Way of Escape

by Ann Fillmore

  CHAPTER 14: RESURRECTION

  "Monday is compromised?” Baron Hermelin remarked calmly between mouthfuls of thick oatmeal mush. He poured on more milk as he listened to Russ’s answer, then said, “She has a lot of powerful friends in the UN health organizations. She’ll have a way to get whoever did this.”

  Bonnie and Jani came into the staff dining room and sat down across from Carl-Joran. Zhara had gone to eat with Emil and the other students. Freda Englich was busy with teacher conferences. Midterms were about to begin and she had meetings back-to-back until Wednesday. A student quickly came by with bowls and spoons for Bonnie and Jani and another student served them coffee.

  “I would give her all the information you find, Russ, yes. Really, she can take care of herself, you watch.” Carl-Joran held up his cup for more coffee. “What else have you found out? Siddhu? Yes, good morning, Siddhu, good to hear your voice. You got a phone call? From Beirut? Okay. I cannot go to Beirut. Halima would have a cow. Can they come to the border?” He put a hand over the receiver and said in a whisper to the women, “Siddhu got a call from a Bedouin agency, very mysterious, maybe about Habib.” He focused back on the voices over the phone, “We have to go to Beirut?” Shaking his head he sighed. “Tell me when you know more. Okay.” He hung up.

  Jani asked, “Habib has been found?”

  “The message was left on one of our answering machines about five this morning. This machine is for the private phone line that can be used only by shelters that we have direct contact with, shelters we trust. Except, we have no such shelters in Lebanon. In Jordan, yes, in Saudi Arabia, yes, but anyone in Lebanon or Syria or Afghanistan must get word to a neighboring country to call. That’s why it is a mysterious call. It is why I think it must be Habib himself behind the message.”

  “What did the message say?” Bonnie wanted to know.

  “A friend of ours is ready to come home. Those were the exact words.” Carl-Joran finished his mush and with a grimace pushed the bowl away. “I think it is time to go to Haifa. My dear wife, can you be ready to fly on the first plane out of Geneva?”

  “And leave this beautiful valley?”

  “Yes. I will call the airlines immediately.”

  She hung her head, “No rest at all, eh?”

  “Nope,” he replied and stood. “I suspect tomorrow morning will be the earliest we can leave for Tel Aviv.”

  “When will you have more information about Haji Mansur?” asked Jani softly and Bonnie glanced at her.

  Carl-Joran shrugged. “It is not in our hands, Jani.” He left the room and Freda’s voice could be heard from far down the hall, “You aren’t staying any longer?”

  Bonnie laid a hand on Jani’s arm. “You have feelings for Mr. Mansur?”

  “Mister?” laughed Jani, “Habib, you mean.” She sighed. “There is a lot of pain in here,” she patted her left breast, “and I hear his kind words, I feel his rough hands helping me over the rocky path, through the sandstorm. I see him fall.” She smiled, achingly. “Perhaps it is just that he was the first kind man, a truly kind man, whom I have ever known.”

  “Like Carl is?”

  “Yes. Like your husband,” said Jani, “only Habib spoke a language I understood. If you know what I mean.”

  “I think so,” Bonnie answered. She squeezed Jani’s hand and smiled in empathy. “Well, I guess I must go pack. Again. Another week of this and I will be homesick for my farm.”

  “You have a farm?”

  “Yes. My husband’s, or rather my first husband,” and Bonnie shook her head, “no, I mean, Ike’s farm. Where I lived most my life. We grow flowers and herbs.”

  “How wonderful!” exclaimed Jani. “I would love to see it one day.”

  “Maybe you shall,” said Bonnie, “one day.” She finished her coffee and mush and stood. “From now on, I simply won’t take anything out of the suitcases.”

  “Please,” Jani grabbed her hand, “please tell me the moment you hear about Habib.”

  Bonnie patted the cold hand. “I will, I promise.”

  Ali Muhit rubbed his eyes as he came from his morning bath. They hurt. The strain of looking through the perpetual fog of the cataracts was becoming too much to bear. Soon he would have to take time off, perhaps even retire. He had dreamed about being released from his job, dreamed for years of being free from the tyrant Sadiq-Fath. He wanted nothing more than to sit with his grandchildren and watch them play in the sun. He gazed out the window of the hotel. The glaring winter sun did nothing to dispel his gloom. It was time to call his boss. He would not be pleased.

  Walid answered the call with a salute. “Muhit, sir, I have news for you.”

  “You have news? Of what?” queried the old man.

  “We have just received a message from our operative in Lebanon. Ahhh, the darughih has entered. Wait a moment, he wishes to speak to you.”

  A brief silence ensued before the gruff voice of Quddus Sadiq-Fath came on the line, “Muhit, you must go to Beirut.”

  “You do not want to know what I found out about Shamsi Granfa?”

  “Yes, of course I do,” said Quddus, “but I also want you to hear the good news. Someone is telling EW that the haji we thought was dead, the one Commander Yusef in Saudi said he killed? This man may be alive and there is a Bedouin group that has contacted EW.”

  “No.” Ali Muhit cautiously expressed his disbelief.

  “So our agent says. He has been monitoring telephone calls from the Bedouin support group office in Beirut.” Sadiq-Fath assured his personal assistant. “I want you to check it out.”

  “If you so order,” said Muhit, “although I do not see why the haji’s being alive is a good thing. Did we not want him dead, as Yusef wanted him dead?”

  “Yes. But, if he is alive and the Bedouin try to get him back to EW, especially through Lebanon, we can capture the agents who come to get him. If we are prepared.”

  Ali Muhit thought about this a moment. Did he dare speak his mind and admit he believed the entire EW pursuit was a fool’s mission? As close as he was to the darughih, for as many years as he had served the man, still it was not his place and never had been his right to overtly contradict him. Reluctantly, he said, “I will go to Beirut and see what can be done. Now, about Granfa…”

  “Yes, what happened with those women?”

  “I have been told by the Kuwaiti prison authorities that the women are dead.” Ali Muhit turned as the door to his room opened and a bellhop brought in breakfast. “As far as Tahireh Ibrahim? She has vanished again. I have asked our agent in Paris to watch for her and to tell us when the model Gillé returns to work. As for Shamsi Granfa…sir, this is a very important man. He has connections all over the world and that includes Iran. We cannot touch him.” Quickly, Muhit explained to his boss why Shamsi Granfa was to be left alone and waited for the darughih to come to terms with the information.

  When Muhit had finished talking, Quddus Sadiq-Fath instructed him, “Go to Beirut, track down what is happening. See what you can do. Plus,” he added, “We have a short report from an agent in Geneva. He claims to have seen a man who looks exactly like Baron Hermelin. That could not be true, right?”

  “Baron Hermelin is dead, sir. That is a fact.”

  “And Haji Mansur is dead our friend Tidewater tells us,” snickered Quddus Sadiq-Fath. “Maybe we have been played for fools all the way around.”

  “I don’t think that is possible!” insisted Ali Muhit.

  “Anything is possible,” said the darughih.

  “Yessir,” Muhit had to agree as he hung up the phone.

  Overnight, New York City had been layered with three feet of snow and morning traffic had wrenched itself into a total gridlock. Barbara hated being trapped and sequestered in the Ugandan consulate. She had to admit the small garden behind the kitchen below her was magical in the snow. Resigning herself, she pulled back the thick duvet on the single bed and crawled in between the cotton sheets. She was exhausted and a couple hours s
leep was what she needed more than anything at this moment. She’d told the consulate secretary to wake her around noon.

  About midnight last night, Barbara had reached her friend, Kumiko Yokochi in the United Nation’s central computer operations office. Kumi was responsible for investigating financial fraud reports submitted by operations personnel. Kumi preferred working when no one else was around, and she loved the little chore Barbara had implored her to do.

  “I’ll come up with something you can use,” Kumi promised. “I’ll page you when I’m ready.”

  Barbara had paced back and forth in the long embassy hallways and up and down the elegant stairs, from the immense kitchen that smelled of wicked peppers, sweet yams, tapioca, and other more exotic African foods to the closed front office to the bedroom she’d been given. Finally, about four in the morning, Kumi buzzed her on her pager and Barbara called her back on the consulate’s secure phone line.

  Kumi said simply, “You can go home tonight. Not now. You wait until I know this stuff has been read. But trust me, you and Emigrant Women will never be bothered again by Agent Marion Tidewater.”

  “How…?” Barbara started and Kumi hissed, “Better you never find out.”

  There had been two delays getting the transport plane out of Vancouver, because of the huge bank of fog filling the San Francisco basin. Trisha Ixey grouched around the San Francisco airport for hours wondering if it would have been quicker to rent a car and drive to Los Angeles and meet the girls there. A dapper young man from a local attorney’s office had appeared right as she had disembarked from her own arrival last night and handed her a large manila envelope full of official-looking papers. Trisha had had more than enough time to read through them and memorize all the information.

  Each girl had been given a new name and identity. They had complete high school transcripts from the Philippines and exchange student permits. Supposedly, in Vancouver, both girls were given passports that matched.

  Finally, about midmorning, the sun managed to burn off enough fog to allow the airport to open and by noon the jet carrying Dim and Milind arrived. Like an express load of freight, the two girls were put out on the tarmac and Trisha found them gazing in astonishment at the rolling high fog, the buildings, and her.

  “You are big!” exclaimed tiny Dim in stuttering English.

  “Hey, I’m a basketball coach, I gotta be tall,” responded Trisha and took both weary teenagers by the hand. The immigration officer met them at the exit gate and, although a little skeptical about their means of arrival and the fact they were dressed in the express company uniforms, seemed pleased by the excellently completed paperwork and Trisha’s credentials. A woman from the local battered woman’s shelter had shown up also. She translated for them.

  “We appreciate having the sponsors show up to get their foreign students,” said the officer, smiling, “makes it go a lot easier.”

  The girls ooh’d and aww’d at Trisha’s van and were even more thrilled with a stop at Denny’s Restaurant for a late breakfast. As hard as they tried to stay awake to see the Big Sur coastline, first Dim fell soundly asleep and then Milind. They didn’t wake up until lunch at San Simeon where they sat outside on the patio of a cafe and ogled the tourists loading onto buses for the castle tours. Trisha promised them that one day soon, she’d bring them back so they too could tour Hearst Castle. The two girls smiled as if they understood every word.

  The only problem encountered on arrival at the farm was Gryphon who instantly decided to be their personal slave and protector. Both girls were terrified of the massively furry dog and it took Misimoto’s firm remonstrance to make him postpone his quest for doggy knighthood. Trisha left immediately for her own place to prepare for classes the next day. The school bus would pick up the girls. They’d be enrolled in ESL classes. It was all arranged.

  Of course, it didn’t take a lot for the two girls, with gestures and pleas to coerce the dour Japanese caretaker into helping Dim and Milind shop for clothes at the mall in San Luis Obispo that evening. Trish found out about that excursion when they came into the ESL class the next morning looking like they’d hung out on the boardwalk their entire lives.

  Bonnie and Carl-Joran had been dropped off at the Nof Hotel two hours earlier by Taqi and had time for a quick shower and a quicker lunch. Taqi was soon back at the front entrance to pick them up and take them to EW. He chattered the entire way about the possibility of Habib’s being alive. As with most first-timers, Bonnie was taken aback by the ugly steel warehouse, the noise and bustle of the busy harbor all around the building, and the smell of low tide. Once inside, everything changed. Two different worlds, she thought as Siddhu rushed to meet them.

  The baron nodded approval to Devi at the rearrangement of the front office. Besides all the computer equipment, the room was bigger; the closet alcove was open and full of more equipment and a large, dark man in T-shirt and jeans who instantly turned to greet him. Carl-Joran had almost not recognized his newest recruit. He took Russ’s hand in his and pumped it hard. Devi hung back with a silly grin on her face, and when the baron noticed, smiling, she blushed. Russ gave Bonnie an impromptu hug, and she decided to ask him later about the expression of relief on his face.

  Immediately, Dr. Legesse entered. She towered over Bonnie like a giant black stork. “Come, I want to show you around,” she exclaimed and motioned the small woman to follow her. “This is where your money goes! This is what you do for women!” To the men she declared, “I convene a meeting in ten minutes. Siddhu, have everyone there.”

  “Very good, yes, doctor,” he acknowledged.

  Russ, Siddhu, and Hermelin pulled up chairs near the new equipment. Devi hovered over Russ’s shoulder as he and Siddhu reviewed all the information they’d put together about the haji. Russ also showed the baron an interesting e-mail from Barbara Monday who was back in her own apartment and gloating.

  “Got any idea what she’s up to?” asked Russ.

  The baron shook his head. “Something really sneaky if I know her.” He looked at the wall clock. “We better head for the meeting room. Time to induct Russ and Bonnie formally and,” he chuckled, “let them know who is really boss.”

  “Dr. Legesse,” sighed Siddhu.

  At that second, the private line rang. Devi grabbed it, listened, and handed it directly to Siddhu. “The Bedouin contact,” she said and carefully switched on the speakerphone.

  “I have a message for the baron,” said the young male voice in Arabic. “The message is for him to come to the Good Gate above Kiriat Shimona tonight at eight o’clock. Tonight. The baron must come. Be ready to collect an important package.”

  Devi translated and Siddhu looked frantically at Carl-Joran, who nodded and whispered, “It is a sign from Habib. It is he who is sending the message. Tell him we will be there.”

  Into the phone, Siddhu replied in English, “The Good Gate, eight p.m.”

  “Okay.” The caller replied in English and hung up.

  “It’s a three-hour trip to the Gate,” said Devi.

  The baron turned to Russ, “Bring what you have there and let’s get to the meeting.”

  Dr. Legesse had seated Bonnie to her right at the long black table. The others took their places. She listened, pursed her lips, looked down at the tabletop, and tapping it, signaled she had come to a decision. “I believe it is a true message. Only Habib would send the message directly to Baron Hermelin, only he knows the baron is still alive. The boy giving the message probably does not even understand the words.”

  “But Halima,” Siddhu argued, “how do you know they will bring the haji through the Gate? How do you know this is the truth? That Habib is alive, that it isn’t a trap?”

  “We don’t,” said the doctor, “so we prepare. Devi, tell Taqi to get the Mercedes ready, then I want you to contact the Defense Force commander at the Good Gate. Make him understand the danger that is possible tonight.”

  “Yes, ma’am, and I will bring my weapons.” She quickly le
ft the room.

  Russ leaned toward Carl-Joran and whispered, “Her weapons? She seems like such a mild-mannered kid.”

  Carl-Joran roared with laughter. “You don’t know about Israeli girls, do you? They serve in the military just like the men. Devi Hamberg spent two years as a tank commander and four years as a UBX officer.”

  “She disarmed bombs!” Russ exclaimed. “I thought I was coming here to help rescue women. Jeez, I really do gotta develop a whole new attitude about women!”

  Pounding the table for silence, Halima Legesse was trying hard also not to laugh, “There are women, and there are women, Mr. Snow. Soon you will know the difference.”

  “Damned right,” he muttered.

  “Baron,” Dr. Legesse went on, “here is how tonight will go. Are you ready?”

  “Of course,” replied the big Swede.

  The snow had reached Washington, DC and was continuing south with no letup. Whereas New York City took snow mostly in stride, DC did not. Roads quickly became impassable and impossible. Most office managers early on decided to send home as many workers as could be spared from their jobs. Tidewater let his staff go early and he decided to start the long commute to Virginia and his house. Little did he know that a courier had arrived at his front door minutes after he’d left for work to hand a large cardboard envelope full of papers to Arletta Tidewater in return for her personal signature. Arletta had never received such an important looking document with the big words: FOR YOUR EYES ONLY stamped on the front.

  She had been seriously considering going to her mother’s for the weekend. The news of closed roads and delayed trains had convinced her to reconsider. Instead, she had made herself a cup of Earl Grey tea and opened the envelope. The return address meant nothing to her. Some obscure department at the United Nations. Despite all her husband’s warnings about strange packages, Arletta decided that something from the United Nations was a safe enough bet not to contain a bomb.

  Thus it was that when Marion Tidewater arrived at his front door about four in the afternoon, he found it not only locked but his keys no longer worked. A note attached to a stack of printouts, all in a plastic bag to protect them against the snow was tacked on the door. He ripped open the plastic. The note stated simply that he should let her know where he would be living from now on so she could send him some clothes. Also so her attorney could send him the divorce papers, and if the thought crossed his mind to try and do her harm, she would forward on the copies of all his charge receipts and expenses to the Agency’s Department of Internal Affairs.