Way of Escape (31 page)

“That can't be helped,” Jani answered back. “Besides, I don't think my odor will keep me from doing business in there.”

“Probably not,” agreed Tahireh. “Why don't you go in and buy us some food and drink and Zhara and I will sneak into the restroom back here and become women again. We are to become wives of American air force men.”

“Really?” asked Zhara.

“Yes,” responded Tahireh, “and all because we were able to bring those duffels with us.”

“How about me?” Jani queried.

Tahireh shook her head. “You will stay as an Arab woman. The identification Habib and I used to rent the Cruiser will have to do for you. We can only pray.”

Jani opened the door of the Land Cruiser, then halted. “Damn, Tahireh! What do I use for money? I came…we came away with nothing. Not even jewelry.”

Reaching into the glove compartment, Tahireh pulled out a billfold. “Habib's,” she whispered. Inside was a wad of bills. “This came from EW. It is for our expenses, but we must be very cautious in how much we spend this because if anything goes wrong, if we can't reach the air force base as planned, we'll need to use a lot of it for bribes.” She handed Jani several bills.

“I understand,” said the older woman and dusting off her Bedouin style burqa; she pulled the scarf over her face and got out, disappearing quickly around the corner of the building.

Zhara and Tahireh locked the car doors after they pulled the smaller duffel from the back. No one saw them duck into the doorway marked WC. It was definitely a unisex toilet stinking of urine from the Turkish style hole in the floor. Each woman squatted to do her business. There was no hot water, but there was soap. Evil smelling stuff that had more grit than cleansing oil. It did the job though and in fifteen minutes, both Tahireh and Zhara exited the WC looking very different from when they had entered. Zhara was dressed in jeans and an embroidered white overshirt blouse that went to her knees. Around her hair and face she arranged a scarf. Tahireh had put on a woman's linen suit of knee-length skirt, long-sleeved gold blouse, and jacket. She'd even managed to get a necklace and earrings on. Every inch the Parisian model, except her hair had to be stuffed under a beret and scarf just in case she had to cover her face. Washing their hair in that restroom was out of the question so it was just as well they had to keep their tresses covered. There was even makeup in the duffel. Both women put it on to the hilt.

Jani was waiting by the Cruiser holding a large tray stacked with pita bread, hummus, yogurt, dates, and best of all, thick white porcelain cups of steaming Arabic black sweet coffee. They sat in the Cruiser and wolfed down the food. The coffee was so good it brought tears to their eyes. When Jani had finished, she took the small duffel and went back to the WC to change into Tahireh's black abba and scarf. She too applied makeup, but lightly. As per Tahireh's orders, she stuffed the Bedouin costume into the trash receptacle where the donkey boy outfits had gone.

“You look much better, Mom,” said Zhara as she climbed back into the Cruiser. “Tahireh, how much further do we have to drive?”

“Only about an hour. We're nearly at the Kuwaiti border.” Tahireh put her bowls into the stack, finished her coffee, and handed the whole mess to Jani. “It would be best if you take all this back in. I should be seen as little as possible. Also, tell the gentleman inside,” Tahireh handed Jani more bills and Jani laughed sharply at the term gentleman, “that we wish to fill the petrol tank.”

“Right,” said Jani gathering up the plates and cups and trash and headed for the front of the store.

Zhara brushed crumbs from her lap. “Do you think we'll get over the border without any problems?”

“It would be wise to pray,” remarked Tahireh harshly, driving the Cruiser to the front of the store where a boy filled the tank. “They will be expecting a man to be driving us, of that I am certain. They will not be able to believe that three women, all by themselves, crossed the desert by jeep. We have that advantage, but it is a slim advantage.”

“I understand,” said Zhara. “Should I practice my American accent?”

“Wouldn't hurt,” laughed Tahireh, trying hers out.

When Jani had climbed back in, they set off. The moment the Cruiser pulled up onto the narrow highway, Zhara began talking. It was as if all the tension came pouring out of her. She kept it in English and as much of it in American slang as she could remember.

“I can't wait to see Emil again. He has Charlotte. Mom, did you know that Emil has been keeping Charlotte for me?”

“No, I didn't realize your puppy was still alive.”

Zhara nodded and faced Tahireh. This was to be a story, a long story and Zhara was determined to tell it all. “You know how I got my dog, Tahireh?” Zhara didn't wait for an answer. “This was years ago, at least eight years ago. I was riding in the limousine and it slowed, it slowed enough for me to look out and someone had just hit a dog. A stray. She, a she dog and she was in heat. Oh, it was so terrible. All the male dogs were fucking her as injured as she was. Those males kept mounting her, and she was screaming. The chauffeur drove by and I begged him to stop. He just waved his hand at me as if I were nobody. Finally I pounded on the window between him and me and I demanded he do something. ‘Don't worry, he said, she will die soon. Another car will hit her.'

“But she could live, I said, she could live and be pregnant and crippled and have to care for puppies and…

“‘She is a bitch dog,' said the chauffeur, ‘forget her, she is worth nothing.' He drove on home.”

“What did you do?” asked Tahireh, amazed at what was coming from the princess. Jani sat silent and stunned at this flood of words from her normally haughty daughter.

Zhara continued, “I sent one of my personal servants out. He found the dog. He took her to a vet, and she lived. She was crippled, but she has done well. I have loved her for many years. And she, me. I truly believe she is grateful. Her name is Charlotte—after the spider?” There was a deep silence for several moments and Zhara went on, “She reminds me constantly that we human females are like bitches in heat to most men. These men, who cannot see beyond their arrogance, go blind and senseless. And take pleasure from it. They care not a bit. When my father told me I had to marry that old sheikh, I knew I would be hurt and become crippled like Charlotte and be attacked like the dogs that attacked her. I knew almost all human males were no different from those dogs. That's when I decided I had to escape. Thank you, Tahireh. Thank you. Thank you for getting my mother out too.”

Jani said nothing. She leaned forward and put a hand on her daughter's shoulder and Zhara grabbed the hand and clutched it for a moment. Jani sat back. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

There was a long silence. The border crossing was coming up. The whole thing was rather ludicrous as the gate had no fence attached, only miles and miles of flat desert stretching out for kilometers. The guard on both the Saudi side and the Kuwaiti side scrutinized the women carefully giving them very sexually explicit stares. The Kuwaiti guard muttered something about American husbands letting women, their wives even! run around on their own and how they should be ashamed of themselves. The papers Tahireh presented were not really read, and they were waved all the way through. In another few kilometers, Tahireh turned north onto a large highway and the Cruiser mixed in with heavy traffic. The women relaxed a little more.

On the outskirts of the air base, Tahireh glanced at Zhara and said, “I'm glad I was able to save you, both of you. Now you must help others. Isn't that so?”

“Yes,” they both answered.

The MPs guarding the American military gate were far more cautious. All three women were told to get out of the Cruiser and stand aside while contact was made with Captain Lonnie Maxwell, the agent in charge of domestic personnel issues. Fifteen minutes passed before a thin blonde woman in an air force captain's uniform drove a jeep up to the gate and screeched to a halt before jumping out. She looked tough as nails, all bone and taut, tan skin. “I was told there would be one man and two women,” she declared firmly.

Tahireh stepped forward. “I'm Tahireh Ibrahim. The haji is not with us. But here are the Princess Zhara i-Shibl and her mother, Jani Felice i-Shibl. We were able to get both of them out.”

“Good work, Ibrahim. I'm your contact. Captain Lonnie Maxwell. Now come along.”

Captain Maxwell motioned the women back into the Cruiser and ordered, “Follow me.” They drove several kilometers passing landing strips and hangers and bunkers. Finally, in front of an old barracks painted a hideous puke-brown, Captain Maxwell pulled to a stop. Tahireh parked beside her.

“You can come with me,” the Captain said and the four women entered the door marked Counselor. It was a small room filled with standard-issue-ugly military office furniture. Its only redeeming feature was a well-stocked kitchen toward the back. “Thirsty? Want some tea or coffee? Sit down, you must have had a hell of a trip. Can't believe you drove all the way from the Grand Wadi.”

Zhara dropped into a chair and leaned back. “I'd die for a Seven-Up.”

“A strong cup of tea for me,” said Tahireh and went to the kitchen to help herself. The Captain fetched a soda from the fridge. “Mrs. i-Shibl? What would you like?”

“Tea also.”

“I'll fix her some,” offered Tahireh.

The captain sat on the edge of a desk near Zhara. Her face had deep lines in it perhaps from years of living in the desert. Her eyes were an icy blue. “Forgive me for asking, but there was supposed to be a man with you? A haji?”

Tahireh was just setting the tea, cream, and sugar on a desk near Jani. With a thump, the tall Parisian model dropped into a chair, her face going pale. Suddenly tears flowed down her cheeks. “They gunned him down,” she said in a whisper.

“Who?”

“The head of Arab military security, Commander Yusef and his men,” answered Jani. “We'd reached the Cruiser that Tahireh and Habib had hidden in a bushy grove. The security men didn't see us, thank God. But we could see them. The helicopter passed over first.”

“No! That's terrible!” exclaimed Captain Maxwell. “We'll file a complaint!”

“Won't do any good,” said Zhara, shrugging her shoulders. “No one will talk.”

“So much of this goes on and no one says a thing,” Lonnie Maxwell sighed.

Jani laughed sharply, “It's done in the Arab countries all the time. You're tried, hung, and convicted before sunrise.”

“But a holy man!”

“They shot down two other holy men who were with him.” Jani went on, “We were awfully lucky to have been well hidden. Thanks to Tahireh.”

“I should say,” said the Captain. “Oh, I've been getting frantic calls from our contact, Siddhu Prakash? You should call him. Then you'll all want to get a bath and sleep for a while? We've made arrangements for Princess Zhara here to fly out this evening. Obviously, we'll tell the pilot he's taking you too, Mrs. i-Shibl.”

“Are there passports for us?” asked Jani.

“We'll have to come up with something for you, Mrs. i-Shibl, but Zhara has a new name all done up for her. Zoë. How's that? Mrs. Zoë Feldenstein, a new bride who's been visiting her husband.”

“I've become a Jew?” Zhara grinned. “What next?”

“American Jew at that,” Maxwell laughed, “from West Hollywood, California. I think we can have something ready for you, Mrs. i-Shibl. I hate to make you Zoë's mother, but you two look so obviously related.”

“Jani, please.”

Captain Maxwell stood, “Until tonight. Got a preference for a new first name?”

“Might as well use Felice, that's my Irish name,” said Jani.

“Nah. They'd know that. We'll come up with something. Go get a bath, get some sleep. Then we take some passport photos. The third door on the right, the room's all yours and the bathroom's at the end of the hall.”

The two women, feeling their exhaustion, took their drinks and left the office. Captain Maxwell handed Tahireh the telephone.

Within moments, Siddhu was on the other end of the line, jabbering. “Are you all right? Is the princess with you?”

“Shhh,” said Tahireh. “Both the princess and her mother are with me, completely safe.” She went on to relate the death of Habib. Siddhu began shouting at Dr. Legesse, who came on the phone. “So he's dead?” was her dejected comment.

“Yes, I saw him fall.” Tahireh took a deep breath. “What should I do next?”

“Get some rest,” said Dr. Legesse. “Then come back to Israel.”

“What about the Thai girl that Habib was going to help rescue here in Kuwait?” Tahireh inquired.

Siddhu spoke up, “Too dangerous. We are certain it is a trap. We have made efforts to convince Habib's friend, Shamsi Granfa to back away from it. He laughs at us.”

“They will execute her,” insisted Tahireh, “you know they will.”

Halima Legesse said, “Yes. We want very much to save her. Our information tells us plans are underway to prevent anyone from stepping in on her behalf.”

“Who told you?”

“There is a man who has just come to Haifa,” Dr. Legesse explained, “a defector from the Agency named Russ Snow. The baron allowed him to find us. He thinks Snow may be valuable to us. Anyway, this man, Snow, used to be the computer expert in charge of making all the contacts between Tidewater and Yusef and Sadiq-Fath. He insists these men are all poised, waiting to strike.”

“They've already struck. It was an Arab Security Force helicopter that fired on the hajis,” responded Tahireh sadly. “Could I at least call Shamsi from the base? I could talk to him safely from here.”

Grudgingly, Dr. Legesse agreed. “You may call him. Nothing more, understand? We have lost one of our great heroes this week, we don't want to lose another one.”