think—” Bishop put down his own coffee cup and grinned. He thought this must
be how she appeared to her garden clubs—a cheerful, cozy little woman with
fly-away white hair and a penchant for odd hats and growing geraniums—and he
thought it a pity he couldn’t share with those garden clubs his first meeting
with her in this office, just after she’d led an escape party out of Albania
against incredible odds, and had been whisked back to this country by jet. She
had sat in this same chair, wearing the voluminous clothes of a goat-herder’s
wife, her face as dark as a gypsy’s after three days adrift in the Adriatic , and what she’d accomplished had staggered them
all. He sometimes felt it was impossible to reconcile these two Emily
Pollifaxes; his grin deepened as he said, ”You’re suggesting we dispense with
pleasantries and get on with it?”
    ”Well,” she pointed out, ”it’s difficult to believe you’ve brought me
here to discuss the weather. Really difficult,” she added with a twinkle, ”considering that you sent a private
plane for me, which I must say was dashing of you.”
    ”We do try to be dashing when we can,” Bishop told her gravely. ”It
counteracts the soiled trench-coat image that—” He stopped, remembering Mrs.
Pollifax’s reproachful telephone calls to him when a scandal about the CIA
surfaced. But that wasn’t our
department, he would tell her, and point out that he really couldn’t
relay her indignation to the White House. He supposed that it was this quality
in her that led Carstairs to brief her more carefully than he did his other
agents, but her responses were never more surprising to Bishop than the fruit
cakes she sent at Christmas, which usually incapacitated the entire department,
their brandy fumes lingering almost as long as the hangovers.
    Suddenly he remembered why Mrs. Pollifax was here, and what Carstairs
was going to propose to her, and he felt that old clutch of horror that always
hit him when she sat innocently on the edge of her chair, all eagerness and
delight at a new assignment, and always chiding him for his concern. It was
rather like an attack of violent indigestion, and he wondered if Carstairs was
feeling it too; if so, he gave no evidence of it. Not yet at least. He would
eventually, of course; he always did.
    ”The job we have in mind,” Carstairs began smoothly, ”is innocuous
enough on the surface, Mrs. Pollifax, but because of the country involved could
be extremely dangerous—extremely—if you came under suspicion.” He gazed at her
thoughtfully. ”Which is why I wanted you here personally, to make sure you
understand this, and to ask whether you still feel—are still interested—”
    ”What country?” she promptly asked.
    ”The People’s Republic of China.”
    She drew in her breath sharply. ”But how incredibly exciting,” she
breathed, ”and what an amazing coincidence! I’ve been so curious, so
interested—”
    ”Extremely dangerous,” Bishop heard himself say firmly.
    Her eyes widened. ”But you say that about all the assignments,” she told
him, ”and surely we’re friends with China now?”
    ”Exactly,” Carstairs said lightly, ”which makes it all the more shocking
if any suspicions should be aroused. But we have some business there that
simply can’t be handled through diplomatic channels, and we’ve decided to
chance it.”
    ”Chance what?” asked Mrs. Pollifax cheerfully.
    ”Roughly speaking,” he said, ”we want to get a man out of China, but to do this we
must first get a man into China—an agent, of course—to accomplish this. Your job, if you take this on,
would be to provide cover for this agent, and at a certain point approach a
certain native —not an
agent—who’s known to have some helpful information.”
    Mrs. Pollifax said warmly, ”Well, that sounds easy enough to—”
    Bishop interrupted her. ”Of course it sounds easy and innocuous,”