Way of Escape (23 page)

“Okay.” Bonnie stood up straight again, taking her hands off the desk, “Trish and I will try to relax. And wait.”

“Yes, good.” Sture spoke Swedish to the maid, then English to the women, “Frida will take you to your rooms. You must share a
badrum
. But you have hot water and the rooms have heat.”

“Oh,” said Trisha as she turned with her mom to follow Frida out. “You mean some rooms don't?”

The young baron said after them, “Most have no heat, only fireplaces. You will see. Later, we will have a tour.”

Up the long stairway to the left they went, into a narrow, long, and chilly hall. About halfway down the hall, Frida opened two doors and indicated that these were their rooms. She pointed to an adjoining door and said, “
Bad, toilet, ja?
”

“Sure,” Trisha agreed and went into her room. Bonnie, grateful to be where she could strip off her clothes and get comfortable, closed her door behind her. The room was about middling large and it was wonderfully warm. Her luggage was there. The furniture consisted of a high, four-poster, a ceiling-high wardrobe, a nightstand topped in silvery gray slate, a small washstand and intricately carved bureau, a brightly painted hope chest at the foot of the bed and all spoke of centuries of age. Not so the bedcovers, which were fresh and clean. The duvet of goose down had a creamy damask envelope and the sheet was of crisp linen in a brown stripe. A set of towels, as creamy as the duvet, was set on the washstand next to a white porcelain bowl and water jug. She opened the closet section of the wardrobe to find coat hangers. The shelves were empty, lined with scented paper ready for her things.

The steam heater in the corner burped and chugged happily. Her bags sat against the bureau. This would be home for a while, she thought, as she hefted the big bag onto the bed. She was glad she'd packed her bathrobe and slippers right on top. As she turned, she glanced toward the French windows and the scene outside pulled her to them.

This was hers now. Long meadows of snow, surrounded by black-green firs and naked maples. A river, thick with ice and rime, meandered through the moguls and she suddenly noticed three well-bundled hikers trudging through the man-high drifts. They carried bird binoculars. Ahead of them trotted deer. She could see no fence, no walls, just wilderness. A fat, furry bunny hopped away from the deer and hikers. Neither the bunny nor the deer had the least fear of the humans. Far to her right was a long wooden building painted dark red with several wide doors. In front were more deer and a couple of small moose eating hay; underfoot were wild birds, a few geese, and ducks. Was this building once the stable? Yes, there was the Saab they'd arrived in, barely visible through an open door. She watched Krister plug in the engine warmer.

A small knock came at the door. She opened it. Frida had a tray covered with a decorated cotton napkin in her hand. “
Varm mjolk? Ja? Bra at somna
.”

“
Uh, tack
.” Bonnie felt any effort at more Swedish would not be in her best interest.

The maid set the tray down and backed out quickly. On the tray was hot milk and rich Swedish cookies composed mostly, she was certain, of real butter and sugar. Well, thought Bonnie, keeping my girlish form will be difficult here. She sighed and started taking off her clothes. A bath would be wonderful.

“Mom!” came Trisha's voice, “there's no shower!”

“Yes, dear, I expected as much,” Bonnie replied.

“You go first,” Trisha grouched. “At least I can soak after you're through. Oh, yummy, snacks!” And in moments, all but one cookie vanished.

Bonnie smiled. Well, she thought, that takes care of those pesky extra calories. In her tired mind, she wondered how Trisha would take the news. Later, perhaps after dinner. And what about the fact that Sture conjugated his English verbs with enough skill to use future tense? She picked up a fluffy towel and her bathroom supplies. So was he just not accepting his father's death? Was he unable to come to terms with it? Bonnie sighed. Far off in the depths of the castle, she heard a phone ring.

***

Carl-Joran punched off the phone and then on again. Siddhu had finally reached him. The women in the Miami shelter had let him sleep even though Siddhu had called three times wanting to pass on the message that Sture had called him three times. The baron groaned. His phone bill would equal the national debt of a small country. Never before had that sort of thing meant anything to him. His accountant and Inge Person dealt with such mundane affairs. He sighed. The women had awakened him with breakfast. He had slept the entire night and into the day. It would be early afternoon in Sweden. He dialed. Sture answered.

It took some doing to calm the boy down. Yes, Bonnie and Trish were sleeping off their jet lag. So Bonnie wanted to see Inge? Well, no. Because Krister would have to drive to the airport for him. Yes, he would be home tomorrow afternoon and he would get rid of the agents. No more siege on the castle.
Tack gud.
And Astrid could fix a big dinner tomorrow, a real Swedish dinner, boiled potatoes and codfish and sugared carrots, yes. Wonderful. It would all be better tomorrow, he assured Sture. As he hung up, Carl-Joran wondered if that was so. There was a lot to do.

Tammy, grinning with pride and affection, took the giant Carl-Joran by the hand as he came from the room and pulled him along to the dining area. The women they passed all greeted him with sincere respect. He was inside a women's shelter and he was okay. It was a very good feeling. The dining room had been turned into a makeshift staging area for Polly Marie's conversion. The tables had cutout pieces of costume and padding which were being fitted together by a bevy of volunteers. Sherralyn, looking for all the world like a pugnacious black bulldog, hovered around the tall and strikingly beautiful Polly Marie, coaching her in Jamaican.

Hearing him enter, the woman turned to face him, her savior, and smiled all very white teeth. “D'ya like what ya see?” she said, her new Jamaican accent nearly perfect.

“Beautiful!” the baron responded.

“Isn't she great!” the women around her insisted, “she's got it so quick! You'd think she was native.”

Sherralyn pointed to the table full of materials. “Next we make her fat.”

“And she must be blacker,” said Carl-Joran, “and squash her nose, make it wider. And her hair?”

Polly Marie groaned, putting one hand to her nose. “To think I paid several thousand dollars for this nose! What a laugh!”

A woman held up a box full of stage makeup. “She will be a real black mama by the time we're finished!” Another woman shook a large Afro wig loose from its box.

“Okay, back to work,” Sherralyn ordered and Polly Marie, laughing, complied.

“What time is her plane?” asked Carl-Joran of Tammy.

“Ten o'clock tonight. She flies directly to Kampala,” Tammy said,” and she becomes African. But she will have to learn Swahili there. Or whatever language Judge Moabi decides she needs. Luckily, this woman can really learn fast.”

“I
was
an actress,” came Polly Marie's voice.

“No, my dear,” the baron told her, “you are one, still. And you will be the best in Africa.”

Breaking away from Sherralyn, the tall woman grabbed Carl-Joran and hugged him. “Do you know how it feels to be free? And safe! Oh, I cannot tell you how good it is. How grateful I am.”

He gave her a fatherly hug back and patted her shoulders. He noted that the bruises on her face were fading fast. “We still must get through the Miami airport. I think we will be fine. You have truly become Eauso Valentine.”

“Dat right, I'm de woman who jes came from de big island,” she said in perfect accent. Everybody clapped.

“I'll put you on the plane,” the giant man assured her.

Habib sat comfortably on the rocking old camel while Tahireh scurried on foot to keep up with the donkeys. She applied the switch to the little creatures' behinds with as much energy as any of the boys. When evening set in, they had crested the last sand dune before the rocky plain that surrounded the i-Shibl compound. The high stucco walls of the structure glistened orange from the last of the sunlight. The oasis behind the far corner was surrounded by a busy assortment of traders, nomads, and merchants, some of whom greeted their group as they came to their spot next to the wall. Habib shouted his camel to kneeling. Tahireh did exactly the same as the other donkey boys, getting the beasts to water, unloading, helping to set up camp.

Habib noticed only out of the corner of his eye when she scooped up a large bundle and trotted along with a half-dozen of the boys as they headed for the servants' entrance. It was expected that once a week, the boys were allowed into the compound to get baths and medical care, if needed, and hand-me-down clothes. They'd counted on this. Tahireh disappeared behind the gates and the armed guards. Habib's heart skipped a beat. Now came the real danger.

On the other side of the wall, Princess Zhara, her heart dancing with excitement, looked across the bunch of raggedy donkey boys streaming through the gate. Sweeping majestically along, Zhara came down the courtyard stairs and past the fountain. As she had done for the last six months, she stood beside the nurse and passed out vitamins, checked little heads for lice, pushed clothing into grubby hands and took old clothes from the kids for disposal.

A handsome boy, tall for his age, handed her a bundle. Zhara knew, even before the boy said, “I am from the haji,” that this was her rescuer.

“Nurse,” Zhara said loudly, “this one has lice. I will take him into the bath and make sure the men scrub him.”

The nurse nodded and handed her more lice killer. She was completely uninterested in another urchin. There were so many and she had given up caring.

The princess grabbed the tall boy's shirt and dragged him along until they were out of sight in the hallway. “Come on,” urged Zhara, “my rooms are upstairs. I can change there.”

Tahireh nodded.

“Did you bring two sets of clothes?” the princess whispered as they entered her room.

“Two sets?” Tahireh asked.

Zhara shook out the bundle of raggedy, dirty clothes. The grimace on her face said it all. “Yes, one for my mother?”

Tahireh put her fingers in front of her mouth, signaling to be quiet and cautious. With extreme diligence, she searched around the large suite of rooms, examining under tables, tapping lights. She could see no obvious microphones, but that meant nothing. She went up to the princess and helped her get the fancy clothes off. “Here,” Tahireh found the makeup hidden in the pockets of the scruffy pants. “Every inch of exposed skin must be dark and look dirty. Did you get something with mud in it like we told you?”

“Yes, there are several potted plants. I made their soil from mud,” the princess pointed to them over by the window.

Tahireh went to the one whose soil looked the muddiest and smashed the plant onto the floor. She motioned to the princess. It took only moments to cut off most of the girl's long hair and rub the dirt into what was left.

Suddenly the inside door to the suite opened and Tahireh jumped up, pulling her small knife from its scabbard. But it was Jani, the mother, who, upon seeing her daughter now garbed like a boy and as dirty as any other nomad urchin, sucked in her breath and cried, “Oh, oh! What if you are caught! Oh, my precious child.”

“You must come with us,” said Zhara, who turned accusingly to Tahireh, “she must. Father will have her killed. He will. As soon as he finds out I am gone my mother will have a fatal accident.” Zhara grabbed Tahireh's hands and pleading, kneeled before her. “Please, please!”

Tahireh threw back her head. “We have no more clothing. Only so much makeup. And could she…” Tahireh glared at Jani, “can you run alongside the donkeys? Or will you have to ride on a camel?” Tahireh looked directly at the mother who had collapsed onto the bed in sobs.

“Mama!” Zhara shifted her attention to her. “Mama!”

“I could not run very far. I have not been able to be so rebellious as to exercise like my daughter. I am in no condition to be a donkey boy.” The woman whimpered.

“Then we'll put you on a camel. We will. I won't have my mother murdered!” Zhara's voice was rising.

“Shhhh,” said Jani. “You go. You live. Emil is waiting for you. I will be okay.”

“We both know you will be dead in a month,” the princess insisted and shook her head at Tahireh, who could only shrug in agreement.

“Your daughter is right.” Tahireh knelt down near the princess and finished rubbing dirt into the girl's now bare feet, then into the old, torn tennis shoes before they were put on the little feet. “Do you have any money? Any coins, any jewelry stashed away that you can use to pay the nomads? We simply don't have anything more we can pay them.”

Jani was shaking her head. “The vizier cleaned my rooms of anything valuable two days ago. I am sure he suspects we will try to leave. Did he clean your suite, Zhara?”

“Yes.” She sighed, “But I have something hidden. It…it was to be a present for Emil. No matter. It will be enough for the tribesmen and it cannot be traced.” Zhara went to another, very large potted plant and ripped the entire tree out. From deep inside the dirt, she extracted a leather pouch and handed it to Tahireh who carefully unwrapped it. About four inches across, it was a magnificent American Indian silver belt buckle and it surely was worth more than enough to bribe the Bedouin chief.

“Where…?” Tahireh started to ask.

“In Berlin, before I came home. There are very fine Native American shops there. It was to be an anniversary present for Emil but, well, the school was raided and there I was.”

“How did you get to keep it?” her mother asked.

“It was on a belt that was on a crummy pair of jeans in my suitcase. I guess the vizier didn't know what it was, so he left it in the suitcase. I thought I'd better hide it.”