by Ann Fillmore
Pursing her lips, Lena perused the letter again. “It is very unusual for the Swedish byrakratism to make a mistake on these matters. They have wonderful genealogy records. They are very thorough.” The pretty face scowled. “Very thorough, especially when taxes must be paid.”
Whirring back over the years, Bonnie tried and tried to remember anyone she’d known who might conceivably have been called anything like Hermelin. Surely, as Lena pointed out, she’d have remembered being married to royalty! Nothing, absolutely nothing came to mind. She shook her head again.
“Well,” said Lena, “you are now wealthy. You must fill out this form and send it back so you are registered as Swedish. Then you must travel to Norrkoping and take possession of the castle. Let’s see,” she returned to the letter, “there is a younger son who lives at the castle. His name is Sture Nojd Hermelin.”
“Why didn’t he inherit his father’s estate?” asked Bonnie.
“Ah, it says you are legitimate, he is not. It says you did not divorce this Carl-Joran Hermelin, so when he married a woman named Heda Bergshem it was not legitimate. This makes Sture Nojd not legitimate.”
A thought struck Bonnie. She said the name slowly, “Carl-Joran was his first name?”
“Yes.”
“I…” the small, gray-haired woman sat back in the big chair. “ Once, I knew a Swedish man named Carl. Many years ago. In college.”
“Many Swedish men are named Carl. Many are named Carl-Joran. It is common,” said Lena. “What was his last name?”
“I…” and Bonnie thought, this is where things get sticky. She breathed once, twice, and blurted out, “I never actually knew his last name. I mean, his real last name. It was…I was doing a friend a favor. You see…”
“So what was the last name he used?” asked Lena again.
“Mink. He called himself Carl J. Mink.” Bonnie felt the blood rush to her face.
“Mink, what means mink?” Lena grabbed up the dictionary and hurried to the word mink.
Bonnie explained, “It’s a little white animal whose fur gets made into extremely expensive coats.”
“Ah, of course,” she said with glee, “I find it. Mink or ermine in Swedish is hermelin. I thought so because of the crest.” She held up the letter, which had near the middle part with the name Baron Carl-Joran Hermelin: avliden, a small imprint of a shield. On each side of the shield were two creatures, one black, one white, which, if the imagination stretched, could be considered to be a mink and an ermine.
“Oh…my…God.” Bonnie put a hand to her face as it turned scarlet. Trisha was right. There is a bottom line.
Bonnie had had the one moment in her life that could be considered an adventure. None of it had seemed real. A summer, three months that had gone blindingly fast like a movie speeded up. And once over, she had not looked back. How lucky Ike had died last year, she suddenly thought and the import of the statement hit her hard. What an awful thing to believe! She had had many good years with Eisen Ixey. He had been very good to her. What would he have done though, if he had known? She could feel tears start down her cheeks.
Lena saw them, reached across the coffee table, and took her by the shoulder. “It is sad? What can I do?”
“I don’t know,” Bonnie shook her head. “I never thought, how could I, that I was bringing you this!”
With a swift movement, the willowy Swedish lady came to sit on the arm of the big, overstuffed chair. “This paper does not say bad things, Bonnie. It says you are rich. It says you are a baroness.”
“How could this Pastorkirche have found out about me? About that man? He didn’t use his right name. I, myself, never knew his real name. I never knew who he was. I only knew he was in trouble, that he needed help, he needed to hide, and I…I helped.” Bonnie wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“You helped him?” Lena bent to look in her face, “You helped him by marriage. Yes? To give him have a green card.”
Bonnie nodded. “Yes. And…and more, he could have a new identity for a while.”
“Do you know why he needed the identity, a new one?” Lena put an arm around Bonnie’s shoulders.
“No. I didn’t ask questions. We knew we shouldn’t, or couldn’t. The only reason I did what I did was because I trusted Toby, Toby Hughes, our leader. We were all in an antiwar group, helping refugees from Latin America, you know, go to someplace safer. One day Toby came to me and asked me, because my father was Swedish, which would make this seem logical to the immigration authorities, he seemed to think, to take care of this man, well, a boy really, who called himself Carl Mink. And I did.”
A cloud of doubt came over Lena’s face. “Did you get a divorce from this boy, Carl Mink? If you divorced him, you cannot be rich now.”
Bonnie shook her head. “I knew Carl Mink was a made-up name. I didn’t think the marriage was real. How could it be legal if Mink wasn’t Carl’s name? And we did everything in secret. My parents didn’t know, no one at school knew. We got married in Las Vegas, we honeymooned…I mean, we called it that…and I didn’t…” Bonnie choked, “I couldn’t tell the man I met the Christmas after Carl went away…I couldn’t tell Ike before we married, and I could never, ever have told him later.”
“A marriage is a marriage and Mink is the same as Hermelin. It is the same man.” Lena nodded. “You have always been Baroness Bonnie Mari Hermelin.”
“What will I tell my daughters?” Bonnie asked, not Lena, but herself, and no answer immediately came.
Lena went back to her seat on the couch and poured more of the excellent coffee into Bonnie’s cup, stuck a rich butter cookie on the saucer, and forced Bonnie to take saucer and cup in hand. “Do you think Dell and Trisha will object to being rich? Oh, I don’t believe they will.”
“Probably not,” laughed Bonnie, trying to cover her dismay. “Tell me what else the letter says. You said I have to go to Sweden? That I’ll be registered as Swedish?”
After pouring her own coffee, stirring sugar into it, and sipping, Lena scanned the letter again. “Umm—yes, because your father was a Swedish citizen, you are a Swedish citizen. So, first you must go to the Norrkoping Pastorkirche office and report to them. You will be given the proper papers and so you will take possession of the Hermelin Slott, the Hermelin Castle. You must decide what will happen to the poor boy, Sture, if he gets any money or property or something. And you must decide what you want to do with the castle and your bank accounts.”
“Accounts!” Bonnie almost spit out her coffee. “How many accounts? How much money is there?”
“It only says accounts, it does not say how many,” said Lena reading, “but it does say that the total amount of property value and money is, hmmm, let’s figure, from the krona to the dollar…around $280 million dollars.”
Bonnie forced herself to gently put the cup on the coffee table. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably.
“You know,” Lena went on happily, blithely, “a friend of mine won a lottery pris in Sweden five years ago; she won eight million kronor. She had lots and lots of trouble. She of a sudden had so many relatives! And so many friends! Before, she never knew these people! She almost lost the money but then she hired an attorney who protect her. I think you must hire an attorney.”
“And I better hire one in Sweden!” Bonnie agreed. “Can you ask your friend who hers is?”
“I can ask. I think you must do that,” said Lena, secure in her advice.
Bonnie fell back into the big chair and looked at the ceiling. “I think I’m in shock.”
“Come, come,” Lena waved at her, “we must fill out this form. We must send it special delivery right away. The Pastorkirche official, she is named Birgitta Algbak—what a komisk…a comical name!—she must register you immediately in your parish.”
“Okay, okay,” Bonnie took in a deep breath and sat up. “You read to me and I’ll answer.”
“First, you must put in the name of your children.” Lena had a pen poised.
“Child
ren?” A chill went through Bonnie Ixey. That damned bottom line. Again the thought raced through her mind—what would she tell the girls? But especially, how would she, could she, explain all this to Trisha?
When Bonnie arrived home, to the welcoming big yellow house on Ixey Posie Farm, she sat down hard in a kitchen nook chair and gasped four times. This was not about her sudden wealth. This was about the hideous close call.
She had gotten into her car outside of Lena’s, still in a daze. In the corner of her eye, she had noticed what she had thought was a student, a young man, dark, foreign probably, probably up from California Polytechnic State University. There were lots of Middle Eastern students attending Cal Poly down in San Luis Obispo. He was in a droptop, oversized jeep and he started his engine the same moment she did. He drove at a fair distance along behind her.
Then just above the seafood market on that sharp blind curve that Morro Avenue makes, he gunned his engine and slammed the jeep into low gear and roared past her forcing an oncoming delivery truck to swerve and almost crash into her. Front bumpers touching, the truck and her car sat on the curve until she and the truck driver could catch their breaths and step out. They agreed that there was little they could do. No one had been hurt. There were many, many students driving such jeeps at Cal Poly and at the local junior college, Questa. She and the driver had congratulated each other on escaping with their lives and vehicles intact, gotten back in, and driven off.
Slowly, Bonnie turned around in the chair and regarded the bright, warm winter sun reflecting off the patio. Past the patio and the backyard were the rows and rows of winter garden flowers, bulbs, trees, shrubs, and plastic-covered nurseries that were all now tended by a Japanese woman to whom she had given over management after Ike had died last year. The woman had done exceptionally well at converting portions of the land to Oriental spice production. They were going to make an excellent profit from the ginseng alone.
Calmed by the thought of her husband’s, her real husband that is, beloved farm being well cared for, her mind went to present matters. Her heart rate went back to normal and her breathing eased. She decided she really needed to talk to the one person who might clear up the whole business about the Carl J. Mink she had been arm-twisted into helping all those years ago. Bonnie swung the chair back and dug through the telephone desk drawer. There at the bottom was an address book she had not looked in since…well, since the college reunion seven years ago.
Beside the name and address and phone number for Toby Hughes was scribbled with a different colored ink the updated phone numbers and addresses for him. There was a home number and a business number. He had been working for Batelen, Inc., a high security think tank for engineering geniuses in Bethesda, Maryland. It would be midafternoon there. Should she call his home, which might mean having to talk to his wife? No, not wise. She’d leave a message at his work.
The number rang and after a series of buzzes, hums, and beeps put her onto his answering machine. “This is the desk of…” said a tinny recording of a female voice, followed by Toby’s voice, “Toby Hughes;” then the female voice saying, “Please leave a message.”
After the beep, she said slowly and distinctly, “Toby, remember me? Bonnie Ixey? From college? I must talk to you about someone we knew a long time ago, someone you told me was Carl J. Mink. Can you call me right away? This is very important. Thanks. My number, in case you’ve lost it, is 805-555-3024.”
CHAPTER 5: ALGBAK
We have an operative free in San Luis Obispo,” said Russ Snow to his boss, “I’m getting him on the phone right now.”
Tidewater paused, two files in hand, nodded, put the files into his briefcase, and closed it, setting it upright on the desk so he wouldn’t forget to take it home with him. Sitting, Marion Tidewater took the phone from his assistant, covered the mouthpiece, and asked Russ, “What’s the name?”
“Claybourne, Curt Claybourne out of the LA station.” Russ half whispered.
Into the phone, Marion Tidewater announced himself and proceeded with, “Claybourne, are you assigned anything you can’t get out of for a few days?” Tidewater listened and nodded, “Okay, I want you to tail a lady named Bonnie Seastrand Ixey.” There was a pause and Tidewater smiled, “Yes, I guess she could be the same as the Ixey of the Ixey Posie Farm. I certainly wouldn’t know. Well, as surprising as it is to you, I want you on her…yep, twenty-four hours, so get a sub for when you need it. And do a complete background check.”
Tidewater paused again, then answered, “Don’t be so sure. The Ixeys may have been stanchions of the community and Mrs. Ixey just a librarian but, trust me, that may be all surface stuff. Don’t expect it to be as tame as you believe right now. Especially, keep your eyes peeled for Iranian Security operatives.”
Tidewater grinned at whatever was being said on the other end and added, “You betcha, ISF guys. Don’t think the Saudis are on it yet. Can’t be sure so be careful. Your little librarian’s hot property.” Another pause and Tidewater said, “You do that. Report daily or if anything major breaks. Yeah, thanks, Agent Claybourne.” He handed the phone back to Russ Snow who traded him for the folder in his left hand.
“This,” Russ put the phone back as he indicated the manila folder, “is all the material I could collect this afternoon on your Mrs. Bonnie Ixey.”
“Thanks, Snow, you’re fast,” Tidewater heaved his stocky body out of his chair, added the folder to the ones already in his briefcase and headed for the door.
“Ummm, might I ask a question,” began Russ, “about this case?”
“Case?” The bulgy black eyes regarded the taller, handsome young man with ill-concealed envy.
“Well, this Ixey thing,” Russ plunged ahead. “Just, I’m really new to putting tails on people and doing operative stuff, you know, since I did my first two years here in the documents section.”
“Yeah, right,” Tidewater paused at the door. “You’re obviously good at tracking book-style information down and that’s valuable to me, guy. What’s more valuable on this side of the building is the real world stuff. So you gotta learn how we do that, right?”
Russ Snow nodded with the proper humility and went on with a very low voice, “For example, why do we care what a battered women’s shelter does or what happens to a fifty-year-old widow in Morro Bay, California?”
Tidewater had a hand on the doorknob. He considered for a moment before deciding how much to tell this new man. “It ain’t the women really, ‘cause they don’t have any value to us, it’s this international smuggling of persons. We simply don’t know how EW does it.”
“How’d we even know they were doing it?” Russ got braver.
“That old weasel Sadiq-Fath asked me to look into it on this end about three years ago,” laughed Tidewater, grimly. “Seems an EW operative, a haji, an Islamic holy man, no less, got a condemned Baha’i woman smack out of the high security prison in Tabriz. That’s in central Iran, for God’s sake. Got her to India, we still don’t know how, where a Tibetan monk sent her along as a stewardess on a BOAC jet to Australia where she disappeared into the outback. Damned ingenious. Pissed the hell out of Sadiq-Fath.”
Tidewater moved into the common room where the secretaries were hustling toward the double security doors and said over his shoulders as an afterthought, “Sadiq-Fath put a fatwa out on the haji and threw in anybody from EW he could identify for good measure.”
“A fatwa?” Russ queried.
Tidewater nodded, a grim expression on his face. “That’s a death sentence given by the holy guys of Islam. You don’t want one of those in your worst nightmare. It’s what that writer, Rushdie had put on him. Any righteous Muslim is supposed to kill a person with a fatwa laid on him, on sight. Tried, convicted, and executed in one fell swoop!”
“Shit!” exclaimed Russ. “So what we want to know is how EW manages these rescues?” Snow persisted, staying close.
The senior officer, now moving toward the door and home at a faster pace, glanced back
. “Our agency wants the inside scoop on any subversive activity like this.”
“Subversive?” Russ Snow raised his thick black eyebrows.
Tidewater stopped in his tracks and gave the new man a penetrating glare, “Damned right, Snow. Somehow these women and often children along with them get expert false passports made, new identities, hustled from one country to another with impunity. Their husbands are completely stymied. Sometimes even parents of the woman are kept in the dark. It’s the process, Snow, the system. We wanna know their system.” The ugly man glowered. “What EW is doing is illegal. Don’t forget that in any ill-advised moments of kind-hearted, liberal, weak-kneed leanings, Snow. It obviates everything HS has in place and our agency don’t like it much neither. Hell! It borders on kidnapping.”
Snow got the message. Be very careful how he asked questions. Don’t give away his own feelings, ever. He smiled and bowed slightly toward his boss. “Well, such an ingenious system will offer me a real challenge. I look forward to solving your puzzle.”
The older man seemed mollified. “Yeah, you got a useful curiosity, guy. Keep it bridled, that’s all, saddled and reined in. Okay?”
“Sure thing,” said Snow.
Tidewater strode after the last of the secretaries toward the big security doors. As he was punching out, he called back to Snow, “Have me beeped if Ixey buys it. ‘ Cause if she does, we gotta make a move on the baron’s money. Okay?”
“Yessir,” Snow replied from across the room. He watched his boss go out, watched the big doors latch shut behind the last secretary and he felt a chill cascade down his spine. He went into his cubby and sat down at the computer. The material he’d gathered on Mrs. Bonnie Ixey still glowed on the screen. He was glad he had not succumbed to telling Tidewater that today had been Bonnie Ixey’s fiftieth birthday. It would have made Russell Snow seem just that much more a hated liberal. A softhearted wimp. A pussy of the first order.
The tall young man sighed. This was not turning into the job he’d imagined when he’d applied to get out of documents. True, the information-gathering department had taught him a life’s worth of computer search skills, but it was deadly dull. Most of it had been straight-out clerical work and of course, he’d been completely desk bound. He’d gone days in mid-December when he hadn’t seen daylight at all. He’d come to work at seven a.m. in the pitch dark and gotten loose around six-thirty p.m. when the darkness had settled in again. Certainly this was not a happy situation for a boy from the wilds of northern Minnesota.