Way of Escape

by Ann Fillmore

  “You only half Menomonee, why not pass and use your father’s white name?”

  “Didn’t know my dad. He left so quick. Mom said he was a kid her age and he got killed in ‘Nam. Maybe so, maybe not. No records, nothing left. Maybe if I ever have kids I’ll go look up the guy’s history, you know, for medical purposes. Make sure he had good genes, mostly white from what Mom knew. I got his name written in my baby book.” Russ finished off the plate of Mexican food and sighed. “So my genes are half and half, but my soul is Iroquois.”

  Freddie kept his respectful silence for a long moment, and then sagely nodded. “Yep, I’m almost all Cheyenne. I don’t even know what the rest is, maybe black. Happened in Oklahoma a lot after the Civil War, slaves hiding out with our tribe. We understood, we helped when it was possible. And our women weren’t so prejudiced like the white society.” He refilled Russ’s cup with decaf. “What else did this Lily woman say?”

  “Not much, like, oh, that’s interesting and you’re so good at computers…” Russ laughed in pain, “Like I’m supposed to weave baskets or something?”

  “You’ll be back in the Intelligence Section by tomorrow. Watch what I say.” Freddie cleaned the last few bites off his plate, then wiped his hands on his apron and glanced around the busy kitchen. Satisfied, he picked up his and Russ’s empty plates and considered the fact that he ran a competent crew. He put the plates in the wash sink and helped himself to several dessert dulches—a cross between cookies and doughnuts, some pink ones, and put them on a napkin in front of Russ, who had shrugged again, muttering, “Like I need this job?” and ate one of the dulches.

  So an hour later, sleepy with his full stomach, he was sitting at his desk, reading the reports he had forwarded from his office computer. All he could think was that his mom had sensed the future again. The darkness was closing in fast. The Thai girl was up for assault all right, but Amnesty International made it very clear that it was self-defense. She’d been fending off the son of a Saudi diplomat who was trying to rape her in the kitchen where she worked, of all places, and she’d stabbed him with a butcher knife. Although there was to be an official trial, the outcome was already on the books, that the punishment was execution by garroting. Women simply didn’t strike back in conservative Muslim culture.

  Russ knew for certain, with the conviction born of his mother’s brother’s honor as a warrior, that Russ Snow-from-Night-Sky would not pass on any more helpful information to Yusef or Sadiq-Fath or the not-so-honorable Marion Tidewater. For example, the bits and pieces he’d pulled up on Mr. Granfa, the man who was trying to bribe the guards to get Milind out? Why should Russ condemn a man who was trying to do something good? No more. Russ printed out the material on Tahireh to read in bed. She was on his mind a lot.

  Sture wanted to pace the waiting area outside the passport and immigration check-in room, but there was a huge crowd milling around the big double doors that would soon open to let the recently arrived passengers out. He felt overdressed in his expensive wool slacks and trendy pullover sweater. He carried his matching jacket over one arm.

  Krister, in his uniform, calmly flicked the sign above the heads of the crowd. He had neatly printed in big letters: BONNIE und TRISHA IXEY, copying the spelling of their names carefully from the official documents.

  Sture brushed imaginary lint off his wool slacks for the umpteenth time. He was not happy with his father’s demand that he and Krister entertain the Ixeys in Stockholm for the day. Why not just take them to the castle and turn them loose? Surely his father was not going to be so long in Miami that Bonnie’s being at the castle would do any harm? Yes, Sture did realize that the moment Bonnie arrived in Norrkoping, Miss Algbak from the Pastorkirche would have a right to interview her, demanding that papers be signed, and Ms. Person would come to defend the Hermelin estate and things could get crazy fast. Sture brushed his pants again and Krister, very respectfully, harrumphed at him.

  Inside the immigration terminal, Trisha was pushing the baggage cart containing their two big suitcases, plus the carryon luggage past the nothing-to-declare sign and toward the door. They had sped through the passport stamping section with no more than a casual “Why are you in Sweden? How long will you be staying?”

  “It’s not as cold as I expected,” said her mother and Trisha nodded. “Yeah, I thought we’d have to put on our new jackets by now,” Trish said, almost disappointed.

  They pushed through the big double doors with a phalanx of other people and Trisha instantly saw a small man with thin face and pale skin, in a chauffeur’s uniform hold up a sign with their names on it. “Look, Mom, that must be them.” Next to the chauffeur was a very tall young man with untamed, ruddy hair and startlingly blue eyes.

  Bonnie strained to her tiptoes, but could not see over the crowd.

  “Come on,” Trisha pushed the cart in that direction and flung her hand in the air in a semaphore motion. “Wow, Mom, a chauffeur and everything!” Bonnie felt the sadness leap into her throat again. She still did not know what she should say to the son, the stepson she had never met, never even known had existed. How would he react to her? She deliberately kept a few feet behind her large and enthusiastic daughter.

  The chauffeur was the first to reach them. He had slipped through the throngs of mostly tall, blonde people and gently, but firmly took the cart from Trisha. He bowed politely. “God dag, mina damer.”

  “Hello,” said Trisha, half bowing in response.

  “You don’t have to do that,” said the young man tensely. He stepped past Trisha and very formally held out his massive hand to Bonnie. “I am Sture Nojd Hermelin.”

  Bonnie put her tiny hand in the great big one. It brought back an instant picture of the boy’s father, at the same age. “I’m your stepmother, Sture,” she said softly.

  “Ja so,” he melted a tiny bit and overcoming his reluctance, smiled at the pretty little lady, “I guess it is true.” He turned stiffly to Trisha and proffered a hand.

  Trisha’s clumsy big hand almost matched his in size. “Hi, I’m your stepsister. I’m Trisha.”

  Sture did not acknowledge this comment, but rather said, “This is Krister.” He waved at the chauffeur, who touched his cap and, motioning them to follow, set off, pushing the cart ahead of them, clearing a path through the crowd. The lanky young man, struggling with the English words, blurted out as they came to the front of the terminal, “My father wants…” he blushed bright red and coughed, “he wanted you to be comfortable, I am sure. Ja so? And you must be hungry for breakfast? Krister can take us to a good restaurant.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Bonnie agreed, doing her best to make the young man comfortable. They stepped outside and the intense darkness at six in the morning, plus the bitter cold hit her like a brick to the face. She quickly put on her new, extra-warm coat.

  Sture had paid no attention to her words. Slipping into his suit coat, he stood at the edge of the sidewalk and scanned the throng bustling toward their cars.

  Trish laughed her loud, very American bray, “Yeah, I’m really hungry for a decent meal.” She either didn’t notice, or simply was not paying attention to his discomfort. She too, was slipping into her coat, pulling up the high collar to ward off the deep-freeze chill. Sture motioned to Krister to get the car and the small man hurried off, pulling on his gloves as he trotted down the sidewalk, leaving the two women and Sture waiting at the curb.

  The wind blew fitfully, carrying what felt like shards of glass. Trisha looked around and commented, “How come there’s no snow on the ground and what’s this hitting my face?”

  “Dat is snow,” said Sture, almost as an aside. “You see snow on the ground very soon. Here there is pipes under the road? Right? Hot water from the electric plant? So, no ice, no snow.”

  “That’s an excellent plan,” said Trisha, standing on tiptoes to watch Krister’s progress to the parking lot.

  “And this snow?” Bonnie brushed at her face, “It feels like ice.”

 
; Sture’s flitting gaze had stopped on a small, dark man getting into a white Mercedes at the far end of the terminal roadway. “Ja so. Da ga det,” he muttered, and then glanced at Bonnie. “It is dry snow. Because it is so kalt.” He started anxiously shuffling his feet.

  Trisha did notice this. She turned to him, “Aren’t you cold without a big coat?”

  “Nej,” he tried to smile. It came out as a grimace. “It is warm right here, maybe only ten below freezing point?” His head went up as a big, black Saab pulled into the roadway and drove past the Mercedes and up to them. Even before it completely stopped, he had jerked open the back door. “You, fru Ixey and froken Ixey, you get in, please. Quickly.”

  Krister had hopped out and as he came to take over the door-holding job, Bonnie—Trisha had already climbed in—saw Sture nod toward the white Mercedes idling some yards behind them and Krister return the nod. Krister firmly took Bonnie’s elbow and bowed, almost forcing her into the back seat. As soon as the door closed behind her, Sture jumped into the passenger seat and Krister literally ran to the driver’s side. He said something in Swedish as he fastened his seat belt and Sture turned to the women, motioning his own seat belt fastening.

  “It is the law,” said Sture, again trying to smile, but his eyes flicked up, past Trisha’s head, and out the back window. He exclaimed a string of words in Swedish to Krister, who immediately released the parking brake and sped down the roadway.

  Trisha, as she locked her seat belt, turned her head to see what Sture was watching. She whispered, “Mom…”

  Bonnie looked around. “The Mercedes?”

  Trisha nodded, then asked Sture, “Are there secret agents after us here too?”

  “Too?” He finally looked directly at the two women. “You mean, they are after you before?”

  “Back at the farm,” said Bonnie slowly so the boy would understand, “we had two agents watching us. In San Francisco, at the airport there was a black man, sometimes a woman, and some Arab guys. At Kennedy Airport several agents, I guess they were agents, came after us and a woman from the UN helped us get past them.”

  Sture sat back into his seat, sighed, said something in Swedish to Krister, who shook his head, resignedly it seemed. They carried on a terse conversation in Swedish for several minutes, of which Bonnie only understood the words far, slott, fru, froken, and some liberally used swear words such as fy fan. Funny how she remembered the words her father had told her never to repeat. The chauffeur and the young man became mostly silent as the busy-ness of the airport approach road turned into a long, empty, dark highway. Far off, on the horizon, were sparkling bright city lights. In the sub-zero cold, they looked like crystals glowing. Bonnie assumed that was Stockholm.

  Trisha began to squirm in her warm leather seat and turned to her mom, “I gotta go.”

  “I will have to in a few minutes too.” Bonnie leaned forward. “Sture, were we going to stop for breakfast?”

  Instead of immediately answering, both Sture and Krister glanced in the rearview mirror. Trisha craned her head around also. Sture muttered, “Nu! Tva!”

  “Ja!” the chauffeur responded.

  “Two?” Trish asked.

  “Yes,” said Sture, “two cars are behind us.”

  “Shit,” growled Trish, then, “I really gotta go.”

  “We are going,” Sture said back to her in a similar growl.

  “No! I mean I gotta go.”

  Bonnie laid a hand on her daughter’s arm. “That’s slang for having to go to the bathroom, Sture.”

  “Bad? You need a bad!” The boy was frantic. “You cannot wait until we get to the castle?”

  “Bad, Mom,” whispered Trisha urgently, “what’s a bad!”

  “No, Sture,” Bonnie tried to be pleasant, “she meant she has to find a WC.”

  “Oh,” Sture sighed and repeated WC to Krister in Swedish. The chauffeur laughed out loud.

  “What the hell’s a WC?” insisted Trish.

  “Toilet,” Bonnie told her.

  “Oh, jeez, why double-u see?” The tall woman squirmed again.

  “It means water closet, dear—toilet.” Bonnie was getting anxious herself. “Sture, could we…?”

  “Ja so,” he actually turned and smiled at them. “There is good restaurant near. We stop. Eat breakfast? She can use the WC.”

  “Jag ocksa,” Krister added, a grin in his voice.

  “Him too,” Sture pointed a thumb at the driver. “It is busy restaurant, all times of the day. We will be safe there. And I can call my…I can make a phone call.” He held up a cell phone.

  “Can’t you just call from here?” asked Trisha.

  “We are not close enough,” the boy pointed toward the lights of Stockholm. “And the police, they not like people to phone in a car.”

  Within minutes, they came to a huge complex of lighted buildings, including a gas station, restaurant, and motel. Krister pulled in and up to the restaurant. At seven a.m., it was packed. Krister, Sture, Trish, and then reluctantly, Bonnie turned to look out the back window. The white Mercedes was just coming in the parking lot and behind it, was a strikingly obvious maroon Ford Taurus, with not one, but two very American looking men in the front seat. Their hair was cut in so above-the-ears-proper-style it shouted American agents!

  “So, we have company while we eat.” Sture opened his door, “The restaurant, it should give us free food because we bring business.” Yet, despite the humor, he was very nervous. He stuffed the cell phone into his pocket.

  Krister asked him something in Swedish and the boy shook his head, replying something. Krister got out and ran around the side of the building toward the WC sign. In moments, he was back and opened the door for Trisha while Sture held Bonnie’s. As the two women and Sture headed for the restaurant entrance, Krister got back into the Saab.

  Bonnie was going to ask about that, when Sture, holding open the restaurant door, supplied, “He must protect the car.” They stepped into the warmth of the big room and a waitress immediately approached to lead them to a table. She indicated a spot where three other people took up one side and Trisha opened her mouth to object. Her mother hushed her. “This is Europe, dear, we share.”

  They smiled at the other sleepy, weary people and sat as the waitress handed them menus. It took only moments to order plates of pancakes and sausage and boiled eggs. The older man of the three original occupants of the table held up a thermos pot of coffee, offering it to them. All three stuck out their cups and coffee as pale as tea was poured in. Trisha looked at it askance.

  “Don’t judge it by the color,” warned Bonnie, who remembered the Swedish coffee at Lena’s. “It’s very strong. I think it comes from Indonesia.”

  “The coffee?” asked Sture. “Yes, and Africa.” He nodded to the older man, “Tack so mycket.”

  “Garna,” the man replied, stifling a yawn.

  Trisha quickly went to the ladies’ WC and came back. Bonnie took her turn.

  “I take out food for Krister,” said Sture as Bonnie sat and the waitress brought their breakfast. He looked around, out toward the Saab and Trish and Bonnie followed his gaze. The small dark man from the Mercedes was seated near the door, ordering breakfast and the two Americans were at the counter, just pouring their coffee. “So I say,” muttered Sture, “we bring in much business.” He grabbed up a cup of coffee to go, a package of smorgas, and patted his pocket. Both women smiled in acknowledgement as he stood, walked to the door, then out. The agents all started up, then noticed the women in their seats, and sat back down.

  Krister accepted his breakfast sandwiches through an open car window and Sture made his phone call. He paced back and forth, conversing with gestures, his breath making big clouds of steam. It didn’t take long. He snapped the phone shut, said some words to Krister, and reentered to sit back down at the table. “Do you want to see sights in Stockholm?” he asked in a depressed voice with words that came one by one as if rehearsed.

  Trisha regarded her mother
for a moment. “I have the energy, but I don’t know about Mom.”

  “I’m a bit bushed,” she said.

  “Eh…tired?” the boy’s voice asked hopefully.

  “Yes, quite.”

  “Good,” he exclaimed, the delight evident, “then we go directly home, to the castle. You can see Vasaskjept, and other famous things another day.” His whole body relaxed. He dove into the pancakes with fork and knife flying. His mouth full, he stated with assured finality, “We will be much safer in the castle.”

  By eight a.m. they were back on the road, their little entourage behind them. The miles, or kilometers rather, flew by. They drove very fast; Bonnie figured around ninety miles an hour in the straightaways. Even with the moments of worrying about the black ice and packed snow, she did sleep, though fitfully, awaking to find them going much slower along a narrow road bordered by broad, flat expanses of sparkling snow. Dawn was breaking. She glanced at Trisha’s wristwatch; it was ten thirty. She’d forgotten that so far north the sun would stay up only a couple hours this time of year. And a bleak sun it was, though the faint light made the entire world around them a fantasy of white: white trees, white fences, white roads and trails. Only the occasional passing car or person on cross-country skis had color, and then not much as the car would have snow on it and the person would be covered with frost from frozen breath. Trisha pointed out the big dogs in harnesses, guarding their sleds in front of a small grocery store.

  About fifteen minutes later, the Saab slowed to a crawl to negotiate a turn into a very small lane, through a huge gate that opened by Krister’s electronic command and closed after them. Bonnie noticed on the wrought iron of the gate a large circular coat-of-arms, the same one that had been on the official letter that had brought her here. This was the entrance to the Hermelin castle. Her castle. She owned a whole castle. The jet lag was making her feel lightheaded and silly, and perhaps also, it could be the most unusual circumstances.