Way of Escape

by Ann Fillmore

  An aged, battered blue Mercedes was hunkered at the curb. It was the sole taxi available and the driver had only one hand, the absent one undoubtedly a casualty of the war. Habib nodded at him and got into the back seat. It smelled of unwashed humans and perhaps chickens. Yes, in one jagged rip near the center of the seat were some feathers from the last customers’ traveling companions.

  “To Beirut,” Habib ordered the driver and they set off across the desolate land.

  Lieutenant Ali Muhit peered through his cloudy eyes at the message being handed him by the computer man sitting in the massive security central command room.

  “It’s about Habib Mansur and we have an order for urgent notification whenever his name appears,” said the young man and Ali Muhit nodded.

  Moments later, the battered old warrior was walking into the beautifully appointed office of his boss. At the door to the inner sanctum belonging to Quddus Sadiq-Fath stood two guards from the darughih’s Special Operatives. Nearby was the large desk area of Walid, the personal secretary.

  Walid blinked like a cat dropped into bright sunlight after being asleep in the shade, “Good day, Muhit, did you want to see the darughih?”

  “I’ve a note to be delivered,” responded Ali Muhit.

  “Uh, just a minute,” Walid said and leaned toward the intercom. “Darughih? Your lieutenant is here.” Some mumbles came through the speaker and he nodded. “Yessir.”

  He waved at Muhit, “Go right in, sir.”

  Quddus Sadiq-Fath resembled an animation-movie line drawing of a bad guy even to the squared facial features and perfectly trimmed mustache. His khaki uniform was as starched and precise as it could possibly be, giving the cruelly handsome man an almost inhuman look. He was signing directives and reports. The cold, black eyes looked up.

  “What have we got?”

  “A message from the operative at the Good Gate, sir,” the lieutenant lowered his creaky body into the chair closest to the far corner of the antique ebony wood desk. “Haji Mansur has entered Lebanon and is on his way to Beirut.”

  “Ahhh,” Quddus sat back and peaked his fingers together in a church steeple. “I wonder why. Obviously Emigrant Women has sent him on a mission. Is there any indication of where he’s headed next?”

  “No, sir. None. The taxi dropped him off at the Hilton Hotel.” Ali Muhit handed the note to his boss who took it and scanned it.

  “Not much here,” muttered Sadiq-Fath. “What about our Beirut operatives? Haven’t they set up surveillance yet?”

  “There was nothing from them today so far. Shall I push them?” The lieutenant sat forward, ready to go.

  “Yes, yes,” Sadiq-Fath nodded, “and nothing’s come in from the operative in California?”

  With a frustrated grimace, Muhit shook his head. “Not that you want to hear, Darughih.”

  “Please tell me what it is that I do not want to hear,” the cold eyes sparkled with something approximating humor as the hands dropped to the desk.

  “The night operative watching the widow’s farm was chased and bitten by the large dog that guards the property. I understand,” Ali Muhit could not restrain a crackly chuckle, “the part of the anatomy caught by the dog will render our operative unable to sit down for a while.”

  “Ha!” the darughih laughed once and went directly on, “So where does that leave us with information about Mrs. Ixey’s activities?”

  “It meant there was no tap put on her telephone,” Muhit confessed, “it means we do not know what her schedule is or when she is due to go to Sweden. We do know she must travel to Norrkoping to register as a Swedish citizen in order to take over inheritance of the baron’s estate, that much we got from our Swedish informant. But, we are handicapped—so to say—in California.”

  “And Tidewater’s operatives? Have they acquired more information than our dog meat?” growled Sadiq-Fath.

  “I am afraid they have.” Ali Muhit shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “A black agent named Claybourne got a tap on their telephone line last night while Faqir was fending off the dog.”

  “May Allah preserve us from stupid operatives,” the darughih shook his head. “It appears I must call Tidewater to find out what Mrs. Ixey is up to. Do tell me, Lieutenant, do we have a more competent agent on duty now?”

  “Yessir,” the old man smiled, “this agent brought American hamburgers with him and has managed to convince the mutt he means no harm. So it says in his report at noon today.”

  “I am pleased,” Quddus Sadiq-Fath’s voice did not indicate pleasure, “we have established diplomatic relations with the Ixey’s dog. What a commendable step! Is there a reason the dog simply wasn’t killed?”

  Muhit shook his head again, “Not a good idea in the United States, sir. Dogs and cats are considered part of the family. A dead dog would have instantly brought suspicion onto the watchers, and then the local police would have investigated.”

  “Shame,” said Sadiq-Fath, spreading his fingers on the desk, stretching them. “Truly, the Americans are strange people. You are correct though. I remember in university how some of my dorm mates would go to tremendous lengths to have pets in their rooms despite the regulations against them. And spend fantastic sums of money keeping their pets happy and healthy!”

  “Yessir,” Muhit agreed, shaking his head in mutual mock amazement.

  The darughih looked down at his hands and resignedly put his chin on his chest. “I will call Tidewater and find out what is going on. Do we have any tidbits to feed back to him?”

  “Only the news of the haji crossing the border into Lebanon.”

  “Perhaps that will be enough,” said Quddus Sadiq-Fath and punching the intercom for Walid, ordered, “Get me a linkup to Marion Tidewater’s office immediately.”

  “Yes, Commander,” came the computer guy’s voice.

  ***

  Tidewater’s secretary was just handing Russ Snow a first cup of coffee as he sat down at the computer in his cubbyhole when the phone rang. She answered it, listened, and handed it to Russ.

  “A call coming in from Iran, Mr. Snow, and Mr. Tidewater hasn’t arrived yet. You better take it.”

  “Thank you.” Russ accepted the receiver. “I’ll deal with it.” He waved her out of the tiny room and closed the door after her. “Yes, good morning,” he said into the phone.

  When the conversation was finished he felt slimy. True, he’d had a good laugh at the image of the Iranian operative running down the street with the farm dog munching on his hinder parts and ripping his pants, but that didn’t ease the unpleasant guilt responses about telling Sadiq-Fath of the Ixey’s travel schedule. There had, though, been a good trade-off, which would make Tidewater happy. The news about Haji Mansur was undoubtedly valuable.

  This was proven accurate a few moments later when Marion Tidewater arrived and Russ handed him the recording of the conversation between himself and the darughih. As he listened, Tidewater’s eyebrows went up and he grinned broadly.

  “Time to let our buddy Yusef in on this. What a plum!” exclaimed Tidewater reaching for the phone. “Whenever Habib Mansur goes to the Beirut Hilton, you can bet your britches that’s the first part of his pilgrimage into Saudi Arabia to rescue some woman and my best guess is he’ll be accompanied by Tahireh Ibrahim. Have you read about her in the reports, Snow?”

  The Native American shook his head.

  Tidewater lifted his phone and said to his secretary, “Lily, honey, get me a satellite link to Saudi Arabia and Commander Yusef’s office, will you?” Tidewater glanced up at his personal assistant while waiting for the link-up. “Ibrahim is a Baha’i. She’s been on Sadiq-Fath’s hit list since she led a woman’s revolt back when she was a teenager, which wasn’t too many years ago. A bunch of those women were summarily executed, but Ibrahim escaped. I understand she’s very beautiful. Too bad she’s determined to die young. That happens to anyone going against the Iranian strong men as she has.”

  Tidewater’s attention reverted to the
telephone for a moment.

  Fascinated, Russ Snow asked, “How does she get her money, I mean, other than what the EW gives in funding operations?”

  “I believe she’s a model. I know she works at various modeling agencies in France, mostly in Paris. That’s where she spends a lot of time volunteering at the Torture Treatment Centre.” Dismissively, Tidewater said, “Which is all good stuff. Really too bad she goes and helps someone like Mansur and the EW kidnap women out of Saudi and Iran.”

  Wanting to keep this flow of information going, Russ prompted with, “What’s a Baha’i?”

  Tidewater, falling into the pleasure of showing off his eruditeness, continued, “They’re some sort of heretical offshoot of the Muslim faith that came out of Iran back about 1860. They’ve got two prophets, someone called Baha’u’llah and someone called the Bab, who was martyred by the Iranians along with a bunch of his followers. The Baha’u’llah character was kept in prison in Acre for half his life. Not much has changed; the Iranians especially and most any of the Arabs take great delight in torturing and killing Baha’is whenever they can come up with whatever excuse is plausible. It gives the conservative Muslims the shaking willies that Baha’is actually have written into their religious codes that there has to be equality of men and women! There’s stuff in there that all religions are one, that there’s supposed to be formed some sort of World Justice Court or some such, and so on. Baha’ism has spread all over the world. There are some reports on it in our library…”

  The phone buzzed and Tidewater leaned forward, then spoke into the phone, “Hello, Gurgin. Do I have something for you! Yessir, your holy man, ol’ Habib Mansur, has checked in at the Beirut Hilton. I suspect you better watch your women!”

  Russ Snow didn’t want to hear what his boss was relating to Commander Yusef but what choice did he have? His job mandated that he listen and participate. Russ Snow suddenly realized he was more than uncomfortable, he was actually unhappy.

  Habib was prepared for the skittering when he turned the bathroom light on, but the sheer number of cockroaches triggered a gut reaction anyway. His stomach tightened and his skin shivered and twitched like a horse trying to shake off flies. In the glare of the unshielded overhead light, most of the big, brown insects ducked down the drains and hustled under warped wainscoting and linoleum cracks. He sighed. It was one of those rare moments when he wished his vow to protect all life wasn’t so firm. He would have dearly loved to take off his shoe and use the heel to send some of these hideous creatures to meet their maker.

  Once the majority of the insects were in hiding, Habib dealt with his bathroom needs. He was settling back onto one of the two uncomfortable beds when the tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap-tap on the door, announced Tahireh’s arrival. Before he could stand, she had let herself in.

  There was a forceful grace about the woman that demanded attention, and it was neither her expensive Parisian perfume nor the exquisitely cut, full-length woolen dress and tailored chamois-golden greatcoat she had traveled in. Without the high-heeled boots, she stood five feet, six inches tall and her figure was slight. Yet, her energy filled the room. Her dark brown eyes sparkled.

  She deposited her overnight bag on the floor, flung off the greatcoat and wool scarf, dropping them onto the other bed and smiled at her dearest friend. Her long tress of dark chestnut brown hair fell in waves down her back all the way to her waist and her skin, the color of coffee with rich cream, glowed in the evening lamp light.

  Habib threw his arms open and they embraced, not as lovers, but as compatriots who’ve shared many terribly dangerous enterprises. Perhaps such a bond is more intense than any romantic connection between humans might ever engender.

  “Have you eaten?” Habib asked in an innocent tone, pointing surreptitiously at the ceiling where the multiple smoke alarms and odd wiring running down the wall so obviously indicated eavesdropping apparatus.

  “I’m fine,” she replied, nodding understanding. “The bellboy should be up in a moment with my suitcase. It was, of course, well searched at the airport. It is always interesting to see how much of my small wardrobe remains after coming through the Beirut airport.” She laughed gaily. “So when does this tour you’ve booked us on depart, dear Habib?”

  “As soon as you’ve rested,” he smiled in response, “and put on your proper attire.”

  “Ah, yes, I must constrain myself again. Oh, how I hate doing that!” She bowed slightly to Habib and indicated the bathroom. “Have you disposed of the inhabitants?”

  “Ha! Most of them,” he said. “There are a couple though that defy the light, which you will notice I left burning. One truly ugly fellow was sitting on the edge of the sink, watching me as I did my ablutions. A truly insolent little creature.”

  “You did not kill him?”

  “Of course not,” he exclaimed in mock disgust, “how could I have determined if it were a he or a she? And I would have felt quite ungentlemanly smacking a female. Besides it would not speak to me.”

  Tahireh peeked into the loo and groaned. “Your insolent one is still on the sink. Well, I for one have not the compunction you do.” She rolled up a tourist pamphlet that extolled the beauties of the now peaceful Lebanon and stepped into the bathroom. A loud kasmaack! resounded from the sink.

  “Mon dieu! Le petit va vit!—Goodness, that sucker is fast!” came in French. “But at least he has put himself down the drain hole!” and she stuck her head out of the bathroom long enough to continue in that language, “Tip the bellboy when he comes, oui? Merci.”

  “Yes, my dear,” Habib said in Farsi to the closing bathroom door and as if by cue, there was a knock on the door.

  The bellboy, a thin Palestinian lad whose eyes had seen too much for such a young age, slipped the hardcover suitcase inside the room, and no further, and Habib paid him in euros. The boy regarded the holy man with hostile curiosity, aware as he was that the Parisian fancy lady with the Arab name, who’d arrived all by herself, would be staying in the same room as this haji. He turned away after snarling “Merci.”

  Habib moved the suitcase to the baggage stand. There were corners of blouses sticking from one side and a strap hung from the front. Whoever had done the search had made no pretense of it.

  “They really rifled through it, didn’t they?” commented Tahireh, coming out of the bathroom. “Let’s see if my robe is still wearable.” She clicked the snaps. It wouldn’t open.

  “I’ll lean on it,” offered Habib, and put his entire weight onto the case. The latches finally gave. There could have been no predicting the mess inside. Tahireh sighed.

  “Perhaps you should have met me at the airport after all,” she said and dispiritedly fingered through the wreckage of her belongings. Perfume had been spilled, makeup scattered over the clothing, and a bottle of shampoo leaked from the upper compartment. She found her silky robe, which had originally been laid across the top of the clothing, now at the bottom—where, at least, it was relatively unharmed, and jerked it out. Picking up the almost empty shampoo bottle and toiletry case, she stomped back into the bathroom. Another vicious kasmaack! echoed from behind the closed door along with a throaty growl in crudest French, “Take that you insolent beast!”

  The shower water started and Habib, smiling, thought how lucky he was to have such a compatriot-in-arms. He turned his attention to a sheaf of papers he had been carrying in his cloak. They were the plans for tomorrow’s sortie into the desert. The tricky part would be driving the Land Cruiser through the broad expanse of enemy territory without being noticed. He had managed to round up some fairly inventive disguises, but still and all, the Arab police, as prejudiced and stonehearted as they are, were no fools.

  Once he and Tahireh had met up with and joined the nomads and changed over to camel transport, they would be fairly safe. When the shower water stopped, he inquired through the door, “Can we leave tonight?”

  “Yes! I want to be gone!” Tahireh’s voice came back, “Give me a couple hours to sleep, an
d then we will go.”

  “Fine,” said Habib, “I will call and tell the rental agency to have keys ready for us.” He reached for the phone.

  Bonnie walked with a brisk, bouncy step to the barn. The day had turned out to be very pleasant after the fog had burnt off. A bright and sunny winter’s day with the smell of low tide and the cry of ravens and gulls, and Bonnie could pick out the raucous chatter of a small flock of wild parakeets in the eucalyptus trees at the bottom of the property.

  The massively shaggy Australian Shepherd came bounding from the lower pasture where he’d been diligently counting the ground squirrel population and greeted her as she approached the barn. He was grinning, his tongue lolling in doggy pleasure.

  “What have you been up to, Gryph?” she asked, patting him on the broad forehead and noticing the dirt on his front paws and muzzle, laughed and inquired, “Did you get any of those squirrels or just extend the tunnel to China?”

  He shook in seeming negation and galloped into the barn ahead of her and promptly set about digging for a mouse in the hay. The old orange barn cat, which’d probably spent hours waiting patiently on the wooden beam above that haystack for that mouse to venture out, regarded the big dog with vile contempt. The cat rose, stretched long, bony legs and knobby back, yawned sharp teeth, and ambled off along the beam toward the ladder to the loft, flicking his tail in a last sign of displeasure.

  As Lou and Dell looked around at the sound of Bonnie’s footsteps, Gryphon produced some ragged bits of material that looked suspiciously like pockets from the backside of a pair of rayon suit trousers. He gamboled up to the three people, flinging the material like a prize trophy at their feet, then sat, grinning again, waiting for the praise he was expecting.

  “Uh-oh,” said Dell, reaching for the scrap. She examined it, and then held it up to her mother.

  “I’d say Gryph’s been protecting us from an intruder.”

  Bonnie gingerly took the scrap between forefinger and thumb, eyed it warily, and gave it back to Gryphon. “Whoever he attacked hasn’t complained to us, at any rate. Here’s hoping the poor man doesn’t go to the sheriff.”