Way of Escape

by Ann Fillmore

  They stayed up for a while, playing Clue, and enjoying each other’s company. It wasn’t until Bonnie was pulling the bedcovers over her that that other sensation she’d had earlier, that almost foreign one…that burning desire for touch crept back, shyly, as if it weren’t certain of what its reception would be. Bonnie’s only conscious reaction was to consider how long it had been since she’d laid with a man…Ike had been sick for three years before he died. There had been little they could do and she could never see herself being unfaithful. Most of her waking hours had been spent caring for him.

  This last year she had stayed alone and avoided male companionship, as she certainly didn’t want to end up nursing another old man. She had neglected her sexual self. Perhaps she had even convinced herself she was finished with it. Yet, there was no denying the surge of feeling coming along with the memory of Carl.

  She smiled and nestled into the warm covers. Of course, spending an entire summer as they had, why even an old woman could recover her lust with those memories. Suddenly it hit her. The man she had fallen so fiercely in love with those many years ago was dead. He had died two weeks ago. She would not be able to recover him, repair the past, finish the unfinished business. Grief drowned her like a sneaker wave, powerful and cold and with it the guilt of being in grief over a man she’d known for an eternity of mere moments when there had been only immense relief when Ike had passed away after a blink-of-an-eye twenty-six year marriage. Why was that? How sad. How tragic. The tears returned and with them, deep, heavy, dream-filled sleep.

  The phone was ringing. She was stretched out on a towel on a beach in the hot sun and a large, golden-haired arm was over her back, a warmly comfortable large body next to her and the waves rumbled in a steady rhythm, hypnotic. “Carl…” she spoke to the giant man lying beside her. The phone kept ringing. Answer the damned phone, she swore at the conscious universe.

  “Mom!” Trisha shouted from downstairs. “Long distance call coming in for you. Mom!”

  She opened her eyes. She was not on a warm beach, she was in her bed and the window was a damp blank gray with early morning fog and Carl was gone forever. A wave of depression matching the gray fog sucked up her soul.

  “Mom! Get the phone!”

  She struggled into full consciousness, prayed for a cup of coffee, and leaned over to the nightstand, grabbed the cordless phone and sat up. “Okay, Trish, I have it.” She clicked it on and put it to her ear. “Yes, hello?”

  “Mrs. Ixey?” The voice was female, not old and it had a very strong Swedish accent. “I am Inge Person. I am the advokat, you say attorney? For the Hermelin estate.”

  The woman had pronounced her name as Pershoon and Bonnie tried to imitate it as closely as possible. “Yes, I am very glad you called. I wanted to contact a Swedish attorney to find out what all this was about.”

  “Jo? You want an attorney? That is good. You see, I am the officiell attorney for the family so I’ll be your attorney also.” She paused, “You must have an introduction to Baron Hermelin’s son. He is on the telephone also, but he is at the castle. Sture, ar ni dar?”

  “Yes, I am here,” said a husky male voice with the same thick Swedish accent and young and so familiar in its cadence it made Bonnie gulp.

  “Hello, Sture,” she said. “I guess we are related in a way.”

  “Ja so,” he responded. “We are a big surprise to us, jo?” There was a note of anxiety, a trying very hard not to offend.

  “So,” Inge butted in, “we’ll soon have another on our telephone. She is the head of an organization you have not met yet. It is the reason we call. You are the owner of money now, Mrs. Ixey, and we must talk to you about this.”

  “Yes, I want to talk to you also,” Bonnie repeated emphatically.

  “Good. Because if you do not come to Sweden immediately and take control of the money accounts, this organization will not be able to work.”

  Bonnie began, “Which organization…” and was interrupted by a loud crackle, buzz, and a dim voice asking if she were on yet. Some more crackle and the voice developed a presence.

  “Hello, hello, are you there, Ms. Person?” came the entirely different accent, one that had strong British overtones, and something else Bonnie could not place.

  “Yes,” said the attorney, “I am here, and Sture and Mrs. Ixey are here. Mrs. Ixey, say hello to Dr. Halima Legesse in Israel.”

  “Israel?” This was all going rather fast for Bonnie.

  “I am Dr. Legesse,” the woman spoke, and the power of her personality vibrated along the airwaves, “I am chief of EW, the Society for Emigrant Women. It is for women who are in danger of being killed.”

  She took a breath and Bonnie interrupted with, “A kind of battered woman’s shelter?”

  “In a way,” Dr. Legesse continued, “although our women must do more than escape from a husband, they must be taken out of their country.”

  “And you want me to do something?” Bonnie decided to get right to the point.

  “You must do something,” Inge spoke up.

  Sture, his male voice the meekest of the four, said, “You must come to Sweden immediately. You must give the account to me and the other account to Emigrant Women. You must do this today!”

  Bonnie felt really overwhelmed. She told herself this is what happened when lots of money came your way. It’s what Lena had warned her of. “What do I legally have to do?”

  “Legally,” replied Inge, “you fly to Sweden and come to Norrkoping and you go to the Pastorkirche, but only with me, and we sign papers for you to take ownership of the accounts. You must also go to the parish of Dalarna, to their Pastorkirche and sign papers. Dalarna is the home of your father’s family. That will make you a Swedish citizen. Then you and I must fight the government because when you become a Swedish citizen, they will want to tax your new money for death taxes. Do you understand?”

  “Sort of, not very well, I mean, it’s a lot to comprehend all at once,” admitted Bonnie. “I don’t understand why Sture and Emigrant Women can’t have money right away. Weren’t they using money from accounts before Carl…before the baron’s death?”

  Sture spoke quickly, his words tumbling over each other, “My case is important because I am now boss of the castle and I also go to my medical studies and the account for doing this is very small. But, the organization of EW is more so important…”

  Dr. Legesse broke in, “Yes, EW to date has been funded by transferal of interest money from one of Baron Hermelin’s Swiss accounts. That account is now frozen until the bank recognizes you as the legal inheritor. It means a number of our projects, which involve rescuing women in danger, are on hold.”

  “That isn’t good,” said Bonnie, trying to do the best she could in this uncomfortable and confusing situation.

  “It is bloody awful,” Dr. Legesse went on, “these projects must be carried out immediately, if the women are to survive, and we must have money to move forward.”

  “Oh, my,” said Bonnie. “Okay, I will book passage and fly to Sweden as soon as I can.”

  “Tomorrow!” Sture blurted.

  “Sture, lugnar er!” Inge Person ordered the fellow to be still and then explained to Bonnie, “Mrs. Ixey, there is an account you may access right away. Use that one to pay for your tickets, or better, may I reserve the tickets for you on SAS? The Hermelin family has credit with that air service.”

  “Okay,” Bonnie gulped and bravely added, “I’d like to bring my older daughter with me. Is that possible?”

  The attorney could be heard smiling. “It is your money. You may do what you want.”

  “Oh, right. Okay,” Bonnie said.

  “I will transfer you money and your reservations.”

  Dr. Legesse interrupted, “Ms. Person, is there a way she could release some money for us to use immediately?”

  “I will check on that, and if there is I’ll arrange it on her speaking permission.”

  “Thank you,” Dr. Legesse was somewhat re
lieved.

  “That is okay with you?” Inge asked Bonnie.

  “Yes, yes. Certainly.”

  “If we have a new car by the time you arrive,” Sture spoke, “I’ll send it to the Stockholm airport for you.”

  “What happened to your car?” asked Bonnie.

  “Not my car. It is my father’s car, the engine blew up,” he explained, nervously.

  “That’s terrible,” said Bonnie.

  “Yes. I believe someone blows it up,” he went on.

  “Did he look like an Arab?” asked Bonnie with a sudden flash of possibility.

  “I did not see who do it,” Sture said.

  Inge interrupted, “Sture, it was an accident.”

  “No,” he insisted, “it was socker in the petrol. I bet you.”

  “Sture, there was a lock on the petrol tank.” She sounded put out.

  “No,” Sture kept on, “the engine is all gone. When the polis report comes and it reads sugar, I show you.”

  Bonnie said, “The reason I ask is because there is an Arab man watching my house as well as another man, a black American man in a trench coat.”

  “Verkligen!” Inge exclaimed, “Why does that happen?”

  “Arab,” Dr. Legesse’s intense concern did not sound pleasant and she stressed, “or Iranian?”

  “I can’t tell the difference,” admitted Bonnie. “But do you think it means something? Because the other day a Middle Eastern-looking man tried to wreck my car.”

  “You must be very careful,” said Dr. Legesse emphatically, “I think it’s very wise for you to travel with your daughter. Yes, Ms. Person, you arrange those tickets and we will talk when Mrs. Ixey gets to Sweden. Wait a moment,” there was a sudden pause and Bonnie could hear the earnest, quiet murmur of Dr. Legesse and two men discussing the problem, and abruptly Dr. Legesse said into the phone, “Goodbye for now,” and she hung up.

  “I will send you bank access and tickets immediately,” Inge Person assured Bonnie.

  “Just fax everything” Bonnie offered, “That’s easiest.”

  “Oh, yes, how good. Thank you.” The attorney ended with, “Take care of your self. Goodbye!”

  “Farval!” said Sture and the phone line clicked several times and Bonnie sat with the hum of an open line.

  The fog still snuggled against the window, and faintly it carried the noise of seals barking on the beach. She clicked off the receiver and suddenly her mind became very busy with new chores such as, I’ll have to buy a winter coat and some woollies. Except for a couple ski outfits, I have absolutely nothing to wear in very cold weather and Sweden will be cold. And I’ll tell Misimoto to watch the house and feed Gryphon…

  Halima pushed the speakerphone aside and looked at her team seated around her at the big black-and-white table.

  Carl-Joran had an expression of utter dismay on his face. He brushed his five o’clock beard stubble nervously. “She sounds like she did when I knew her.” He rubbed his eyes as if they were irritated. He half whispered, “She thinks I’m dead.”

  “Well, your assignment,” Halima pointed her bony finger at him, “is to go to California and make sure she arrives in Sweden safely.”

  Carl-Joran nodded. He had expected this. Yet…he turned to Haji Habib Mansur, “When do you go for the princess?”

  Mansur let his eyes rise to Halima’s. “Tomorrow?”

  Halima regarded Siddhu, who leaned over his account sheets and his eyes went to the haji. “I have figured that we have enough money for you to do this project. However,” the Sikh warned, “if you run into unexpected circumstances or an extra expense, it will be difficult to send you cash because some of what we have left must go to Barbara Monday.” He raised a suppliant hand, “If Mrs. Ixey will do the paperwork quickly, we will have no problem. Whatever I have figured for you is with our present financial status.”

  The majestic Dr. Legesse nodded slowly, “It is up to you, Habib, to go or to wait.”

  “I would like to go tomorrow,” he said with determination. “Princess Zhara grows more restless and the pressure for her to relent and marry is continual. My messenger has told me that her father had the Chief of Saudi Security Forces come to lecture her, so this person of authority is now watching and aware of her case. We must do this quickly and with utmost caution.”

  “Everything and everyone else is ready?” Halima asked.

  Habib nodded. “Tahireh is waiting for me to arrive. All is ready there.”

  Halima sighed. “I send you on your way then. Salaam!”

  “I hope so,” Habib Mansur laughed gently.

  “Carl-Joran,” Halima Legesse regarded the perturbed giant sitting next to her. “I know in your heart of hearts what you wish to do. But you cannot go with him. First, we do not have the money, secondly, it will be too dangerous for you to be in an Arab country, third, your job is to straighten out the money problems. California is your destination.”

  “Who says it’ll be any safer in California?” the big man blurted, “and how could it be less expensive to go there than to go with Habib?”

  “You will use your own money to go to California,” said Halima with complete surety, “and Sadiq-Fath’s agents will be less likely to strike when you are in the United States or in Sweden.”

  He looked doubtful. “America is a fine place to do violence. It happens all the time.”

  “Carl-Joran!” she put her hands on her hips and stamped her foot. “You go to California.”

  “I would really like to know why I can’t just come alive again,” he sat forward, challenging her.

  “No,” she said firmly. “We can deal with all this confusion, we could not deal with your real death. Sadiq-Fath must be brought to some kind of justice and we cannot get him into the open if you are around. I am certain he will show himself soon. I am sure!”

  The Swede pounded his fist on the table making the room vibrate, “I don’t like being dead. It’s too damned much trouble.”

  “I think,” the kindly Haji Habib leaned toward Carl-Joran, “you do not want to face this woman you once loved.”

  Carl-Joran went silent for a full minute. All that could be heard in the room were the voices of the children playing down the hall, the hum of the air vent fans, the tick of the wall clock. With great discomfort, he finally said, “She and I will meet. We will talk. I don’t think it is so bad.”

  Habib laid a sun-tanned hand on Carl-Joran’s paler one and smiling, said, “And you both will remember.”

  Dropping his chin onto his chest, the big Swede shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “Therefore, you must go to California.” Habib nodded, squeezed the big hand briefly, and stood.

  “My friend,” Carl-Joran stopped him, “may I ask you a favor? Please, if it does not compromise your work?”

  “Of course,” responded Habib.

  “Could you, through your sources, see if Quddus Sadiq-Fath has put a fatwa on my son. And,” the big Swede added, “on Bonnie Ixey.”

  “I will try. I tell you what you already know, that I must ask such questions very, very cautiously. Such information costs a lot of money to get and much more money to be kept from bouncing back to the source.”

  Carl-Joran nodded. “I understand. Don’t do it if it is too expensive and dangerous for you. I suspect the Iranians are already onto both of them.” He sighed and frowned. The brown abba swooshed near him as Habib moved away from the table and the smell of sandalwood filled his nostrils.

  Habib Mansur half bowed to the doctor. “Halima, my love, I will be on my way. Siddhu, if you will get those funds to me tonight?”

  “Yes, certainly,” said Siddhu.

  Halima stepped around the table and gave Habib a strong hug. “Allah be with you.”

  “So far he has remained on our side,” smiled Habib and hugged her back.

  Carl-Joran stood, clapped the man on the shoulder. “My thoughts will be constantly with you,” Carl-Joran said.

  “And mine with you,” sa
id Habib, “for you are quite correct about the United States being violent. It is perhaps more violent than Saudi Arabia.”

  “Yeah,” said Carl-Joran, “I’ll be in more danger from guns than anyone in this room.”

  Habib nodded. “So it is said.” He went to the door, “Goodbye, my friends.”

  As soon as the brown abba had swept from the room and the door sssshhhhhed shut, Carl-Joran swung around to Siddhu, “Where is the money coming from for my trip to California? You know I can’t take any out of my accounts, not as me anyway.”

  “I have no idea,” replied Siddhu, “but I will have it by tonight. We must also get you a new passport and identification. You cannot go into the United States as Baron Hermelin.”

  “Oh!” Carl-Joran straightened, a sudden inspiration striking him. “I remember something important. I have an old United States passport in another name. I’ve even got citizenship papers somewhere. They’re in the name of Carl J. Mink, of course. They were expertly done. Toby Hughes had very good sources.”

  “Where would those papers be?” asked Siddhu, standing. “If we can get them it will save us a lot of time, and money. Updating a passport is far, far easier than having an entirely new one made.”

  “In my office in the castle,” he replied. “I’ll have Sture find them and send them express to you Siddhu, here at EW.”

  “Good,” Halima came up to him and put her knobby finger on his chest, “because I want you to be on a plane to Los Angeles tomorrow evening.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Carl-Joran agreed, half terrorized, half relieved.

  Tidewater, coming back after lunch, poked his head into Russ’s cubbyhole. “Snow, what we got on the Ixey woman? Is she still alive?”

  “Yessir,” responded Russ Snow immediately, “Claybourne turned in a report first thing this morning.” The tall Native American handed his boss a one-page e-mail form. “Ixey’s older daughter drove to Paso Robles, picked up the younger daughter and husband at the airport, and brought them to the farm. They were having some sort of party. Later in the evening, Claybourne spotted a well-known ISF operative, somebody he knows out of Los Angeles, keeping a watch on the home.” Russ chuckled, “The ISF guy got chased by the farm dog, and, ‘cause of that dog, Claybourne wasn’t able to get a phone tap in until midnight. Just before he went off he recorded a conference call that originated from Sweden. Something about arranging for Mrs. Ixey to fly to Sweden.”