Way of Escape

by Ann Fillmore

  “Do say?” Tidewater glanced at the sheet and pursed his lips. “Neither Claybourne nor the dog scared the Iranian away, did they?” There was a slight note of potential disappointment in the question.

  “I don’t think so,” said Russ.

  “Who’s on now, watching her day activities?”

  Russ shrugged, “I’m not sure, sir, someone Claybourne pulled out of the LA office this morning.”

  “Okay, as long as Ixey’s covered.” Tidewater went toward his office, saying over his shoulder, “Thanks, Snow, and tell Claybourne that I want him or his sub to call me direct if anything happens to Ixey.”

  “Yessir,” said Russ.

  Sitting behind his desk, Marion Tidewater considered calling Sadiq-Fath and immediately put aside the thought. Anything going on in Ixey’s life would be reported to that weasel the moment it happened. God knows how many phone taps were in place already and it wouldn’t surprise Marion if the ISF man had a video camera link hooked up to her bedroom wall. The woman wouldn’t have a private moment from here on out. The only place she’d be relatively safe from harm in the days to come would be on the airliner going to Sweden.

  Russ Snow peeked in, “Sir? The fourth party on that conference call was identified. It was Dr. Halima Legesse of Emigrant Women in Haifa.”

  “Right. Smart move,” said Tidewater. “They’re going to the source of money as fast as they can.”

  “Need me for anything else today?” asked Russ.

  “I’ve got three cases here which should be coordinated with their counterparts in Germany.” Tidewater pulled three folders from a stack on the desk.

  “Are they imperative?” Russ slipped the folders under one arm. “It’s just, I’m supposed to go to the pistol range this afternoon and see if I can qualify or if I need more training.”

  “You should do that,” said Tidewater, nodding an affirmative. “Never know when you’ll have to take someone out. Those files can wait until tomorrow morning. Go ahead.”

  “Later then,” said Russ and left.

  Russ Snow didn’t like the firing range. He didn’t like the noise, and guns, especially pistols, were low on his list of good things in the world. After all, the only thing a handgun was meant to do was to kill another human. Russ could understand a powerful rifle if there were a meal to put on the table, but even there, he believed as his father had taught him, that the animal life he took should be appeased and shown gratitude. It was a relief when the firearms instructor passed him with high marks. Russ quickly took leave of the firing range and hopped into the old jeep to get on the road. As he clicked his seat belt, he also patted his sharp throwing knife, kept hidden always in a sheath in his belt. Now that was a weapon of choice—deadly, silent, accurate, virtually untraceable.

  Arriving home, he laid the knife on the table, poured himself a glass of wine, called the local shop for a pizza to be delivered immediately, and then clicked into the Ixey file. Last night he had rigged a forwarding order into her machine so that unknown to her, whatever was mailed her, or that she shipped out, would also come to him.

  “Busy lady,” said Russ to himself. She had a stack of e-mail waiting. “Wonder if she always has this much?” he mused. Almost all of it dealt with research projects she was working on for any number of people all over the world. Several libraries had correspondence with her, asking for information and updates. Obviously the woman was extremely computer literate and, in addition, was highly educated and respected. What was it he’d read in her background check? A reference librarian—well, that didn’t say it all. For an older woman, she certainly knew how to make use of cyberspace to do business.

  A half-dozen personal messages were also there, and one notice from…ah-ha! SAS confirming two tickets, first class, booked from San Francisco to Stockholm, Sunday evening to be picked up at the boarding window. She and her daughter, Trisha would soon be on their way.

  Russ imagined her finding this message on her machine sometime this evening or tomorrow morning. How would she react? What would she say? Had she started packing? He wondered what the older daughter was like? It was very, very tempting to peck out a few words, say hello, say he was worried about her, and just press that send button. In a flash, she would know…

  The doorbell buzzed. His pizza had arrived.

  Princess Zhara i-Shibl felt the breeze off the dunes and smelled the donkeys’ approach before any other of her senses caught up. Her heart leapt into her throat. She had paced this wall of the compound each night at this time for a month, waiting, waiting for their nightly arrival, and waiting for something to bob up, but nothing had.

  This particular spot on this particular wall was the only chink in her father’s fabulous security system. An archway of stone rose about a foot above the huge pipe conduit that brought the water from the deep well half a mile away. Two years ago, their own well in the compound had failed and the new one had been dug, the pipe laid, and the arch in the wall constructed. Outside the wall, a shut-off valve allowed the camel herders and donkey boys to fill a basin for their animals. That way, the raggedy scum, as her father had described the working class and poor nomads, could be kept outside as much as possible.

  Since there was, just inside the arch, a beautiful big fountain and pond, it was amazingly easy for the secret messages, enclosed in a bottle or plastic cover, to be reached through the arch and dropped into the pond or vice versa. Tonight, as on other nights, Zhara sat on the bench that edged the pond and dangled her fingers in the water, doing her best to look completely innocent as she teased the colorful koi. She would miss her pet koi. The black and orange one nibbled at her fingertips and even let her pet it. Tonight though, as she sat, playing with the fish and listening intently to the hubbub of noises outside the arch, donkeys braying, herders shouting at their animals, camel drivers gossiping, a plastic panty-hose egg shape suddenly bobbed to the surface.

  She knew, as if by some extra sense, that this was it. Her heart did not race any more. A strange calmness enveloped her as she pulled apart the blue egg. The note inside, in the haji’s perfect Arabic script, read: “We are on our way. Be ready to go. Do not bring anything with you. Dress everyday in your black robes and wear the mask. You will know when it is time.”

  Immediately upon reading, she tossed the empty plastic shell back through the archway hole, which signified she’d received the message and thrust the paper into the pond and held it there until the koi had nibbled it to shreds. No one could find it now, it was gone into the tummy of her beloved fish. She let the black and orange koi nibble her fingers again and wished very much she could somehow take him with her. On the other hand, once she had returned to Europe, she could be with Emil and Emil had her dog, her beloved Charlotte. It had been an entire year. Waiting.

  She sighed. Now would come the hard job of convincing her mother. She simply could not go away and leave her mother here. It would not do. It would not be safe for her mother. How though…?

  The footsteps of the night watchman made her rise hastily. Taking a breath to calm herself, she pulled her hood and robes around her and walked gracefully back to the women’s rooms.

  The hallways of the Nof Hotel in the early morning were always busy: business people hustling off to meetings and tourists being called for their buses. One of the people bustling around was Siddhu Singh Prakash who at first knocked on the door of the big Swede’s rooms, then pounded. Carl-Joran could sleep through an earthquake, thought the thin Indian. The Nof had allowed the EW to secure a room and to install a retinal reader for access. Siddhu had his eyeball scanned, entered the room, and closed the door behind him. Amazingly, Carl-Joran was in the shower, awake and moving around.

  Siddhu stuck his head in the bathroom. “Hello, Baron, good morning!”

  “Fy fan!” came the curse from the steam. “Isn’t privacy at all known in other countries?”

  “I have good news!” said the Sikh, disregarding Carl-Joran’s displeasure. “We have found money for you.
”

  “Get out of my bathroom!”

  “Do you want me to order coffee and breakfast?” asked Siddhu.

  “It’s already ordered. Get some for yourself if you want.”

  Siddhu went to the phone and ordered tea. Moments later, room service delivered Carl-Joran’s breakfast and acknowledged that Siddhu’s was on its way. The big Swede appeared by this time, wrapped in a large towel and drying his hair with another one.

  “What’s the news?” he asked, sitting in front of the breakfast tray and pouring steaming coffee into a cup. “Coffee?”

  “No thank you,” said Siddhu, “they will bring me tea in a minute. Here,” he handed an express packet of papers across the table.

  Carl-Joran, coffee in one hand, shook out the packet with the other. An ancient and familiar United States passport, a sheaf of folded papers, and a little brown bank deposit book dropped onto the table. He sipped his coffee and opened the deposit book first. It was a savings account established in Calexico, California at a small local bank. Nine thousand four hundred three dollars and twenty cents was the final amount listed. He flipped through the pages, there was no stamp to say it had been closed or transferred. Was this money still there? Did the bank exist? He looked up at Siddhu.

  “Have you called to see…?”

  Siddhu nodded. “This bank was bought out by a larger bank about five years ago. The account was transferred and has accrued interest. They said they have been sending account balance notices to the address listed at the front. I cannot imagine the post office has never told them you do not live there any more.” He shrugged. “But the US post office is much different than ours.”

  “All these years!” Carl-Joran shook his head, put the bank books aside, and opened his old passport. It had long ago expired. The papers: Social security number, work permits, all the accoutrements of having acquired US citizenship. Of course, none of it was legitimate, except for the faded certificate of marriage with the stamp of the Justice of the Peace in Nevada. Astounding. Suddenly the one event he believed had been sham had been legal. Toby Hughes had arranged all of this through the Latin American refugee program. For a second, he flashed back to the Nicaraguan jungles, the machine-gun fire, bombs falling, the desperate rush for cover, the people helping him to escape…and Carl-Joran Hermelin had become Carl Joseph Mink before he’d crossed the Mexican border into Calexico. The last stamp in the passport was Japan, March 26th. As luck would have it, the once Carl Mink would be going back to the United States.

  He asked Siddhu, “Have you been to our paper maker yet?”

  “No. I wanted to show you the bankbook. I thought you would be pleased.” Siddhu smiled, looked around at the tap on the door announcing arrival of his breakfast. As the bellboy with the tray entered, the smell of smoky tea permeated the air. “Ahhhh,” said Siddhu, tipping the fellow. “Blessed chai.”

  “How long until all this is brought up to date?” asked Carl-Joran, taking the cover off his cereal and toast.

  “By late this afternoon if we are lucky.” Siddhu sugared his tea, putting five teaspoons in and stirring. “I have made reservations on El Al airlines to Los Angeles for Carl Mink, but the earliest I could get was tomorrow morning. Halima will not be happy.”

  “Could I fly SAS?”

  “I will try them when I leave here, and also United and KLM.” Siddhu sipped. “You will also need a car once you are in California.”

  “Please make sure they give me a full-sized one,” moaned Carl-Joran. “Last time I ended up with a subcompact. Couldn’t even fit in the door.”

  “That was when you went to London last year,” Siddhu regarded the bagel and cheese. “I believe I asked for toast.”

  “Do we know when Bonnie is scheduled to leave?” The name sounded strange on his tongue. Something from a script long ago memorized and discarded.

  “You will have to drive fast. She is to depart on SAS on Sunday. Today is Thursday.” Siddhu peeled the cheese from the bagel and ate it plain, between bites of the fruit salad. “I hope all goes according to schedule!”

  “So do I,” said Carl-Joran, putting milk on his cereal. “I wouldn’t want to miss her.” How odd to put it that way, he thought to himself, eating the oatmeal, for he had missed her, deep down, somewhere inside, there had been that unspoken emptiness he never quite understood. If he should miss her again? No, he must get her to safety. They, the Iranian Security Force, would be after her because she was, had been…no, was his wife.

  He looked up at Siddhu, “Did Habib say anything to you?”

  Siddhu shook his head, “No, he had to leave very early this morning. There was a note under my door which begged your forgiveness.” Siddhu reached in a coat pocket and handed his friend a flimsy sheet of paper, neatly folded and smelling of sandalwood.

  Carl-Joran opened it and read, “Please forgive me but I could acquire no information, which does in itself make me suspicious. My sources will not say anything without an enormous sum of money. Can we assume that your son and Bonnie Ixey are in danger? I believe so. Allah keep them safe and may He bless you. Habib.”

  Carl-Joran whispered, “Allah go with you, Haji.”

  Bonnie looked up from her computer screen and blinked. The morning fog that had crept in overnight from the ocean was giving way to sunshine. “My goodness,” she said softly. Slowly she picked up the telephone and dialed Trisha’s school’s number. The office secretary rang through to the room where Trisha Ixey was teaching health class.

  After several long rings, a breathless Trisha said, “Hi!”, and then shouting behind her, “Quiet down!” The chattering of the kids muted.

  “Hi, yourself. This is your mom.”

  “Must be important to call me here,” said Trisha. “What’s up? Have the HS or FBI stormed the house yet?”

  “Very funny,” Bonnie didn’t laugh. She had seen an Arab man at the mailboxes again this morning and a woman in a government issue car parked near the bend in the road, binoculars in hand. Bonnie said, “Better get a substitute for a while, kiddo, and go home and pack. We leave Sunday for Sweden.”

  “Cool.”

  “And, honey?”

  “Yeah, Mom, I know, we need to buy jackets and some fuzzy warm underwear.”

  “Listen. Guess what?” Bonnie paused for effect, “We’re flying first class.”

  There was a moment of silence before Trisha responded with, “Right on! Way to go!”

  “We have to pick up our tickets by six p.m. Sunday at the SAS desk at the San Francisco airport so we better be in San Francisco no later than noon.”

  “Want to drive up Saturday night and have dinner at the Embarcadero?” asked Trish, hopefully.

  “Sounds like a good plan,” said her mother.

  CHAPTER 7: MISSED OPPORTUNITIES

  To keep the wind from whipping it away, the haji pulled his cloak around him as he stepped from the taxi. The air was viciously bitter cold. Dry brittle snow lay in drifting heaps along the cement pathways. It gathered in higher mounds along the eroded niches in the shrub-covered hillsides.

  He paid the taxi driver and carefully averting his eyes from the heavily armed Israeli soldiers, walked along the starkly lighted corridor marked with bright orange stripes that designated the sidewalk for the Palestinian day workers coming and going through the Good Gate. So far he had not been challenged and he did not expect to be. His mind was perfectly calm and his body reflected his peaceful demeanor.

  Habib had taken a bus from Haifa to Kiriat Shimona, the northernmost kibbutz of Israel, and there caught the taxi that had climbed up the steep road along the ravines. It had deposited him at the open-fronted film and snack stands that catered to the few tourists who visited and the many soldiers who paused long enough in their patrols to buy bagels or potato crisps or steaming coffee.

  As Habib stepped onto the sidewalk lined with eight-foot high cross-wire fencing, a slight tremor of fear shivered through him. This portion of the long walk over the Israeli border alwa
ys made him, and every other Arab who traversed it, feel trapped and helpless. It was designed to do just that. The Israeli Defense Force guards were always on alert, always had their rifles resting ready in their cradled arms along every step of the path.

  Habib mixed in with the homebound housemaids, gardeners, mechanics, and other assorted workers up the switchback and into the slightly wider section of the corridor which lay before the actual Gate. It was slow today. The guards at the Gate were patting down persons such as himself in heavy cloaks.

  When his turn came, he identified himself and the guard at least acknowledged his title, saying, “I’m sorry, sir, but we do have to search all full-bearded men in abbas, holy men or no.”

  It went quickly. With the briefest respite of relief, he stepped through the Good Gate and into Lebanon. Although expected through familiarity, Habib Mansur felt an especial ache at the sight of the devastated countryside around him. The snow was deeper here, the wind more biting, the mountains so barren they hurt. There were no trees, no twigs, no bushes, no grass, no birds, no rabbits, nothing. The once plentiful vegetation and famous cedar trees had long ago been used for cooking fires by the encamped refugees. Any creature that had walked or flown had been put in someone’s pot for sustenance. Or simply shot and killed for the sport of it by rampaging soldiers of one faction or another.

  As peace was settling shakily onto the countryside, moss and lichens were the first to appear in the more inaccessible rifts and, as Habib walked to the taxi queue, he could hear ever so faintly, the jingle of goat bells from behind the far hills to the south. There must be some islands of dried grass over there. Even such minute signs of returning life made him happy.