by Ann Fillmore
“I saw the bruises. I am always amazed at the strength of these women,” commented Carl-Joran and, slipping into the passenger seat, put on his seat belt. “What is your schedule now?” he asked Barbara.
“I’m staying at the Airport Hilton tonight, then flying back to New York tomorrow morning. Sometime this week I’ll go to Miami and help the crew get Valentine ready for her new life in Africa.” Barbara held up her cell phone. “Do you have my number in case you need me to help with the Ixeys?”
He nodded, patted his upper pocket. “Your number is close to my heart.”
“Such a romantic!” her New York City accent betraying her origins and she laughed out loud. “You nervous?”
He shrugged. “A little. Of course. Well, a lot. She…Bonnie and I will not meet until we are in the castle. I intend to make sure she will not know I am accompanying her.”
“What a shock that meeting will be!” Barbara pulled up to the rental car area. “I envy you, finding your lost love.”
“I do not envy me,” he snorted, smiled morosely at her, and got out, slamming the door shut behind him. Barbara shook her head and drove away.
It took only moments to retrieve the Saturn. He cringed at its small size, but within another ten minutes he, with only his duffel bag and briefcase to accompany him, was speeding north along the San Diego freeway. Once past Ventura and onto Highway 101, traffic at this midnight hour was minimal and he made better time.
Despite the wider highway, despite all the shopping malls and housing developments that had filled in every empty field between Los Angeles and Santa Barbara, it all was hauntingly familiar. The eucalyptus trees smelled the same, the ocean was the same, the rocky cliffs still brooded over the ocean, and his feelings were flashing back, sharp and clear, as he was physically returning to where they had been.
Trish insisted they take her van. “It’s an all-wheel drive, Mom, and it’ll be easier to deal with the bags.”
“You don’t mind leaving it in long term parking?” asked Bonnie and the tall, gawky daughter shrugged.
“It’s been in worse places,” she muttered, “what with the teams of kids I’ve had to cart around all over the state.”
Gryphon insisted on jumping in and out of the vehicle and Lou had to forcibly shove him out finally, before Trish could take her place at the wheel. The noon sun was warm, though the breeze off the ocean was brisk and chilly. As if sensing what was coming, Bonnie let her face bask in the sun for a moment before getting in.
“Got our tickets?” Trish asked.
Bonnie patted her small fanny pack. “Yep.”
Little Misimoto bid them good journey, smiling and bowing. Lou and Dell waved goodbye and Gryphon barked all the way down the drive, until he spotted the stranger standing near the mailbox. Dirt flying, he scrambled across the field only to meet with disappointment as the guy jumped into his car and drove down the road a way. As Trish pulled out of the drive onto the road, another car, the plain white United States government issue car hiding behind the second large oak tree, came to life. The black man in the trench coat was on duty this morning.
“Either we will be exceptionally well taken care of,” said Bonnie with some sarcasm, “or this will be a veritable television shoot-’em-up drama all along the coast.”
“I hope not the latter, Mom,” said Trisha and headed for Highway 1.
Since she wasn’t driving, Bonnie could take more notice of the passing scenery. Funny how it is that hills and coastline you’ve driven by hundreds, if not thousands of times suddenly develop spots you’ve never seen, consciously that is, when you were driving. A house there, an unusual tree. Or you notice how the winter storms have eaten away at the beach around the lighthouse, or how few tourists are waiting in San Simeon today to tour Hearst Castle. A squadron of pelicans, in as precisely straight formation as a marching band, dipped and skimmed the waves. Bonnie truly loved this part of California.
“Mom, you were right,” said Trish, glancing in the mirror, “we’ve got both secret agents on our tail.”
Bonnie turned around. There they were. “The Arab fellow doesn’t know the road very well,” she commented.
Trish nodded. “But the black guy drives like he’s got it memorized. Like us.” Trisha sighed, “Oh, well. I’m not going to try outrunning them or anything. Highway 1 is dangerous enough without this sort of thing.”
Bonnie smiled, nodded. She knew she was in very good hands with her daughter driving.
By the time they approached Big Sur, the winter sun touched the edge of the horizon. As the shadows lengthened, the stark cliffs, the black-green trees, and half-hidden resort buildings took on an unreal quality for Bonnie. Then suddenly, there was the little resort they had stayed at for those brief few days—she and Carl. The cabins were the same, the twinkling lights through the trees made her remember…things. Things as they were, emphasizing the were as she was coming to terms with Carl’s death. How cruel fate could be, she thought, a red surge of anger slipping through to color her mind’s flashing images. She wondered what the title of her life story would be: The Sunset of Our Lives or How Many Roads Must a Woman Walk Down? It certainly wasn’t the Casablanca her parents’ life had been.
“Want to stop, Mom? Want a snack or a cup of tea?”
“How’s our time, kiddo?”
“We’re fine.”
Bonnie considered, and then thought, if we stop here, I’ll remember more. She shook her head. “No, let’s get on into San Francisco. I’ll save my appetite for dinner.”
“Okay,” Trish looked in the mirror, chuckled. “The black secret agent is in front of the Arab now.”
“Wonder if they’ll have dinner with us?” Bonnie glanced back.
“We should pick a good restaurant.”
“Yes, we should,” laughed Bonnie. “And what is it Muslims can’t eat?”
“Sorta like Jews, I think,” said Trisha, “no pork, no crabs, or shrimp.”
“Right, then may I tender the suggestion that we eat on the wharf?”
“Ha! Great!” Trisha laughed out loud.
Two-and-a-half hours later, they pulled into the parking area under the small hotel, the Franciscan, checked in, and gleefully, like a couple of wayward teenagers, took off walking to Ghirardelli Square. They picked the one restaurant that promised only fish dinners and took immense enjoyment at the fact that the Arab agent stayed out on the sidewalk in the chilly foggy night. The black agent took a seat at a distance furthest from them and seemed to appreciate their choice of restaurant.
After two glasses of wine, Trisha leaned over to her mother and whispered, “I wanna walk past him and just say hi.”
Bonnie giggled. She too had had some wine. “Tempting, isn’t it?”
Trish sat up, looked directly at the agent, then back at her mom, “Better not. I mean, we really don’t know how serious this all is.”
“True,” sighed Bonnie and at that moment, the black agent was joined by the woman agent they’d noticed arrive at the farm each night. The two chatted quietly to each other, then the black agent finished his dinner and discreetly slipped out the front door.
“Change of guard,” said Trisha.
Bonnie nodded. “What happens when we get on the plane, I wonder?”
“That will be interesting.” Trish cleaned her plate, deliberately staring at the woman agent. “Hey, I’ve got a super idea. Why don’t we walk up to Ghirardelli Square and pig out on a chocolate sundae?”
Bonnie glanced at the woman agent who was built very solidly. “Bet she has to really watch her weight. Yes, let’s do it.”
“Let me know the Ixey itinerary soon as you get it,” Tidewater said to Russ as the older man headed for his office.
Russ jumped to his feet, moving quickly after him. “They got to San Francisco last night, their plane leaves for New York this afternoon at 4:15. Arrives in New York at 7:35. At Kennedy.”
Tidewater, taking his cup of coffee from Lily, nodded as he sipped. �
�You’re one hot son-uv-a-be-hive, young man. Okay, get us a chopper into Kennedy in time to be there. I want access into Passport Control. She’ll have to move all the way from their national flight to the SAS International flight. Which national carrier are they on?”
“Delta, sir,” Russ replied.
“Okay. And pack your weapon.” Tidewater patted his waist where he kept his pistol tucked away.
Hoping that his knife would count, Russ nodded. He had decided, after carefully reading his transfer papers, that carrying the pistol he’d been assigned this morning was not part of his job description. “Are we interviewing Ixey? Or holding her? Or…what?”
Tidewater paused as he was putting his butt into the chair, “I’m gonna see if we can hold her up on some sort of passport violation thing. That should give the EW some fluttery heartbeats!”
“Yessir,” said Russ, being wise enough not to shake his head in frustration until he’d made it back into his cubby. He was having a very difficult time with this. What was it in Tidewater that made the man hate EW with such fervor that he would destroy it? Why did the rescue of terrified, endangered, battered women make him crazy? The Native American drew in a calming breath and ordered up the helicopter, sent an e-mail to Kennedy Airport Customs and Immigration Passport Control, and accessed SAS to see which gate the flight to Stockholm would be departing.
The tap on his door by Tidewater came as he scribbled down the latter number.
“Are we ready?” the older man asked.
Russ nodded, held up the slip of paper. “Everything online.” He grabbed up his leather jacket and bundled into it as he followed Tidewater to the elevator.
As the elevator shot to the roof, Tidewater smirked at Russ, “Ever ride in a chopper?”
Images, one upon another, stormed through Russ’s mind: smoke, fire, leaping into the unknown, flames licking at his boots trying to pull him in, or so it seemed as he and his crew dropped into hell. This boss, thought Russ, must not have read his résumé very carefully.
“More times than I care to remember,” said Russ softly.
Almost disappointed, Tidewater mumbled, “Oh. Doing what?”
“Earned money for college as a smoke jumper, sir.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Tidewater ducked off the elevator onto the roof ahead of him. “You’re a man of many talents.”
“Yessir,” was all Russ said. More words would have been wasted in the drone of the chopper blades starting their warm-up. The pilot motioned them onboard.
“Kennedy?” he shouted. Tidewater nodded. The pilot pointed to their seat belts. “Make yourself comfortable. It’ll take me a while to get clearance.”
Tidewater wrapped his belt tightly around himself. “Why? Just tell ‘em it’s FBI business.”
“That won’t go for squat,” said the pilot. “Sunday’s their busiest travel day. Squeezing us into a landing area will be like doing it without K-Y, boss.” He chuckled and adjusted his radio headset.
Tidewater clenched a fist even while he laughed. Russ, too, had to smile. He put his belt on loosely, not comfortable with being locked in tightly. After all, when you’d jumped from these damned machines, what did seat belts mean? While the pilot negotiated with ground control, Russ watched the winter traffic far below, crawling along on the throughway. He was going to see Mrs. Ixey very soon, and her daughter, Trish. And what would he say? Probably nothing, probably he would be as still as his ancestors had drilled into him for dangerous situations…make no move, listen, put no words in, take no words out, always do your best to walk in peace. That was the crux of the dilemma on him, wasn’t it? He was out of harmony. He was koyaanisqatsi as the Hopis put it.
“Got it,” said the pilot and started the check off on his engines. “You all belted in? Okay, here goes.”
The familiar whine and jerk of the rotors made Russ instantly sleepy. An old habit—if you were riding into danger, sleep while you could.
CHAPTER 8: TIDE COMES IN, THE TIDE GOES OUT
The bitter cold wind whipped Tahireh’s black abba as she came demurely from the hotel lobby to the Land Cruiser. Habib held open the door. She pulled her hood tightly over her head as she stepped up and in. Habib got behind the wheel and they started off.
“I’ve got the heater on,” said Habib, “you can take the hood off.”
“Thank you,” she grumbled, pulling the hood back. She was dressed completely in Muslim mufti: black dress, black scarf, even the black face covering. “Stupid, stupid, stupid, making women dress this way. I hope that hell for Muslim men means mufti forever.”
“You are a spoiled young lady!” laughed Habib Mansur, teasing her.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, “And I intend to stay spoiled. How can I do adventures totally wrapped up in hideous coverings? Eh? Eh? Bah!”
He laughed, honked at a donkey cart, and swerved around it. Most of the slower conveyances had left the road, a wise precaution at night in Lebanon. The roads here made the Israeli roads seem like freeways. They were soon into the suburbs of Beirut, which consisted of miles and miles of plaster and daub houses, many only partially constructed. In good Mid-Eastern tradition, the houses were constructed as the money came in, a living room now, a kitchen tomorrow. Slowly, improvements were being made in the suburbs of Beirut. The shelled out buildings were piece by piece being replaced by these half-constructed homes. People were getting more animals. More cotton and orchards were being planted in the stony fields.
Slowly, slowly, Habib thought as he negotiated some tight turns to double back at a place where a shopkeeper still had a lantern out. He checked his mirror. As he’d suspected, a small jeep without lights quickly turned the same way.
“Who is it?” asked Tahireh.
Habib shrugged. “Hard to say. Could be anyone from the Hezbollah to the Iranian secret police.”
“It would be the ultimate irony,” she muttered, “if we were taken hostage before we even got out of Beirut.”
“No, no, whoever these people in the little jeep are, they will not bother us yet.”
“How can you be so sure?” she asked.
“Because I still have my haji robes on, they will not molest a haji in front of witnesses. My status counts for something!” he insisted.
“Optimist,” said Tahireh, reaching up under her mask and scratching her nose. “Damn this outfit.”
“But you will have to wait to take off your abba a little while longer.”
“Merde!” she swore again, only this time in vulgar French.
“I will do my best to lose these buggers,” said Habib and turned into, and promptly out of another alley. No luck. He flicked off his lights, drove through a small shop’s tiny parking area, pulled around back, squeezed the Cruiser through someone’s driveway, and slowly peeked the hood back onto the road. The jeep was nowhere to be seen. He let the Cruiser roll onto another alleyway, and taking some giant potholes with gusto, maneuvered back onto a road.
Tahireh looked around, and around again. “I think you’ve lost them.”
“I hope I have not lost us,” he moaned, “oh, my!”
“Great! Our mission gets stranded in the alleys of Beirut!” she laughed.
“Don’t worry,” he assured her, “do not worry. I will find our way!” He stopped the Cruiser, got out, and looked at the stars, brilliant in the cleanly wind-swept night.
Tahireh also jumped out and jerked off the heavy wool cape. “Ahhh,” she sighed with relief, folded the thick garment and put it neatly into the back seat. With a light step, despite the thick layer of skirts, she walked over to Habib’s side. “Okay, so you are now going to navigate by the stars?”
“They served many men well,” he said and pointed, “there is the North Star, there is Jupiter, we are merely turned slightly around. Yes, I know where to go.” He took her hand and lifted it toward the heavens. “Remember them, in case you need to find your way.”
She laughed a soft, gentle laugh, relaxing a bit, “What need have I of
stars to guide me, old man, in Paris there are street signs and gendarmes to give directions.”
“For the next week,” he responded in a serious voice as he let her hand drop, “you will be on the desert, my child, and the desert’s roads are better found by starlight.”
“On the desert, I have you.” She hugged him.
“That may not always be the case,” he admonished her.
Tahireh felt a chill go through her. She pulled her abba around her. “I’ll remember your stars then. Come on, let’s get out of this city and onto the desert.”
“Yes, my dear.” He too laughed and filled with the anticipation of more danger to come, they climbed into their respective sides of the Cruiser, and Habib set out through the small side roads until the big vehicle could get up onto the highway again. There was absolutely no sign of the little jeep, nor sign, really of anything on the long, empty road, except an occasional feral cat, slinking away into the blackness or a rabbit whisking its tail as it fled their approach.
“How long to the Jordanian border?” inquired Tahireh.
“Same as always, three hours. Sleep if you want.”
“Maybe,” she responded, “maybe I will.”
Habib settled into the drive.
Tahireh said as an afterthought, “You got the message off to Princess Zhara? It is okay?”
“Yes, she knows when to expect us,” he hesitated, “did I tell you she wants us to bring her mother out also?”
“Is that possible?”
She saw his head shake doubtfully. He shrugged. “I couldn’t promise her anything. It’s another whole set of logistics we hadn’t counted on. We don’t have the paperwork, the costumes, anything. Maxwell in Kuwait needs a lot more advance notice to help in this sort of rescue.”
“That’s too bad,” said Tahireh, “I know the sheikh will use the daughter’s escape to terrorize the mother.”
“Perhaps even condemn her to death.” Habib was silent a long while. Finally, as they crested the hills where the once famous Cedars of Lebanon groves stood, now mostly the cedar stumps of Lebanon, Habib whispered, “We can only do so much, just so much, no more.”