Way of Escape

by Ann Fillmore

  When word had come down that he’d gotten the assistantship to Tidewater, everyone, including his former supervisor, had raved. Tidewater had an excellent reputation, or so the portrait had been painted. Adventure lay in wait for Russell Snow. But here, on his first day, he had already become genuinely discomfited. He knew it was due to the fact that his first real assignment, Mrs. Ixey, had, as of today, achieved the age at which a woman became an elder in his tribe and he, Russell Snow, might well have to stand by and report her assassination.

  It was a truth that he was not the dedicated tribal warrior his Menomonee father would have desired, although Russ had gone to Harvard, as his Mohican mother had wanted. Russell Snow-from-Night-Sky was, in the eyes of the greater Iroquois nation, a shining example to the coming generations, which was the most important thing the greater Iroquois nation considered in judging people.

  That he had chosen to work at the Agency didn’t go down well. His father had written it off as Russ’s wanting to sow wild oats. Russ had told his dad that the experience in the most complex information gathering organization in the world would assure him a job for the rest of his life. That part, at least, was true.

  Russ noted that Mrs. Ixey had an e-mail address. Old lady’s up-to-date, he smiled. It was all he could do to keep his fingers from typing out a simple little message and sending it through some nondescript and anonymous source. As he pushed save and filed the information in the bowels of cyberspace, he wondered what he could have said? You’re in danger, watch your back, the ISF is after you? He reflected sadly that the chances of her believing such a message were very minimal. A woman her age, with her well-documented staid background, would hardly be able to come to terms with suddenly being the center of international intrigue.

  Russ morosely decided to brave the nasty traffic and the miserable snowy weather and go home to his little house near the river. Whatever information might come into the office would be routed over his computer and sent to the one he had at home. He’d rigged that up last year so he’d never be out of touch with the Agency. For safe keeping though, he had established a security code to keep his own stuff private.

  Of course, for tonight, this was all dependent on if the snow didn’t worsen and knock out power again. He sauntered to the big double doors, slipped his card through the punch-out clock, put in his code, and the latch on the doors clicked open. The cavernous long hallway was chilly compared to the offices. He bundled his down-filled, thigh-length coat around him and threw the hood over his head. He was glad he had kept the trusty old Land Cruiser.

  Sture woke up feeling like he had a hangover, which was not true, not this morning. He was too stressed last night to have gone with his buddies into the small village of Norrkoping for beer and pizza. He would have been very poor company. And it was lucky he hadn’t. His father had called at eleven to tell him nothing could be done about the financial mess in Israel.

  Just what the kid needed, Sture thought bitterly. Now he’d have to put off going into Stockholm until this afternoon, perhaps even until tomorrow. His autopsy lab results were all hanging on, waiting for him to arrive. His professor had to be notified that he wouldn’t make it to the lecture on child abuse trauma this afternoon and what the accounts department would say…! Damn! Why him?

  The bedroom was chilly. They never kept much heat on in the castle and although the living quarters in this wing were tolerable, it still meant a brisk awakening. The six-foot six-inch tall, skinny lad stretched, looked out the window into the darkness through the beautiful lace curtains. Only this year had the centuries-old ones been replaced by some of more modern, washable material, but in exact imitation of the old ones which had been folded away safely in the vast attic with original furniture, paintings—God knows what all was stored up there. Even some weapons and armor, Sture recalled.

  Icicles hung from the upper outside window frame and sparkled from the reflected light of his room and the lamps around the faraway stables. Snow, brittle and dry, blew in huge mounds across the balcony. Beyond, in the shadowy early morning darkness, below on what in summer was the broad lawn, deer and a couple of alg—the cow-size Swedish moose—picked their way along a deeply trodden, snow-lined path from the frozen river toward the barns. Winter-feed had always been available to the wildlife. Birds in great numbers came, as did the birdwatchers from all over Scandinavia. The predators came too: foxes, wild dogs and cats, stoats, weasels and naturally, what the estate was famous for, mink. Last week, Sven, the head groundskeeper and stable man had sworn he’d seen a wolf. There had been rumors in Sweden for the last five years that some wolves had returned, probably running over the Finnish ice pack straight from Siberia. Maybe. Maybe.

  Sture could hear the brittle snow rustle like dried leaves along the balcony. He guessed it was near minus thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit out there with a wind chill factor of about sixty below. Normal for central Sweden in late January.

  He buzzed for Gustav before slipping into warm underwear and sweats. He’d change into his polypros before he set off for Norrkoping. He dreaded the whole prospect of going into town, of going to the Pastorkirche. No different than any warm-blooded Swede, he despised the whole business of dealing with bureaucratic officials. Sture, like most Swedish fellows of twenty-two was still very much a kid, comfortable, well cared for, raised in a totally undemanding environment. He would only after college have to face the frantic workaholism of the grown-up Scandinavian existence, and university studies for someone of his status, an incipient Baron with lots of money, could go on for as long as he desired being a student.

  Or so it had seemed three days ago. His father’s predicament, now Sture’s also, was quite rudely interrupting his pleasant lifestyle. He was putting on fuzzy slippers over heavy socks when Gustav knocked discreetly and stuck his grizzled head in.

  “God morgan, ers nad. Vad will er?”

  “Kom in,” Sture ordered. “Some breakfast first and then call around my car, I have to go into town this morning.”

  “Jawohl, min herrevalde,” the ancient servant responded. Gustav had been more of an attending parent than his father, but then he’d helped raise his dad too. The ancient one handed the young man a woolen overshirt and reached to help button it and was brushed off by Sture. Gustav backed away politely and asked, “Do you wish to drive yourself or have Krister drive?”

  “I’ll drive…” said Sture, by habit, and stopped in mid-sentence. “ No, have Krister drive. We’ll take the big Saab. It’ll be sure to make a better impression on those damned bureaucratic toads when I pull up in that.”

  “Jawohl, min herrevalde.” The old man turned to go, thought a moment and said, “Urskulda mig, but were you not supposed to be back at the Karolinska Universitat today?”

  “Yeah, I was supposed to go.” Sture grimaced, “More paperwork for Far’s estate must be done.”

  “Aha, it must be important work for your father to interrupt your studies,” said Gustav with great deference. He bowed as he went out the door, “I will tell Astrid you wish breakfast? Ja?”

  “Right, tell her I want a big breakfast. I’ll need the energy.” Sture went into the bathroom. All the plumbing had been added years after the castle had been built, meaning it was quite aged in and of itself. He and his father had the only two master bedrooms with attached baths, fully updated. The other rooms in this wing had to share a bath and toilet at the end of the long hall. The other wings of the castle had ridiculously small toilets and baths and Sture had once commented that hell would freeze over before the estate invested the huge sums needed to update all of that space. His father, on his way to somewhere else in the world, as usual, had absentmindedly agreed.

  The recently installed, under the sink, little hot water cooker was functioning well this morning, giving him plenty of steaming water to wash with. He regarded in the cloudy mirror the attempt he was making to grow a beard like his dad had had at his age. He’d seen photos of the baron as a young man and he loved the swashbu
ckling appearance the bristled, thick gray-blond beard had given the senior Baron Hermelin. Oh well, Sture mused looking into his own icy blue eyes, it has only been a week. He tried not to be too disappointed. Perhaps it was because his hair was so red. He trimmed the edges and rinsed his face well, scrubbing his pink skin dry with a thick, cream-colored towel.

  When he entered the hallway, he could smell from far below in the great kitchen, the wondrous odors of pancakes, ham, coffee, and his most favorite blabar syrup. Astrid had picked those blueberries herself last summer from the garden behind the castle.

  As his foot hit the first step, he suddenly thought a most distressing thought. Pay…how were they going to pay the servants? Gustav, Astrid, the maids, Krister the chauffeur, Sven, and the stable hands…the only person he could think of who came for free was the postal worker, and in second thought, he or she wasn’t free either, really. Taxes, incredibly heavy taxes, paid the salaries and benefits of government workers. Surely there must be housekeeping money available?

  Sture sighed deeply and slumped down the wide balustrade stairs. Generations of Hermelins had used those stairs, lords and ladies all. Portraits of them regarded the tall, skinny young Sture as he decided, on the second landing, that the attorney’s office, Person, Person and Alexanderslund, should come first, then the Pastorkirche. Maybe he could even browbeat Ms. Person into coming with him.

  ***

  The vizier of the i-Shibl family compound was most polite, though Commander Yusef knew full well his soft words were an imperative invitation. The i-Shibl sultanate was of Shi-ite belief and thus, conservative to the point of being only one step removed from the believers who paraded their sacrificial urges.

  Commander Gurgin Yusef hung up the phone and wondered with a headshake how Sheikh Sultan i-Shibl’s eldest daughter ever had been sent to France for schooling anyway. None of this bother would have taken place if the girl had been kept at home. The commander buzzed his assistant and called for a car to be brought around. If the sheikh sultan wanted him to check out the compound’s security, so be it. Gurgin Yusef suspected the real reason for the summons was the sultan’s desire to have this tough-looking uniformed commander lecture his daughter on decorous behavior. Which, thought Gurgin, picking up his belt with holster and gun and strapping it on, was like trying to corral the last camel after the others had been scared off by jackals.

  His assistant, Faruq, knocked on the door before poking a head in to tell him the Hummer was waiting. Commander Yusef settled his hat on his head and proceeded on his mission. Faruq drove and made good time across the interminable sand and scrubland, arriving at the modernized outer security gate of the i-Shibl’s compound in under an hour.

  The vizier, that is, the sheikh sultan’s number one man and major-domo, waited inside the outer gate. A huge man whom Yusef suspected of having some African forebears, the vizier bowed to the commander and walked alongside the camouflage-colored Hummer as they proceeded through the iron-barred inner gate. The numerous guards were well armed with Uzis. No problems with security here, Yusef harrumphed to himself. Yes, he was being summoned to lecture the girl. He knew it.

  At the door of the palace, an obviously Asian servant jumped forward to open the Hummer door for the commander. As he stepped out, the vizier elbowed his way forward.

  “Welcome to our home,” said the vizier, whose width equaled his height. This was a man of substance. His clothes were of finely woven cotton and silk, his pink-and-blue turban was of silk, he cut a fine figure. “If you will follow me?” His hand, every finger of which had a ring on it, waved forward and they went through the brilliant blue front door.

  Commander Yusef was led from room to room, one cool hallway leading into another until he was quite turned around. His general sense was that they were proceeding north, that is, toward the back of the immense structure. The fittings of the rooms, the halls, made it very evident that this sheikh sultan had a substantial oil field on his property.

  They crossed a lovely patio with a tinkling fountain and passed into a sizable room with a set of low Roman couches and chairs at the far wall surrounded by large pink-and-blue pillows. On one of the couches was Sheikh Sultan Rassid i-Shibl. He was much younger than Yusef had thought he would be, perhaps thirty-eight, but not more than forty. Slender, small, the sheikh sultan pulled his bright pink, embroidered topcoat vest down with a jerk to cover the top of his whitish-gold cotton trousers as he stood. This was a tense and unhappy man, the commander noted.

  “How do you like my modest domicile so far, Commander?” asked the sheikh sultan.

  “It is of inestimable beauty, your majesty,” he replied and cut to the chase. “Your security lacks of nothing that I can detect.”

  The small man nodded. He was being told what he intimately knew already. “I would have you look at the back wall and installations before you leave. Vizier Rida will take you that way as you leave. Now, may we share coffee? Some breakfast?”

  “If your majesty pleases,” the stocky commander bowed. He also realized the vizier had vanished. A silent, cunning one that fellow…

  i-Shibl sent a servant scurrying and he himself sat in one of the low chairs next to a table, inviting the commander to do the same. Yusef pulled up a pillow and sat in front of the man, decorously making himself shorter than the sultan. He had not achieved the rank of commander without learning all the necessary manners around royalty.

  The ritual of coffee and food was precisely accomplished. The servants were well trained. The preparation didn’t take long and the conversation remained on security, despite that moment’s acknowledgement of it’s being topflight already. Yusef noted as they conversed that i-Shibl had probably been educated in England, or at least in an English-speaking school. The man mentioned in passing his hobby of desert biology, in particular, the study of the small lichens that grew on the lee side of dunes where moisture would collect in minuscule quantities at night. That seemed to be the cue for a woman to appear.

  The vizier brought her in. Despite her full covering in colorful dress and scarf, the commander could tell this was a woman in her mid-thirties and, he suspected, a very good-looking one. From the two strands of hair that peeked from her scarf, she could be seen to have dark auburn hair.

  “My first wife,” said i-Shibl.

  Neither man stood. The commander simply gazed past her, the polite thing to do. She lowered herself onto an uncomfortable chair on the other side of the large room.

  “Jani,” said the sultan, “come closer.”

  She got to her feet and approached to within a couple yards.

  “This,” i-Shibl said, “is the reason for our daughter Zhara’s unruly behavior. When I was a very young man, attending the Birmingham University in England, I met Jani Felice McCreesh. Her father is an engineer from Ireland, her mother a Saudi citizen. I believed Jani had been happy to marry me. We had a good life until I came back here to take the rule after my father died. I thought Jani was fitting in well here. Then five years ago, as is the custom if the first wife can give no sons, I took a second wife. Jani insisted shortly afterward to send our eldest daughter, Zhara, to school and this woman chose a girls’ school in Paris.” The man sighed.

  Commander Yusef, quiet and attentive the whole time, saw the slightest nod from Jani at the mention of the daughter. Ah, yes, i-Shibl was right, here was the cause of the dissension. Secretly, perhaps even unconsciously, although Yusef suspected not, Jani Felice McCreesh i-Shibl had converted her daughter to wanting more Western ways. This was becoming so common! Despicable, he snorted.

  “You must tell your wife not to disobey the teachings of the Koran, my sheikh,” said the commander with as much concern as possible, “for if she has the wishes of the Western world in her heart, even if they are unspoken, even if she tries to keep them hidden, she will transmit them like a disease to her children.”

  “So I have said many times,” the sheikh sultan responded with a meaningful look at his first wife. “I sincerel
y do not think she does it intentionally. Yet,” he put his hands into the air almost in supplication, perhaps of Allah, “I am partly to blame. I had a big-screen television put in the common room last year and it is hooked up to a satellite dish.” A note of bragging slipped into his voice, “We can pick up hundreds of stations, all of European satellite transmissions, all of ours and some of India’s. It is quite extraordinary.”

  “Television alone did not make your daughter unwilling to be a bride,” was the commander’s rejoinder.

  “Ah, you are right, of course,” sighed i-Shibl, motioning the servant to pour more coffee for himself and the old warrior.

  Yusef accepted it willingly. This was a superior French espresso blend not usually obtainable by the likes of himself.

  “I’m certain,” continued i-Shibl, “that being around boys, especially boys of European countries, and being unchaperoned and being in Paris, of all places…” this time he positively glowered at Jani i-Shibl who responded by looking away, far, far away.

  The sheikh sultan, holding a tiny coffee cup in hand, stood and walked back to the chair he used as a dais. “Did you know, Commander, that Zhara has had the effrontery to say she wants to marry one of those boys? She will not tell us his name, but I happen to know he is French.” i-Shibl laughed cruelly, “Why, he is a commoner to boot. The son of a wealthy Parisian merchant. I am surprised,” he growled harshly, “she didn’t pick a Jew! There were a number of them at that school!”