by Ann Fillmore
Tahireh nodded and sighed. “Here’s hoping. Jani,” she noticed Jani looking out the window, “you can see the camp from there?”
“Only a little bit,” she answered.
“Tell us what happens,” said Tahireh and Jani, teeth clenched, nodded. Zhara bent down to get a view. What they saw was the black helicopter shadow swoop down again and this time point its nose toward the retreating figures of the three men. The staccato of gunfire filled the canyon, echoing endlessly. All three men were blasted to the ground. All three lay still.
CHAPTER 11: THE DUST AND THE WIND
The i-Shibl compound was in an uproar. Vizier Rida had mobilized every guard, on duty or not. It looked good, he told himself, although personally, in his most hidden thoughts, he felt it was gathering up rope to tie the camel after it had joined the wild ones. Rida was going through the motions. He did what appeared competent to do at this point. Anything, for he had been stunned by the sultan’s response when he had told him about the absence of the women and what his suspicions were. Rida expected to be dead and here he was, busily working.
Sheikh Sultan Rassid i-Shibl, sitting up in bed with his third wife next to him, had listened patiently. He shook his head, shrugged, and said in a rather calm voice, “What could you do, Rida? Handcuff them to their beds each night? That’s why I had Yusef out here, to see if there was any breach of security we’d overlooked. Obviously, if the head of Saudi security can’t figure out EW’s methods, how can we be expected to do better?”
“Your highness…” the vizier had attempted to repeat his apology.
“No, Rida, we did all we could do. You did the best you could. When Yusef gets here, we’ll put it in his hands and see if he can find them. That’s his job, right?” The sheikh seemed resigned. “Tell me when he arrives.”
“Yes, sire,” said Rida, and backed out of the bedroom.
A guard, breathless from running, met him in the hall. “Commander Yusef called. He expects to be here momentarily and asks to use a computer.”
“Of course, which one?”
“He said the one with the fastest…something.”
“That would be the one in the office, let’s go make sure it’s available for him,” said the vizier and they headed for the other end of the compound.
Lily, her eyes not fully open yet, was unlocking the office door as Marion Tidewater came pounding down the hall. He pushed through the door and toward his office as she shut the door behind them.
“Where’s Russ Snow?” he demanded.
“His home phone’s been disconnected,” Lily said in a loud enough voice to carry across the room and to his office.
“What?” he halted at his own door.
Lily hustled to her own desk. “I asked the phone service about it, they told me he ordered it disconnected with no forwarding number as of five p.m. last night.”
“But…but…” Tidewater ran a hand over his head, “I don’t know squat about computers, he has everything all set up in there.”
The messenger delivery envelope lay on top of everything else on Lily’s desk. Curious, she slit it open, took out the single sheet of writing paper, read it. Her eyes, full of amazement, looked up at her boss. “He’s quit. He’s gone.”
“Who?”
“Russell Snow. He’s quit the Agency and he’s left town.” Lily handed the letter to Tidewater, who, upon reading the letter, stood for a full minute with his mouth open.
“This has never happened before,” he said in a whisper, “that I know of. Find me another computer geek, now. Right this minute. Tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” she responded and began pressing buttons.
Commander Gurgin Yusef did not receive the expected telephone call from Marion Tidewater until almost three-quarters the distance between Khalid Military City and the i-Shibl compound. His assistant handed him the cell phone.
“North and northwest quadrant, all the photos you want,” said Tidewater, “that do you?”
“Excellently,” said Yusef, “and what is on those photos?”
“Well, I’m not sure what you’re looking for, Commander,” replied Tidewater.
“Caravans. I must see who is in the three caravans that departed the i-Shibl residence yesterday afternoon and where they camped, if they did, and where they ended up. That is what I must have,” Commander Yusef explained in a loud voice to compensate for the increasing noise of the fierce winds.
“Caravans you shall have,” answered Tidewater, “and sorry about taking so long, had a little glitch here. We’re back on track though. We’ll have it on your computer screen in a flash.”
“Good. When we arrive at the sheikh’s compound, I will call you with his Internet address,” Yusef confirmed.
“Does he have teleconferencing?” asked the Agency man.
“I imagine he has better equipment than you, Marion,” he laughed. “Call you in about half an hour.”
“I’ll be here,” said Tidewater and hung up.
The relief Carl-Joran felt as his American passport under the name of Carl Mink was stamped without comment could hardly be described. He was waved through immigration without a hitch. He contained himself enough to walk, not dance, through the big double doors into the waiting area. Like a giant balloon floating into the sky, like a stream breaking from a pond and falling into a chasm—whoosh, he was back in Sweden. The smiling face of Krister made the baron’s arrival on home soil all the more pleasant. Home at last, he sighed.
“Min herre,” Krister acknowledged as he took the bags, “valkommen! It is so good to see you alive!”
“Ga det bra?” asked the baron, “and yes, it is good to be alive. But, we are safe like this, you were not followed?”
“We are safe,” Krister assured him. “Ja, aven om din son ar anslig.”
“Ja so,” responded the baron, “I expected Sture to be anxious. Let me use the telephone first, before we head to the castle.” It took only a moment to place the call to Haifa and Dr. Legesse, who answered before the phone rang. “I am fine,” insisted Carl-Joran after listening to her entreaties to be careful. “Now, tell me the news of Habib and Tahireh.” He listened some more. “Nothing? Nothing at all?” he interjected. “Shhh,” he got her to be quiet for a second, “I must tell you about a young man who is coming to Israel to help with EW, someone Siddhu must check out thoroughly. His name is Russell Snow-from-Night-Sky, yes, that Snow, the young American Indian man who was working for Tidewater at the Agency. He is defecting and he has some idea of meeting up with Tahireh. Yes. Totally in love with her. Wait, wait,” the baron insisted as Legesse’s voice rose several octaves from its normal deep alto tone, “he could be very valuable to us. Just have Siddhu keep him isolated for a while and you all, each of you, interview him. Let him know his life is on the line if he’s faking this. Okay?” There was a moment’s silence as Dr. Legesse took in the baron’s orders. She reluctantly agreed with him and Carl-Joran bid her adieu.
Hoping he had done the right thing, the baron followed Krister out of the building and to the new Saab. Krister put the bags in the trunk and within minutes they were maneuvering out of the airport congestion and into the fast lane of the highway traveling east.
“Krister?” the baron asked as they got up to highway speed and onto the road leading toward home, “is the castle still being watched? Are you absolutely certain you weren’t followed?”
“I was not followed past downtown Norrkoping, sir, I lost them at the onramp,” he answered. “The castle though, is still watched. You must hide as we go east out of Norrkoping. The American agents park near the ICA store and the Arabs drive back and forth along the road. It is all very strange.”
“It is stupidity,” the big man agreed. “God, I can’t wait to come alive again.”
“Yes, sir,” smiled Krister. “Do you have any idea how much longer you must be dead, min herre?”
Carl-Joran shook his head. “Until we trap Darughih Quddus Sadiq-Fath and make sure he will not pl
ot against us again.” The big man adjusted the car seat to fit his legs. He turned his head to look at the comforting familiarity of the snow-white Swedish landscape whiz by. “Ah, Krister, at the castle, how are the women?”
The chauffeur discreetly grinned, “When I left this morning, the older one, Bonnie, was going for a hike to the river and the younger, Trisha, was preparing to cross-country ski. I made sure they were dressed warmly enough, sir.”
“Thank you,” was all Carl Joran said as he managed to get the car seat back a little more.
The guards waved Commander Gurgin Yusef and his elite search team through the i-Shibl compound gates. One young guard shouted, “Vizier Rida is in the office, you will find him there.” Yusef nodded and pointed the way for the troop of men.
Rida greeted Yusef at the door of the i-Shibl business office with a salute and motioned him and his assistant, Faruq, into the large room. Gurgin smiled to himself as he regarded the expensive, up-to-date computer equipment. He had been correct.
Within moments, Faruq had reached Marion Tidewater and was downloading satellite images. They were so amazing in detail it almost took Yusef’s breath away. He, with Rida looking over his shoulder, could watch each separate caravan pack up and leave. He could see individual jeeps and camels and make out the shapes of merchants and camp followers. He tracked both merchant caravans to their destinations. Then he went back over the action outside the i-Shibl compound as the caravans made preparations to leave. And again, he went over the images during that time slot.
He turned to look up at the vizier. “Do you notice that there is not one person coming from the compound to these caravans that did not originally go from the caravan into the compound?”
The vizier nodded. “You are right, every merchant can be accounted for.”
“How did they get the women out if they did not bring more people out than went in?” Yusef asked and Rida shook his head.
Faruq was squinting closely at the screen. He had gone on with the surveillance photos not realizing the two men were only interested in the merchant caravans. Abruptly he stopped the flow of scenes. “Sir,” he said to his boss, “look at this.”
Yusef leaned forward. “That’s the Bedouin tribe. Those women could not have gone with that bunch.”
“But look, sir,” insisted Faruq, “look at the boys coming from the compound.”
“Boys?” Yusef questioned.
“Donkey boys,” Faruq replied.
Yusef twisted his head around and looked directly at Rida. “Do donkey boys come into the compound? I mean, they obviously did. Look at the photos.”
Rida slapped his palm against his forehead. “I didn’t consider them. They are dirty waifs, urchins. No one pays attention to them, except…the sheikh’s wives run a delousing and cleaning program for the little beggars whenever a Bedouin caravan comes.”
“All the wives?”
Rida shook his head, understanding now, knowing for a certainty how it all had transpired. “No, just the first wife and Princess Zhara with the help of maids. After the health check-ups, the boys get new clothes and shoes, and they are fed a meal. Jani and Zhara have been doing this since we brought Zhara back from Paris, let’s see, six months ago.”
As photos clicked by, Faruq pointed to one specific boy who left the compound alone, before any of the others. This lone boy walked directly to the Bedouin camp and up to a man who stood in front of a tent. In subsequent photos, Faruq pointed to a shape that seemed to be an old woman with a teenage boy who also left the compound unaccompanied by donkey boys and who went straight to the Bedouin camp, stopping at the same tent, the same man. The teenage boy left the man and old woman and joined the Bedouin donkey boys who had stayed in camp and the donkeys. Fifteen minutes later, all the donkey boys who had gone into the compound two hours before came out.
“Enlarge those photos,” Yusef ordered and Faruq complied. The shadows of the late afternoon made the figures very distorted, but Yusef slapped his fist into his hand and grinned. “Habib Mansur. That is he, I am certain. The woman with him, who joined up with him here, that is Jani i-Shibl. The first boy? I am certain that is Zhara. We have them.” He almost shouted at his assistant, “Find where the caravan stopped.”
“Yessir,” said Faruq and continued the surveillance photos. “Hard to see in the dark, sir,” he said, “and the sandstorm is covering their tracks.” The minutes passed by. “Found it,” he finally said. “They passed by Ras al Khafii and went on to here, about fifty miles outside of Rumah, staying on the high desert. Here, see, as the sun comes up, they’re entering the Grand Wadi. The satellite can’t see into the canyon well because of the angle of the cliffs. The cameras only pick up the water, but this is definitely where the caravan stops. This last photo? It was taken about an hour and a half ago. No one has come out of the canyon from either end. They’re in there, in the wadi, at the oasis. They’re camping there.”
“Good work, Faruq,” said Commander Yusef and jerked his cell phone from its holder. He pushed redial and got Tidewater, “We found them, yes, both women. They are with the Haji Habib Mansur. Yes, it is an Emigrant Women operation. I’m ordering up a helicopter and we are on the way.”
As the baron was disembarking in Sweden, Russ Snow, in Tel Aviv, was retrieving his big suitcase and shoulder bag from Israeli Customs. Both suitcase and shoulder bag had been thoroughly searched. He, himself, had been gone over with sensing equipment. He had been interviewed again and again and again as to his intentions in Israel, his destination, if he had friends and/or business acquaintances. They would finish interviewing, he thought he could move on, and abruptly another interviewer would appear and start it all over again. Finally, suddenly, in mid-sentence, a person Russ assumed to be a supervisor or superior officer simply nodded to the present interviewer and with a sweep of the hand, he was motioned onto the painted pathway toward the immigration desks. All along the pathway, young Israeli soldiers stood on alert with rifles at the ready. Russell could not believe the level of security. These soldiers were not just bored guards, they were frontline troops ready to defend their home.
He ended up mixed into a flow of Japanese tourists, laden with cameras, who politely moved one by one toward the immigration desks. At the immigration desk he reached, a very tough young woman, backed by the requisite armed guard, questioned him again about why he was in Israel. When he said for the zillionth time that he was here to join the EW, she snapped at him, “Stay standing right there,” and she turned around and motioned to another immigration officer. They conversed in Hebrew, briefly, seriously, and the other officer stepped into a guarded room behind the desks and came out with a short East Indian man, a Hindi by his turban, who hurried directly to the immigration woman. He pulled a passport wallet from his coat pocket and extracted several ID cards and a formal letter and handed them to the serious young woman. He glanced surreptitiously at Russ as the ID cards were scrutinized.
The serious woman handed the cards back to the man and actually smiled at Russ. In perfect British English she said, “Seems you have been telling the truth. Mr. Prakash here has come to collect you.”
“Coll…collect me?” Russ’s eyebrows raised.
The woman grinned and nodded and swept him by with her hand as Prakash took him by the elbow to guide him through. Russ had only seconds to grab up his baggage.
“You come with me,” Siddhu said resolutely, and in a very adamant tone continued, “You are lucky, very, very lucky the baron called us and told us you were attempting to come to EW or otherwise you would be on your way to an Israeli jail. They are not nice. You do not want to go to Israeli jails. Now you come with me and you do just what I say or the soldiers will be on you in a heartbeat.”
“Uhh…I take it you’re Mr. Singh Siddhu Prakash?”
“No, I am Siddhu Singh Prakash. Do not talk too much. Be quick.” They sped through the airport terminal and out into the warm sun. Siddhu did not release his elbow once. At the curb, the Indian man
raised a hand to signal to a far-away Mercedes. Within minutes the car was in front of them and a small Arab man leaped from the driver’s seat. He literally threw Russ’s suitcase into the trunk before opening the back door.
“In,” ordered Siddhu Singh Prakash. Russ slid in; the Arab man slammed the door shut and jumped in the driver’s side. Off they went, in and out of traffic and onto a highway.
Siddhu motioned toward the Arab man, “Russell Snow, you are meeting Taqi Nabil-Nasiri d’Din.” The driver nodded without diverting his eyes from the road.
Smiling, Russ said, “Your name is longer than you are.”
“Ha!” laughed Siddhu and translated for the driver who roared with laughter and responded with several sentences. Siddhu said to Russ, “He believes you are correct. He says your name, although very long, is not as long as you are tall.”
“Right,” said Russ and felt the atmosphere become instantly much friendlier.
“You may as well relax, Russ Snow-from-Night-Sky, it is a long journey to Haifa.”
Siddhu settled back into his seat. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? We will stop along the way, perhaps at a cafe` near the water and get food and something to drink.”
“Thank you, yes, the food on the plane was awful.”
Siddhu said something to Taqi, probably translating this last sentence because Taqi laughed as he nodded in agreement. Turning to Russ again, Siddhu repeated, “Relax, Mr. Snow. Enjoy the ride.”
Yusef ordered the pilot of the helicopter to land as close to the bodies as he could get. After several minutes of circling, the pilot managed to get the machine settled onto the sandstone area at the top of the slope mere feet from the edge of the encampment. Several tents bent almost to collapse in the backwash of the rotors.
The Bedouin men, silent and brutal, had surrounded the bodies. Each man bristled with guns. Yusef told the pilot to keep the rotors moving. For one brief second, he wondered whether his decision to kill the three hajis was a good one, but then he again considered the fact that if those men had reached the village, they’d have instantly become invisible. Only by the grace of Allah did he have the opportunity he did.