Way of Escape (14 page)

“Have you called to see…?”

Siddhu nodded. “This bank was bought out by a larger bank about five years ago. The account was transferred and has accrued interest. They said they have been sending account balance notices to the address listed at the front. I cannot imagine the post office has never told them you do not live there any more.” He shrugged. “But the US post office is much different than ours.”

“All these years!” Carl-Joran shook his head, put the bank books aside, and opened his old passport. It had long ago expired. The papers: Social security number, work permits, all the accoutrements of having acquired US citizenship. Of course, none of it was legitimate, except for the faded certificate of marriage with the stamp of the Justice of the Peace in Nevada. Astounding. Suddenly the one event he believed had been sham had been legal. Toby Hughes had arranged all of this through the Latin American refugee program. For a second, he flashed back to the Nicaraguan jungles, the machine-gun fire, bombs falling, the desperate rush for cover, the people helping him to escape…and Carl-Joran Hermelin had become Carl Joseph Mink before he'd crossed the Mexican border into Calexico. The last stamp in the passport was Japan, March 26th. As luck would have it, the once Carl Mink would be going back to the United States.

He asked Siddhu, “Have you been to our paper maker yet?”

“No. I wanted to show you the bankbook. I thought you would be pleased.” Siddhu smiled, looked around at the tap on the door announcing arrival of his breakfast. As the bellboy with the tray entered, the smell of smoky tea permeated the air. “Ahhhh,” said Siddhu, tipping the fellow. “Blessed chai.”

“How long until all this is brought up to date?” asked Carl-Joran, taking the cover off his cereal and toast.

“By late this afternoon if we are lucky.” Siddhu sugared his tea, putting five teaspoons in and stirring. “I have made reservations on El Al airlines to Los Angeles for Carl Mink, but the earliest I could get was tomorrow morning. Halima will not be happy.”

“Could I fly SAS?”

“I will try them when I leave here, and also United and KLM.” Siddhu sipped. “You will also need a car once you are in California.”

“Please make sure they give me a full-sized one,” moaned Carl-Joran. “Last time I ended up with a subcompact. Couldn't even fit in the door.”

“That was when you went to London last year,” Siddhu regarded the bagel and cheese. “I believe I asked for toast.”

“Do we know when Bonnie is scheduled to leave?” The name sounded strange on his tongue. Something from a script long ago memorized and discarded.

“You will have to drive fast. She is to depart on SAS on Sunday. Today is Thursday.” Siddhu peeled the cheese from the bagel and ate it plain, between bites of the fruit salad. “I hope all goes according to schedule!”

“So do I,” said Carl-Joran, putting milk on his cereal. “I wouldn't want to miss her.” How odd to put it that way, he thought to himself, eating the oatmeal, for he had missed her, deep down, somewhere inside, there had been that unspoken emptiness he never quite understood. If he should miss her again? No, he must get her to safety. They, the Iranian Security Force, would be after her because she was, had been…no, was his wife.

He looked up at Siddhu, “Did Habib say anything to you?”

Siddhu shook his head, “No, he had to leave very early this morning. There was a note under my door which begged your forgiveness.” Siddhu reached in a coat pocket and handed his friend a flimsy sheet of paper, neatly folded and smelling of sandalwood.

Carl-Joran opened it and read, “Please forgive me but I could acquire no information, which does in itself make me suspicious. My sources will not say anything without an enormous sum of money. Can we assume that your son and Bonnie Ixey are in danger? I believe so. Allah keep them safe and may He bless you. Habib.”

Carl-Joran whispered, “Allah go with you, Haji.”

Bonnie looked up from her computer screen and blinked. The morning fog that had crept in overnight from the ocean was giving way to sunshine. “My goodness,” she said softly. Slowly she picked up the telephone and dialed Trisha's school's number. The office secretary rang through to the room where Trisha Ixey was teaching health class.

After several long rings, a breathless Trisha said, “Hi!”, and then shouting behind her, “Quiet down!” The chattering of the kids muted.

“Hi, yourself. This is your mom.”

“Must be important to call me here,” said Trisha. “What's up? Have the HS or FBI stormed the house yet?”

“Very funny,” Bonnie didn't laugh. She had seen an Arab man at the mailboxes again this morning and a woman in a government issue car parked near the bend in the road, binoculars in hand. Bonnie said, “Better get a substitute for a while, kiddo, and go home and pack. We leave Sunday for Sweden.”

“Cool.”

“And, honey?”

“Yeah, Mom, I know, we need to buy jackets and some fuzzy warm underwear.”

“Listen. Guess what?” Bonnie paused for effect, “We're flying first class.”

There was a moment of silence before Trisha responded with, “Right on! Way to go!”

“We have to pick up our tickets by six p.m. Sunday at the SAS desk at the San Francisco airport so we better be in San Francisco no later than noon.”

“Want to drive up Saturday night and have dinner at the Embarcadero?” asked Trish, hopefully.

“Sounds like a good plan,” said her mother.

CHAPTER 7: MISSED OPPORTUNITIES

To keep the wind from whipping it away, the haji pulled his cloak around him as he stepped from the taxi. The air was viciously bitter cold. Dry brittle snow lay in drifting heaps along the cement pathways. It gathered in higher mounds along the eroded niches in the shrub-covered hillsides.

He paid the taxi driver and carefully averting his eyes from the heavily armed Israeli soldiers, walked along the starkly lighted corridor marked with bright orange stripes that designated the sidewalk for the Palestinian day workers coming and going through the Good Gate. So far he had not been challenged and he did not expect to be. His mind was perfectly calm and his body reflected his peaceful demeanor.

Habib had taken a bus from Haifa to Kiriat Shimona, the northernmost kibbutz of Israel, and there caught the taxi that had climbed up the steep road along the ravines. It had deposited him at the open-fronted film and snack stands that catered to the few tourists who visited and the many soldiers who paused long enough in their patrols to buy bagels or potato crisps or steaming coffee.

As Habib stepped onto the sidewalk lined with eight-foot high cross-wire fencing, a slight tremor of fear shivered through him. This portion of the long walk over the Israeli border always made him, and every other Arab who traversed it, feel trapped and helpless. It was designed to do just that. The Israeli Defense Force guards were always on alert, always had their rifles resting ready in their cradled arms along every step of the path.

Habib mixed in with the homebound housemaids, gardeners, mechanics, and other assorted workers up the switchback and into the slightly wider section of the corridor which lay before the actual Gate. It was slow today. The guards at the Gate were patting down persons such as himself in heavy cloaks.

When his turn came, he identified himself and the guard at least acknowledged his title, saying, “I'm sorry, sir, but we do have to search all full-bearded men in abbas, holy men or no.”

It went quickly. With the briefest respite of relief, he stepped through the Good Gate and into Lebanon. Although expected through familiarity, Habib Mansur felt an especial ache at the sight of the devastated countryside around him. The snow was deeper here, the wind more biting, the mountains so barren they hurt. There were no trees, no twigs, no bushes, no grass, no birds, no rabbits, nothing. The once plentiful vegetation and famous cedar trees had long ago been used for cooking fires by the encamped refugees. Any creature that had walked or flown had been put in someone's pot for sustenance. Or simply shot and killed for the sport of it by rampaging soldiers of one faction or another.

As peace was settling shakily onto the countryside, moss and lichens were the first to appear in the more inaccessible rifts and, as Habib walked to the taxi queue, he could hear ever so faintly, the jingle of goat bells from behind the far hills to the south. There must be some islands of dried grass over there. Even such minute signs of returning life made him happy.

An aged, battered blue Mercedes was hunkered at the curb. It was the sole taxi available and the driver had only one hand, the absent one undoubtedly a casualty of the war. Habib nodded at him and got into the back seat. It smelled of unwashed humans and perhaps chickens. Yes, in one jagged rip near the center of the seat were some feathers from the last customers' traveling companions.

“To Beirut,” Habib ordered the driver and they set off across the desolate land.

Lieutenant Ali Muhit peered through his cloudy eyes at the message being handed him by the computer man sitting in the massive security central command room.

“It's about Habib Mansur and we have an order for urgent notification whenever his name appears,” said the young man and Ali Muhit nodded.

Moments later, the battered old warrior was walking into the beautifully appointed office of his boss. At the door to the inner sanctum belonging to Quddus Sadiq-Fath stood two guards from the darughih's Special Operatives. Nearby was the large desk area of Walid, the personal secretary.

Walid blinked like a cat dropped into bright sunlight after being asleep in the shade, “Good day, Muhit, did you want to see the darughih?”

“I've a note to be delivered,” responded Ali Muhit.

“Uh, just a minute,” Walid said and leaned toward the intercom. “Darughih? Your lieutenant is here.” Some mumbles came through the speaker and he nodded. “Yessir.”

He waved at Muhit, “Go right in, sir.”

Quddus Sadiq-Fath resembled an animation-movie line drawing of a bad guy even to the squared facial features and perfectly trimmed mustache. His khaki uniform was as starched and precise as it could possibly be, giving the cruelly handsome man an almost inhuman look. He was signing directives and reports. The cold, black eyes looked up.

“What have we got?”

“A message from the operative at the Good Gate, sir,” the lieutenant lowered his creaky body into the chair closest to the far corner of the antique ebony wood desk. “Haji Mansur has entered Lebanon and is on his way to Beirut.”

“Ahhh,” Quddus sat back and peaked his fingers together in a church steeple. “I wonder why. Obviously Emigrant Women has sent him on a mission. Is there any indication of where he's headed next?”

“No, sir. None. The taxi dropped him off at the Hilton Hotel.” Ali Muhit handed the note to his boss who took it and scanned it.

“Not much here,” muttered Sadiq-Fath. “What about our Beirut operatives? Haven't they set up surveillance yet?”

“There was nothing from them today so far. Shall I push them?” The lieutenant sat forward, ready to go.

“Yes, yes,” Sadiq-Fath nodded, “and nothing's come in from the operative in California?”

With a frustrated grimace, Muhit shook his head. “Not that you want to hear, Darughih.”

“Please tell me what it is that I do not want to hear,” the cold eyes sparkled with something approximating humor as the hands dropped to the desk.

“The night operative watching the widow's farm was chased and bitten by the large dog that guards the property. I understand,” Ali Muhit could not restrain a crackly chuckle, “the part of the anatomy caught by the dog will render our operative unable to sit down for a while.”

“Ha!” the darughih laughed once and went directly on, “So where does that leave us with information about Mrs. Ixey's activities?”

“It meant there was no tap put on her telephone,” Muhit confessed, “it means we do not know what her schedule is or when she is due to go to Sweden. We do know she must travel to Norrkoping to register as a Swedish citizen in order to take over inheritance of the baron's estate, that much we got from our Swedish informant. But, we are handicapped—so to say—in California.”

“And Tidewater's operatives? Have they acquired more information than our dog meat?” growled Sadiq-Fath.

“I am afraid they have.” Ali Muhit shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “A black agent named Claybourne got a tap on their telephone line last night while Faqir was fending off the dog.”

“May Allah preserve us from stupid operatives,” the darughih shook his head. “It appears I must call Tidewater to find out what Mrs. Ixey is up to. Do tell me, Lieutenant, do we have a more competent agent on duty now?”

“Yessir,” the old man smiled, “this agent brought American hamburgers with him and has managed to convince the mutt he means no harm. So it says in his report at noon today.”

“I am pleased,” Quddus Sadiq-Fath's voice did not indicate pleasure, “we have established diplomatic relations with the Ixey's dog. What a commendable step! Is there a reason the dog simply wasn't killed?”

Muhit shook his head again, “Not a good idea in the United States, sir. Dogs and cats are considered part of the family. A dead dog would have instantly brought suspicion onto the watchers, and then the local police would have investigated.”

“Shame,” said Sadiq-Fath, spreading his fingers on the desk, stretching them. “Truly, the Americans are strange people. You are correct though. I remember in university how some of my dorm mates would go to tremendous lengths to have pets in their rooms despite the regulations against them. And spend fantastic sums of money keeping their pets happy and healthy!”

“Yessir,” Muhit agreed, shaking his head in mutual mock amazement.

The darughih looked down at his hands and resignedly put his chin on his chest. “I will call Tidewater and find out what is going on. Do we have any tidbits to feed back to him?”

“Only the news of the haji crossing the border into Lebanon.”

“Perhaps that will be enough,” said Quddus Sadiq-Fath and punching the intercom for Walid, ordered, “Get me a linkup to Marion Tidewater's office immediately.”

“Yes, Commander,” came the computer guy's voice.

***

Tidewater's secretary was just handing Russ Snow a first cup of coffee as he sat down at the computer in his cubbyhole when the phone rang. She answered it, listened, and handed it to Russ.

“A call coming in from Iran, Mr. Snow, and Mr. Tidewater hasn't arrived yet. You better take it.”

“Thank you.” Russ accepted the receiver. “I'll deal with it.” He waved her out of the tiny room and closed the door after her. “Yes, good morning,” he said into the phone.

When the conversation was finished he felt slimy. True, he'd had a good laugh at the image of the Iranian operative running down the street with the farm dog munching on his hinder parts and ripping his pants, but that didn't ease the unpleasant guilt responses about telling Sadiq-Fath of the Ixey's travel schedule. There had, though, been a good trade-off, which would make Tidewater happy. The news about Haji Mansur was undoubtedly valuable.

This was proven accurate a few moments later when Marion Tidewater arrived and Russ handed him the recording of the conversation between himself and the darughih. As he listened, Tidewater's eyebrows went up and he grinned broadly.

“Time to let our buddy Yusef in on this. What a plum!” exclaimed Tidewater reaching for the phone. “Whenever Habib Mansur goes to the Beirut Hilton, you can bet your britches that's the first part of his pilgrimage into Saudi Arabia to rescue some woman and my best guess is he'll be accompanied by Tahireh Ibrahim. Have you read about her in the reports, Snow?”

The Native American shook his head.

Tidewater lifted his phone and said to his secretary, “Lily, honey, get me a satellite link to Saudi Arabia and Commander Yusef's office, will you?” Tidewater glanced up at his personal assistant while waiting for the link-up. “Ibrahim is a Baha'i. She's been on Sadiq-Fath's hit list since she led a woman's revolt back when she was a teenager, which wasn't too many years ago. A bunch of those women were summarily executed, but Ibrahim escaped. I understand she's very beautiful. Too bad she's determined to die young. That happens to anyone going against the Iranian strong men as she has.”

Tidewater's attention reverted to the telephone for a moment.

Fascinated, Russ Snow asked, “How does she get her money, I mean, other than what the EW gives in funding operations?”

“I believe she's a model. I know she works at various modeling agencies in France, mostly in Paris. That's where she spends a lot of time volunteering at the Torture Treatment Centre.” Dismissively, Tidewater said, “Which is all good stuff. Really too bad she goes and helps someone like Mansur and the EW kidnap women out of Saudi and Iran.”

Wanting to keep this flow of information going, Russ prompted with, “What's a Baha'i?”

Tidewater, falling into the pleasure of showing off his eruditeness, continued, “They're some sort of heretical offshoot of the Muslim faith that came out of Iran back about 1860. They've got two prophets, someone called Baha'u'llah and someone called the Bab, who was martyred by the Iranians along with a bunch of his followers. The Baha'u'llah character was kept in prison in Acre for half his life. Not much has changed; the Iranians especially and most any of the Arabs take great delight in torturing and killing Baha'is whenever they can come up with whatever excuse is plausible. It gives the conservative Muslims the shaking willies that Baha'is actually have written into their religious codes that there has to be equality of men and women! There's stuff in there that all religions are one, that there's supposed to be formed some sort of World Justice Court or some such, and so on. Baha'ism has spread all over the world. There are some reports on it in our library…”

The phone buzzed and Tidewater leaned forward, then spoke into the phone, “Hello, Gurgin. Do I have something for you! Yessir, your holy man, ol' Habib Mansur, has checked in at the Beirut Hilton. I suspect you better watch your women!”

Russ Snow didn't want to hear what his boss was relating to Commander Yusef but what choice did he have? His job mandated that he listen and participate. Russ Snow suddenly realized he was more than uncomfortable, he was actually unhappy.

Habib was prepared for the skittering when he turned the bathroom light on, but the sheer number of cockroaches triggered a gut reaction anyway. His stomach tightened and his skin shivered and twitched like a horse trying to shake off flies. In the glare of the unshielded overhead light, most of the big, brown insects ducked down the drains and hustled under warped wainscoting and linoleum cracks. He sighed. It was one of those rare moments when he wished his vow to protect all life wasn't so firm. He would have dearly loved to take off his shoe and use the heel to send some of these hideous creatures to meet their maker.

Once the majority of the insects were in hiding, Habib dealt with his bathroom needs. He was settling back onto one of the two uncomfortable beds when the tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap-tap on the door, announced Tahireh's arrival. Before he could stand, she had let herself in.

There was a forceful grace about the woman that demanded attention, and it was neither her expensive Parisian perfume nor the exquisitely cut, full-length woolen dress and tailored chamois-golden greatcoat she had traveled in. Without the high-heeled boots, she stood five feet, six inches tall and her figure was slight. Yet, her energy filled the room. Her dark brown eyes sparkled.