by Ann Fillmore
“In?”
“Into Tidewater’s files. His new computer jockey isn’t very skilled at making firewalls.”
Russ put a finger onto the screen, “Okay, okay…here we are. Photos from Commander Gurgin Yusef. Downloading as we speak. Bing! Saving them onto this computer. Take a minute to open.”
Siddhu came closer. He bent down. His eyes widened. “You are sure those are the photos of Habib’s body?”
“You read the writing under the photos. I don’t know Arabic.”
Siddhu peered into the screen and spoke, “Yusef’s assistant, a guy named Faruq, describes how the hajis were shot, the wounds, the way the bodies were carted off by the Bedouins, everything. Let me see that close-up of the face they say belongs to Mansur. Oh!” the Sikh straightened up. “Oh!”
“What?”
“It is not Habib Mansur. It is not our haji.”
“Seriously?” Russ demanded.
“Absolutely. It is not Habib.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Russ. The Indians’ eyes met and Russ’s head leaned to one side. “If this isn’t Habib Mansur, then what happened to…”
“Indeed.” Siddhu shook his head, perplexed. “Does this mean our haji is alive?”
“You better tell the doctor and the baron.”
Siddhu threw up his hands, “Yes. I will tell everyone here and you can e-mail the baron and his wife at the school. You have the e-mail for Professor Englich’s school?”
“The Weisburg Hochschule. Yep. Even have Freda Englich’s private e-mail address. No problem!” The smile of satisfaction on Russ Snow’s face was matched by the smile of relief and gratitude on Siddhu’s.
“Thank you,” said Siddhu.
“Hey, I only found out this guy wasn’t him.”
“Perhaps it is a good sign.” Siddhu danced out of the office and down the hall. His voice trailed back, “Dr. Legesse! Halima!”
“Go for it!” shouted Russ and began running a search to find access to Bedouin websites. He could think of no other way to obtain evidence of the continued existence of Haji Mansur.
Geneva, Switzerland was cold, but not as cold as Vasteras, Sweden. Geneva in the dark was stunningly beautiful. A city of exquisite jewels strewn around a lake and onto the sides of precipitous mountains, twinkling like stars fallen to earth. So thought Bonnie as they rode in the taxi from the airport to downtown. Dawn was breaking over the Alps and she wanted nothing more than to go to bed and sleep. Breakfast would be nice too. The big man beside her was snoring gently. As he had many, many years ago, Carl-Joran could fall asleep anywhere, any time. It was a handy talent to have.
The taxi pulled up in front of a small hotel that faced onto the white, icy lake. The city lights were blinking off. Bonnie shook Carl-Joran awake and they climbed out as the taxi driver handed their small amount of luggage to the doorman.
“Good morning, sir, madam,” said the doorman in perfect English, “your rooms are ready. Follow me, please.”
“Could we order breakfast?” asked Bonnie as they crossed the lobby.
“Of course, I will take the order myself,” said the man, holding open the elevator doors. “What would you like?”
Shortly after noon, Carl-Joran gently awakened Bonnie. After a pleasant cup of coffee with bowls of fruit—at Bonnie’s insistence—her calorie intake had to be cut she asserted, they went out to do business. It was amusing to watch the bank manager’s expression as he came to terms with Baron Hermelin’s being alive, but still dead. Ms. Person had forwarded all the paperwork. It did not take much time at all to have Bonnie sign the requisite forms.
What surprised Bonnie was the ease with which the bank manager quickly accepted the situation. Since his English was good, Bonnie inquired and the manager pursed his lips while squeezing his chin against his neck. When he glanced up at her through his thick half glasses, he allowed himself a tiny smirk. He leaned close to her and whispered, “You would be shocked, madam, to know how common such arrangements are.”
Having confessed this, the manager scooted them out of the bank and on their way. From the hotel room, as Bonnie packed, noting that her baron had not changed his untidy habits one bit, Carl-Joran called Siddhu and told him the EW’s account was accessible again. There was a fairly long conversation in Swedish about Tahireh and two Thai girls and then the baron called Carin Smoland in Stockholm. This conversation was about the Thai girls also and heated. Bonnie heard the name Barbara Monday over and over and finally, a sigh and the big man hung up.
“Let us go to the airport and meet Professor Englich and Princess Zhara.” He smiled and took Bonnie in his arms. “Ready?
“Yes. But what was that I heard you talking about on the phone, about Monday?”
“We need an emergency place for the young girls Tahireh has rescued. One is sixteen, one fifteen. Children really. We, Carin and I, do not want to send them to Lama Padma-Lakshmi in India because they both need medical care. London is out and Carin has her hands full with Fumilao and her two daughters who arrive today in Stockholm.”
“Fumilao? I’ve missed the history on all these people, dear.”
“Fumilao Makwaia brought her two daughters to the EW shelter to keep them from being circumcised. You know what a vicious procedure that is? No? I will explain later. Judge Kandella Moabi in Uganda was their supporter. We arranged for Fumilao to settle in Uppsala near the university in a community of other African refugees. Carin should be meeting the mom and her girls at the airport very shortly.”
Bonnie shook her head in amazement. “I had no idea how extensive EW’s work was. Somehow I thought it was like a big women’s shelter, sort of on a multicountry scale.”
“More like an underground railway. We have at least one agent in every country. Some agents have more power to help than others. Barbara Monday, for example, works through a United Nations organization and oversees women escaping from the United States. Barbara helped you through Kennedy Airport. At the same time, I might add,” he grinned, “that she was supervising the escape of the wife of a famous athlete out of Miami.”
“How did all this come about?”
“You mean Emigrant Women? It grew. Fast. We were astonished at the rate it grew. Our biggest problem has been to vet the huge number of people who want to help. Men as well as women. For example the Lama in India and Vaughn Eames in London and the pediatrician in Berlin, Dr. Norbert Nusbaum. Health organizations and battered women’s shelters and military adjuncts like Captain Lonnie Maxwell in Kuwait who got into it when she was doing counseling for military officers’ spouses. The list goes on and on. Communication has been a nightmare and I sincerely hope our new agent, Mr. Snow, can fix that.”
“But those men following Trisha and me at Kennedy, they weren’t there to help.”
“No, my dear, they were there to stop you and for some moments you were in grave danger.” He stood, zipped up his duffel and her suitcase, and put a smile back on his face. “We better be on our way.”
“That is one part I do not understand,” said Bonnie, “why anyone would impede efforts for finding safety for these women.”
“And children, like these two Thai girls. Come on,” Carl-Joran urged, “we have to go.”
“But why?” Bonnie followed after him.
“I cannot explain. Maybe Halima can find the words, but after all is said and done, you must reach an understanding of the great hatred of women on your own.” He indicated she should punch the elevator button. “I certainly do not have any rational answers.”
The concierge quickly ushered them through the lobby and into a waiting cab. When they were settled in the taxi, Carl-Joran went on with, “I have loved two women in my life, you and Heda, the mother of Sture. Perhaps it is because I am Swedish. Perhaps it is because I am of royal blood. Perhaps it is because of you. In my life it has never once occurred to me that a woman had any less status than a man.”
“To an American woman that is a bizarre concept; a man who truly considers a wo
man his equal.”
Carl-Joran thought for a while then he kissed Bonnie on top of her head. “Are you okay with my being royalty?”
Bonnie laughed. “When I knew you so long ago, you were not much of a prince, my dearest Carl. In fact, you were just a big clumsy frog and no one expected much of a change in you.”
“No one?”
“Well, I was so much an optimist back in those days, I believed kissing a frog would produce a prince.”
“Should I hop about?” he laughed. “My dear, have I not changed at all?”
“Not really. You have grown into the man I expected you to become—sweet, caring, concerned. It was always there. I sincerely hope I could claim some tiny bit of credit for helping you become who you are today.”
“Bonnie, you were the crossroads of my life, and I took the path that led me here because of you. I saw you as my lover, my older woman, so mature, so sure of yourself. I adored you.”
“In such a short time together, I gave you that much?”
“Yes, without question.” He leaned forward and told the taxi driver to stop at the Lufthansa arrival area. As they gathered up their luggage, he said to Bonnie, “We have eternity now.”
“As long as that lasts, yes, yes.”
“Baron?” A dumpy little woman, who could best be described as square in shape, wearing a severe wool, long-skirted suit and high-top practical shoes, interrupted them. “Good to see you. Is this your new wife?”
“Freda!” Carl-Joran smiled and hugged her, making her very uncomfortable. “Bonnie, meet Professor Freda Englich, our Swiss representative.” The two women, of the same height, shook hands, sizing each other up as they did so. Two alpha women, Carl-Joran noted and as such, the behaviors were completely predictable. He smiled. “Shall we put our luggage in your car?” he asked the professor.
“I brought the bus,” said Freda and pointed out into the vast parking lot. “Why don’t you take the bags,” she handed the baron the keys, “and Bonnie and I will pick up the princess and her mother.”
Carl-Joran recognized that this was not a suggestion, but an order and saw it as a good sign. Freda was taking Bonnie on as a comrade, not a challenger. He picked up the keys and the bags. “I’ll recognize this bus?”
“It has Weisburg Hochschule written on it and an image of our mascot. Right? You will find it near the rental cars. Come,” the professor linked arms with Bonnie and tugged her along. Bonnie waved as she was dragged into the terminal. Freda chattered on, “I really like that the baron has a wife again. He is such a fine man.” Bonnie nodded at appropriate moments as they plowed through the crowd. “Here we are,” the professor stated with a flourish that loosed Bonnie from her grasp. They had reached the immigration exits. An announcement, repeated in four languages, said that the Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt had landed. In the same wide movement, Freda slipped two photos from her handbag and held them up.
Bonnie shook her head, “How will we recognize them?”
Freda shrugged. “Maybe they will find us. Their cover names are Myrna and Zoë Feldenstein.”
Passengers began exiting the immigration area. They were about half German business people and half American tourists with a few Swiss and French citizens thrown in. Freda wasn’t at all ready for the Hollywood pair among the tourists.
It was Bonnie who instantly fathomed the disguises. “Those are our people,” she said.
Jerking her head back in amazement, Freda struggled for words. Bonnie waved her hands in true California audacity and shouted, “Myrna! You can’t be serious! How could you wear that outfit in Geneva!”
Without a blink, Jani threw her hands in the air also, waving them, and she and Bonnie kissed each other on the cheeks like best shopping buddies on a thousand-dollar spree. “What else did I have to wear?” She reached a hand to Zhara and pulled her next to them, “Remember my daughter-in-law, Zoë? Would you believe I’ve a son old enough to make me a grandmother?”
Bonnie grabbed Zoë’s hand and pulled both women along to Freda’s side. “Myrna, you gotta meet a friend, Professor Freda Englich.”
Whispering, Zhara leaned over Bonnie and asked, “If she’s Dr. Englich, who are you?”
“Bonnie Ixey. Well…Hermelin now,” Bonnie whispered back.
“We better move along,” insisted Freda. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your husband doesn’t have private investigators already working to find you, as well as Saudi security.”
“How would they know we were in Switzerland?” asked Jani as they hustled after the little professor.
“Wealthy men have resources we can only dream of,” said Freda. “You don’t have bags, right?”
“No. Just these packs,” replied Zoë.
“Good. I wouldn’t want to hang around waiting.” Freda hustled along. Immediately outside, at the curb, was a small bus, its engine running. On its side was Weisburg Hochschule in Germanic letters and a funny drawing of a Yeti snowman. The four women climbed in and the baron started along the road before they’d even gotten into their seats.
His eyes busy with traffic, he commented, “I thought I saw some Arab-looking fellows near the rental cars. Could have been tourists or businessmen, but they seemed to have some interest in me. Just as well we do some backtracking and zigzags before heading for the school.”
“Good thought,” agreed Freda in the passenger seat next to him. She definitely had one foot on an invisible brake and the other planted firmly on the bus floor displaying her discomfort at not being in the driver’s seat.
Two hours later, they were winding down the side of a sheer valley as the sun set in the V at the far end. Glaciers all around took on an orange popsicle cast. Icy brooks tumbled from cliff sides and met up with a fast flowing river at the bottom. Bonnie was in awe. Such beauty was difficult to grasp in one glance. She shook Jani awake and pointed to the small farms, the remains of a castle, the impressive buildings of what must be the school. Jani nudged her daughter and in silence, they drank in the postcard scene.
Finally Zhara leaned forward and asked Dr. Englich, “That’s the school? That’s where we’ll be living?”
“Yes. And working. You will be a student. It is a university prep school. Your mother has a position as a teacher’s assistant. You will like the school.” With a wide grin, Freda Englich said, “There is a surprise waiting for you.”
“Oh, tell me!” exclaimed Zhara.
“No. Wait. You will see.”
To get to the school, the bus had to go through several narrow lanes and a big gate with a guard. There was a high fence around the property.
“Why the security?” asked Bonnie.
“We have many students of famous families here,” explained Freda, “and truthfully, the security is to keep the paparazzi out. Most of the families are careful not to tell their children’s location, but,” she sighed, “sometimes famous people are famous because they like the spotlight. So, we must take charge and make sure the spotlight does not land on their children.”
“I can understand that,” said the baron, parking the bus near the front entrance.
Just as they climbed from the bus, a shaggy yellow dog raced from the building followed by a gangly young man in school uniform. “Charlotte!” he shouted in French, “Come back here!”
Zhara screamed in delight and embraced the squirming, barking dog. “It has been so long. Oh, I missed you so much!”
“How about me?” laughed the youth.
Releasing the dog to romp about them joyfully in the snow, Zhara threw her arms around the youth. “Emil.” A bit embarrassed, she turned around and introduced him, “Mom, Bonnie, this is my boyfriend, Emil Falleur.”
The baron held out his hand and they shook. “You’ve taken good care of the dog.”
“It was not always easy,” said Emil. “Several times agents of the Saudi security almost killed her.”
“And you!” said Freda. “This is one brave young man. Come along everyone. We’ll get you to your
quarters.”
As soon as they went inside, a matronly woman not unlike Freda came bustling up and told Carl-Joran that a message awaited him in the main office. He hurried off after her while older students, appointed as helpers, took the Hermelins’ suitcases and guided Bonnie down one hall, while other students took Zhara and Jani to their new residence along with Emil and the very happy, bouncing and now snow-covered Charlotte. They exited the school at the back and went along a path in the snow to a small cottage.
“This is for us?” asked Jani, astounded.
“Yes,” said Emil, “for you really. Zhara will eventually be staying in the dorm most of the time. That’s where I live too. You don’t mind, do you, Zhara? Charlotte will be here with your mom.”
“How could I not be happy?” laughed Zhara. “I am free, I am alive, my mother is alive.”
Her mother said softly, “Daughter, we are home.”
In the main office Carl-Joran was led to a computer. After a few moments, he pulled up the message waiting for him. It had attached files to download. His first reaction was satisfaction that Russ Snow was now sending messages and had obviously done something about the computer situation. His next reaction was on reading the message all the way through. In hesitant disbelief, he opened the downloaded files and examined the photos. It was true. This was not his beloved friend the Haji Mansur. Carl-Joran also instantly asked the question, silently, to himself, “If this is not Habib, then, is he alive?”
He quickly answered the e-mail message with encouragement for Russ to keep looking through Bedouin websites and an added instruction for Siddhu to start calling contacts in the Bedouin community. Surely, if Habib was alive, the tribe would want to get him back to them, or so the baron hoped. He read a second message from Carin Smoland about the situation with the Thai girls that Tahireh rescued. He breathed a deep sigh of relief knowing his most favorite stubborn French model was safe. But, what could be done about Dim and Milind? They couldn’t stay too long in Granfa’s building. Carin was correct. She had her hands full with Fumilao and her daughters. This quandary he must solve immediately. He smiled. He had Bonnie to discuss it with. That’s what he would do. He would encourage Bonnie to step in and devise a solution.