Way of Escape

by Ann Fillmore

  Another several kilometers went by before Tahireh asked, so softly she was barely audible, “I wonder if the baron has met his amour yet?”

  “Probably not, my dear, he is so shy, that one.” Habib stole a glance at his companion. Her head was nodding with exhaustion. He would get his sleep once they reached the oasis. He would feel much, much safer in the company of the camel herders. These people would not betray him, or Tahireh. The nomad code still held and he, as a very young child, had been part of that tradition. But that was another era, another time. He breathed deeply of the cold wind that seeped into the vent and let the subtle smells of brush and sand bring back the memories, such memories…

  His companion took her thick wooly abba and stuffed it between the seat and the window to make a pillow and her head was now nestled against it. Almost instantly, she began to snore lightly, oblivious to the dark desolation around them.

  It was as if they had dropped off the face of the earth. Each hillcrest seemed to end in the star-filled sky, each rock seemed to be from another planet. A very familiar deja vu sensation enclosed him like a warm quilt. He was going home.

  Baron Carl-Joran Hermelin had arrived at the Ixey farm just after dawn. He’d had to ask directions at a gas station in Morro Bay where a sleepy attendant at first shrugged and told him to look on their local map, on the office wall. Carl-Joran noticed the poor lad gulping down coffee and after a moment, the boy came into the office, much less grumpy, and said, “You mean the Ixey Posey Farm, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah,” said the lad, “well, they raise more ginseng than flowers now. The easiest way is…” The directions were then forthcoming.

  But Bonnie had left the night before Carl-Joran discovered when he braved the barking dog enough to lower his window to ask the little Japanese lady working in a greenhouse.

  She only glanced at him while mumbling, “Gone, she gone to San Flancisco.”

  When he’d asked further, “San Francisco? Where in San Francisco?” she suddenly lost her ability to speak English at all. She waved at a young man coming quickly out of the house toward them. Carl-Joran had instantly decided it was time to leave. The big shaggy dog barked behind the car all the way down the drive. That was okay, he knew which plane Bonnie would be on. All he would have to do was wait.

  Wait. Had Bonnie waited for him? Those months after he’d left her so suddenly, with no word coming from him? Had she tried to find him? The realization that she could have felt very lost and abandoned surged through him like a spurt of icy cold water. Toby had told him she was already dating someone else, that she had brushed off his leaving without much care. For the first time in all these many years, the shock of imagining that Toby may not have told the truth drove him mad. His teeth gritted shut.

  Luckily, the wrinkles in the road gave his mind something to deal with as he wound through the San Simeon countryside. He stared with hard eyes at the golden hills and wondered with bitterness if any of Hearst’s zebras still survived, or the buffalo? Hearst had had an entire free-ranging zoo on his vast property back when Carl Mink and Bonnie had driven by, but all that seemed to remain were boring cows and an occasional hawk or vulture soaring across the scrub. Almost unnoticed, the scenery began to grow strangely shaped pine trees, bent and twisted from the offshore wind. He was coming into the wilderness of Big Sur.

  His stomach notified him that he needed breakfast. With an almost hallucinogenic sense of loss of time, his hands turned the steering wheel dragging the car into the parking lot of an isolated little coffee shop. Surrounded by trees, it was virtually invisible from the road. No change…no change at all, the same as the day he and Bonnie had come for breakfast, come out of the Big Sur woods to meet Toby. He stumbled as he got out of the little car and stumbled as he climbed the steps to the door. The smell of oiled table cloths, of smoky lamps, of old cigarette smoke…the same, the same, the same…he put a hand on the counter. They had sat in that far table.

  He went to a table slowly, with the proprietor watching warily.

  “Hey, bud, it’s past breakfast serving, why don’t you sit up here, at the counter?”

  Carl-Joran shook his head. “Serve me here,” he insisted, “don’t worry, I’ll tip you enough.”

  “Sure, whadda I care?” The man wiped his hands on his apron and came over, dropping a menu in front of the big patron. “You want a cuppa coffee?

  “No. Iced tea?”

  “Don’t usually have that in the winter, but sure,” the man shuffled back to the counter area.

  Carl-Joran looked intently at the menu, not seeing anything in it. His mind was counting the years; he held up fingers, ticked off the months in that year. Yes, it would have been September or October, no, earlier because he remembered the smell of the eucalyptus.

  The iced tea plunked onto the table. “You ready to order?”

  “Uh, yes,” Carl-Joran responded. “A sandwich, if you have turkey.”

  “You don’t wanna look in the menu, or what?” the man asked and then noted the big patron’s confused expression, “Sure, yeah, turkey, and you wanna bowl of soup too? I got some great homemade mushroom soup.”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” said Carl-Joran, relieved, and as the man turned away, he added, “Do you have pie, that really good pie I had here a long time ago?”

  “Got a couple different pies—apple, pumpkin, raisin-mince?”

  “No peach?”

  The man let a small smile flick over his face, “Not in the winter. Hey, got a new one, a cranberry pie. It’s delicious a la mode.”

  “I take that.” He sipped his tea and returned to counting off something with his fingers.

  Somehow his memories were stuck on the frantic Toby shoving him into the VW bug, not even letting him give Bonnie a last kiss goodbye. Tires screeching along the cliff edge as they sped up Highway 1 into Monterey, winding through the back streets of the little fishing village to shake off their pursuers. Hiding behind some wealthy man’s house until darkness when they dropped back down into the fishy stench of the warehouses along Cannery Row to a small dock and a motorboat that had ferried him to the tanker. His new life had begun. The terribly hard work on the evil-smelling old ship had mercifully left him no time for reflection. When he’d jumped ship in New Zealand, he had pushed much of that history out of his mind.

  Here he was, back in the restaurant. But like a movie flashing before him, in reverse, there was Bonnie reading the menu, ordering for them. He could see the tears in her eyes, see her struggling not to let them show, her tiny hand reaching for him as he turned away when Toby drove into the gravel parking lot. “I must go,” the then Carl had said, “the CIA has found me, that is what Toby tells me. You will be in danger. I must go.”

  “I don’t care,” she’d insisted. “Stay! We’ll fight it. You’re married. We’re married.”

  “Toby says I must go because our marriage has no effect,” Carl had put his big hand over hers.

  As if the years had suddenly evaporated, he suddenly saw the weeks before the moments in this coffee shop, before Toby had taken him away. It had been summer. The nights they had made love on the beach in front of the driftwood fires, the nights in the cabin, the days spent talking, designing a world where suffering did not exist, where children were loved, where these two young people could be in love without worry. This woman, this tiny woman had been only a few years older than him, but years and years more mature. He owed every sense of moral structure that guided his entire life to her. Bonnie Seastrand. Bonnie…Mink. He had given her the name Mink. And she had not known, until this last week that it was a real name, that she was and had always been, a baroness.

  As the turkey sandwich and bowl of soup were laid in front of him, he nodded to himself. She did deserve his estate. All of what his life became was because of her. They would talk soon and Sture would come to accept her. Carl-Joran knew the boy would be okay. His upbringing had been good. His mother had been a wonderful mother and Carl-Jor
an had loved her, differently from Bonnie, to be sure, but the love had existed for his family.

  A peacefulness settled around the big man as he ate. Finally, he paid his bill and got back into the rental car. It was time to catch up, he thought, in many ways. The car grumbled over the parking lot gravel and jumped onto Highway 1. He wanted to get into San Francisco as quickly as possible.

  There is nothing as agonizing as having to wait. He checked into a hotel near the airport and managed to get a few hours’ sleep. Yet, he had dreamed uncomfortable, unhappy, tense dreams that made his jaw ache from clenching so hard.

  He was absolutely certain there were Iranian agents after Bonnie and there he had been napping. He jumped awake at two p.m., had a quick shower, and trimmed his now bushy beard, ate a quick late lunch and hopped the shuttle to the departure terminal. He had coach seating on the big plane to New York.

  He was standing behind a pillar where he could observe the incoming travelers when he saw first what was probably an FBI agent. What else could the tall black man in the brown suit with the almost invisible hearing aid-style transponder be? Yes, he even had the requisite trench coat over one arm. The presence of the United States security agency did not make Carl-Joran any less anxious. How could he know if they were any less hostile than the Iranian security agency?

  Speaking of which, he spotted the ISF agent, a small weasel of a man, lurking by the espresso coffee stand. The two agents were blatantly aware of each other, glancing past each other, pretending not to notice the other’s presence.

  A tall, gawky young woman, whose wild red hair could only barely be contained by a rubber band, stumbled over another passenger’s feet as she hefted two carryon bags into a chair. Behind the tall woman was a short, white-haired older woman whose beautiful blue eyes made Carl-Joran’s heart race. Bonnie Seastrand. It was she. He had no doubts whatever. She had become a very lovely woman. The mousy little girl he had known those many years ago had matured into a fine lady. Min gud, he whispered, and I missed this. I missed all those years. He eased further around the post.

  Who was the tall gawky young woman with her? A friend? He peeked at her. No, the family resemblance was there despite the height difference. It must be the daughter, Trisha.

  The probable FBI agent sat near them. Carl-Joran’s whole attention focused on this person, every protective instinct in his body aligned. The agent flipped open a newspaper in front of his face in an attempt to hide.

  The tall young woman with bright red hair laughed and it could be heard all the way across the room. So they knew they were being tailed. Did they know about the Iranian?

  Carl-Joran slouched as much as he could and made his way behind other people to the coffee stand. The ISF man was just being handed his espresso. With amazing deftness, the big man slid close enough to put a hand under the paper cup and tap it. Despite the cap on the cup, it popped and the thick, black really hot liquid poured down the front of the agent who yelled with the sudden pain. The little man, an utterly vicious expression on his face, scowled up at…no one was there. Carl-Joran was back behind the pillar. The ISF agent futilely brushed at his soaked and steaming shirt and pants. He glanced at the milling group of people being herded toward the boarding ramp. He glanced at the distant men’s room and made the fatal decision to take care of his burning skin. He half ran toward the men’s room and to Carl-Joran’s relief, Bonnie nudged Trisha and the two shook their heads in unison, giggling. Yes, they were aware of the Arab. The probable FBI agent hid deeper behind his newspaper and Carl-Joran took the opportunity to hurry after the ISF man.

  “First class boarding,” came the announcement as Carl-Joran emerged moments later from the men’s room, “please present your boarding passes.”

  The tall, red-haired woman, a massive grin on her face, grabbed up the carryon bags and nudged her mom. “That’s us.”

  “Yes, dear, let’s go.”

  Carl-Joran, also a smile on his face, watched the two women hold out their passes. His smile vanished though as the American agent pulled out his cell phone and, with one or two glimpses at the women, called someone. Carl-Joran guessed it was the man’s superior, probably telling him that the women were on board and out of his jurisdiction, or simply that the next agent could pick up the trail at the plane’s destination. When the agent turned and walked from the area, the latter guess was confirmed in Carl-Joran’s mind. He mentally assessed how many people were left to board the huge jet, and then hurried after the departing agent.

  At the next boarding area which was empty and out of view of the group he had just left, Carl-Joran slid up behind the black man and neatly, cleanly, snapped a quick stroke across the side of his neck. The blow instantly stopped the flow of blood to the man’s brain for a moment and he folded softly into Carl-Joran’s arms. Seating the man gently, the big man reached into his pocket and extracted the black man’s ID; he was Agency, well, well—and also the phone. Punching redial, he noted the number, wrote it down on a piece of scrap paper. Someone answered the ring.

  “Agent Tidewater’s office,” said a woman who must have looked at the caller ID because there was instant surprise in her voice, “oh, hello again, Agent Claybourne.”

  Carl-Joran scratched the phone to imitate static. “I need to get that information again,” he mumbled.

  “I can barely hear you,” said the woman. “Did you find the ISF man? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Carl-Joran looked around anxiously at the lessening numbers of people waiting to board way down the hall. “Yes, he is in the men’s room. He won’t be on the plane.”

  “Right, good, I’ll tell Agent Tidewater,” the woman said.

  Scratching the phone again, Carl-Joran asked, “When can I speak to Mr. Tidewater?”

  “I told you, Mr. Tidewater just left along with his assistant, Mr. Snow. Do you want me to connect you to the helicopter?”

  “No,” said Carl-Joran twiddling the volume dial, “I will contact him at the destination. When will he arrive there?”

  “Ummm, they should be landing at Kennedy any minute and I believe going straight to Immigration.”

  “Okay. I will call Immigration.”

  “Sure thing, Agent Claybourne.”

  Carl-Joran clicked off, wiped the phone and ID clean of prints, and slipped them back into the correct pocket. Agent Claybourne went on sleeping as the baron hurried back down the hall to the tail end of the boarding queue. He grabbed up his briefcase and duffel, dug out his boarding pass, and breathed a sigh of relief as he went down the ramp and into the plane. Then he saw Bonnie and her daughter sitting in first class. He would have to pass right by them. Twisting around, he managed to squeeze along the aisle with a chunky male passenger in front of him. Putting the duffel on his shoulder as he passed Bonnie, his entry went unnoticed. He did wish though, really wish, he were in one of those first class seats. His assigned seat, back in the cattle-car section, barely was able to contain his long, long legs. New York City and Kennedy Airport seemed forever away. He groaned and fastened his seat belt. The only good part of this whole flight was the fact that the Iranian was taken care of. Carl-Joran would, as soon as the seat belt sign went off, call Barbara Monday and see if she could find out who this Tidewater person was and which department he worked for and if there was anything to fear about his being at Kennedy when they arrived.

  The soft Mediterranean night wind moved with little puffs in and out of the byways of Haifa and in through the barred, heavily screened windows of the big EW building near the docks. Dr. Legesse could smell the rich mix of wharf pilings, creosote, kelp, seaweed, and harbor mud left by the retreating low tide. Smells of women and children, packed in closely together, assailed her as she hurried through the sleeping hallways of the shelter area. She reached the front office just as a timid knock on the double front doors announced the arrival of Taqi’s big Mercedes and Devi with the latest arrivals.

  Dr. Legesse opened one of the creaky double doors and smiled at the kh
aki-dressed Devi who had one arm over the shoulder of a small black girl. Behind her stood the mom, a solid African woman in glorious long skirts and colorful blouse and Mom had an older girl in tow. Taqi stood right behind them, bags in hand. Devi pushed the little girl through the door.

  “Judge Moabi wants you to call her right away,” said Devi.

  “Right now, at night?” asked Dr. Legesse.

  “Yep,” replied Devi already down the hallway.

  Halima Legesse turned back to the stocky black woman, held out her big knobby hand, and gently took her arm to guide her in. “Welcome, Mrs. Makwaia.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” said the woman, shaking with pent-up anxiety. “This daughter is Jo.” She made the older girl shake hands with Dr. Legesse, “and the other is Esie. Okay? Is it okay?”

  “Yes, everything is okay. You are safe now. Come in, let us serve you some warm tea and good food, or do you want to go straight to your beds and sleep?”

  “Tea would be wonderful,” said Fumilao Makwaia.

  The older girl, Jo, spoke up as she passed the tall doctor, “I wanna go to the toilet.”

  “Please, say please,” said Fumilao.

  “Please,” said the girl.

  “Go catch up to Devi, she will show you.” Dr. Legesse motioned to Taqi, “Their bags go into the fourth family room.”

  The small man, smiling happily, nodded and carted the heavy bags down the broad hallway. He was this way every time he brought women in, happy, satisfied, and proud.

  “Devi,” called Dr. Legesse, “I leave them in your hands.”

  “No problem,” came Devi’s voice, and Dr. Legesse waved the family on past her. She had better get that phone call made to the judge.

  As Mrs. Fumilao Makwaia sat her bulk down at the dining room table, Devi hurried out with a pot of steaming tea, warm milk, and a stack of sandwiches left from lunch. “This okay, Mrs. Makwaia? Until breakfast? We don’t know your diet needs yet.”

  “This is more than I could ever wish for,” said Fumilao as a giant sigh came from the very bottom of her feet all the way up through her substantial bosom and round face. The two girls came bounding over to her and sat, digging into the leftover sandwiches as if this were a feast from heaven.