Way of Escape (3 page)

Oh, my, she thought as she tried to recall the faces of the people involved and the places during the summer of all summers. The magical places, the music of the Beatles and Joan Baez, folk songs around a campfire on a beach…dreamlike images. They had lost any sense of reality. That's too bad. That's really too bad. How sad. How very sad. Tears welled up in her eyes and she turned from Trisha with the excuse of putting the letter safely into a drawer in the kitchen telephone desk. Odd to react this way, Bonnie thought and shut the drawer firmly.

“What time did you say Dell was arriving?” Bonnie covered her emotions.

“Two. She called from Sea-Tac. The snow in Seattle has let up and they'll get out on time. They'll fly into Paso Robles and rent a car. I offered to drive up 46 and get them but…” Trisha paused, “You okay?”

“Oh, of course,” Bonnie stood, heading for the coffee pot.

“Damned menopause. Damned hot flashes.” She waved her other hand at her face like a fan. “Never know when they're gonna hit.”

“Maybe you should go on estrogen.”

“Nah.” Bonnie poured coffee for them both. “I'll take care of it. Nothing more soy in my diet and a few pieces of licorice won't cure. Not to worry.” And then she remembered discussing all this menopause stuff with Lena last week over coffee. Bonnie had been updating the reference system at the Morro Bay Library and had met Lena, who told stories to the kids who sat absolutely still listening to her lyrical Skona Swedish accent make the old fairy tales come real. Lena could translate the letter.

It was all Bonnie could do to pay attention to her daughter at this moment. Besides, Bonnie consoled herself, it's Monday. There was no way to find Lena's phone number as she didn't know her last name and the library was closed on Mondays and…and…Bonnie calmed herself. And maybe, as her pessimistic daughter had said, there would be a bottom line to the form. Perhaps she should be cautious. Perhaps.

“—got permission from old Toppenish to order those new hoops installed,” Trisha was chattering and Bonnie struggled to be a good mom and listen. “It's such a pain to get around that old fart—”

Bonnie's hand was slowly moving toward the desk and the phone. Maybe the chief librarian would know Lena's phone number. What was that librarian's name? Blast this forgetfulness!

“Mom? That hot flash getting worse?” Trisha asked, puzzled and concerned.

“Uh, no. No.” Bonnie smiled and put her attention back onto her daughter and the incredibly boring story of basketball hoops and the boring principal of Trisha's school…until, unbidden, the image of a white flower with a yellow center popped into her head and the chief librarian's name followed quickly after. Crannell. Under C. Daisy Crannell. In the address book. In the drawer under the phone. Near where she'd stuck the letter.

“Mom?”

CHAPTER 3: STEALING WOMEN AWAY

We know Baron Hermelin is dead because our Egyptian operatives sent us a copy of his death certificate,” said the lieutenant, dropping the faxes onto his commander's desk, “so why did Barbara Monday travel to Jerusalem yesterday? Who from EW did she contact now that Hermelin is gone?”

The sun would be setting soon over the golden dunes outside his office window. Commander Gurgin Ali Yusef, chief of the Saudi Security Forces, reluctantly moved his gaze from the beautiful desert world outside to his lieutenant standing in front of his desk. The craggy faced chief tapped his manicured fingernails on his big, expensive oak desk before stirring the faxes around and regarding his underling with intensity. “When did you find out she was in Israel?”

The lieutenant put his hands behind his back. “We didn't, actually. An operative who happened to be at the Boston airport spotted her in the El Al security enclosure. The only El Al plane leaving that afternoon was to Tel Aviv. He called our operative in Bethlehem who bribed a tour bus operator who found out Monday went to Jerusalem with a tour group specifically to the Christian church on Golgotha.”

“But why?” Commander Yusef pounded a meaty fist on the desk. “Is she arranging to take more women from our country?” His black eyes seethed with possessive anger. “Our women!”

“There was no way to follow her in Jerusalem, sir, it was late evening just before curfew and the Israeli soldiers were patrolling the area heavily,” the troubled lieutenant answered. “All we had was the Boston operative's assurance that she arrived back in Boston yesterday and immediately caught the train to New York. Our staff at the UN says she is in her office this morning.”

“Why can't we get someone into Haifa to watch EW?” muttered Commander Yusef. “Damn! It would make things much easier for us!”

Unable to respond, the lieutenant grimaced.

“You may go,” Yusef barked, “and bring me any update on Monday's movements.”

“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant slid out of the office, relieved to be gone from the hard old man's presence.

The reddish gold light of the late afternoon shadowed Commander Yusef's sun-dried face making the wrinkles and creases look like saber cuts. He knew his men regarded him as a brutal old warrior. So be it. Discipline was more important than any other quality in his command. The rule of order, the rule of the Koran, the rule of male authority,
his
authority had to be maintained. Coming to a decision he was reluctant to make, he picked up the telephone. “Faruq,” he growled at his personal aide on the other end, “get me Tidewater.”

“Yessir,” the meek man in the outer office responded and immediately punched the code for Virginia, USA and obtaining a satellite connect, put in Agent Marion Tidewater's private number.

The secretaries were busily fussing with coffeepots and plates of doughnuts as the unlikely looking Tidewater came along the hallway. Unlikely because, with his closely trimmed black beard and moustache, balding head, chunky nose and stout body, he would have appeared more likely to be wearing a yarmulke and heading into a synagogue for a
bet midrash
. His ancestry, though, was not member of the tribe; his ancestry was linked to one of the multitude of the original Youngs of Utah. That is, his guiding light was Moroni, not Moses. There was a strong likelihood that this had helped him acquire one of the top positions in the Agency, one that specially dealt with Arab intelligence as the requirements for clean living plus the attitude toward women were quite similar and acknowledged by the powers-that-be higher up.

Standing with one foot out of Tidewater's office, phone to ear, his newly assigned personal assistant and computer geek, Russ Snow, waved frantically at him to hurry. Tidewater picked up his pace, smiled only briefly at his secretary as she put a cup of coffee in his hand. The dancing Snow, covering the mouthpiece, held out the phone as his boss entered the office.

“Yusef,” whispered the young man, pointing at the phone.

“Ahhh,” said Tidewater, seating himself. Then with a cold smile, he said into the phone, “Commander, good morning, or rather afternoon to you.” He listened for several minutes and, pursing his thin, grayish-pale pink lips, responded, “No, I don't think they're after Saudi women this time. Monday deals mostly with our women, with American women. Remember how she and the baron got the senator's wife out, got her into Costa Rica as a butterfly collector before we could even send an agent to the Miami airport? Monday's sneaky as a coyote.”

He listened for a moment before saying, “Uh, coyotes are varmints, sorta like wild dogs. We got ‘em all over the West. They kill sheep. Really sneaky critters.” He listened again. “Right. I thank you very much for letting me know. And I especially thank you for that update on the Hermelin's death. He was a real pain in the butt.” With deliberateness almost of intention, Tidewater said sympathetically into the phone, “Too bad we can't get rid of the whole Emigrant Women outfit.”

He paused, listened. “Right. I'll see what my sources come up with. Yeah, I'd like to know more about the hit, like who did it. I'll send him a thank you card.” Tidewater laughed. “Okay, Commander Yusef, talk at ya later.”

Snow, who had been making himself unobtrusive next to the filing cabinet, turned around. “What's Emigrant Women? And who's this baron person?”

Marion Tidewater twiddled his pencil and regarded the tall, dark-haired young man with envy. Tidewater was short and he had never had much hair and he certainly was losing his youth. Time did that to a man. To women too, the thought of his wife and twenty-five years of marriage flashed through his mind. And Snow? Although deeply tanned, Russell Snow was most probably one of the Arizona Snows, once looked at askance by the Mormon Church as renegades because of their avowed determination to maintain polygamous marriages. About ten years ago, negotiations about the situation, and the polygamous men's agreement to at least be quiet about the marriages, allowed the church to take them back in good standing. Still it wasn't wise to give away too much information to an underling…just tell him what he could already read in the reports.

“Baron Carl-Joran Hermelin.” Tidewater pronounced each name as close to how he imagined a Swede would say it, thus making them sound like something off the Muppet show. “He's one of those do-gooders who wrecks everybody else's way of life. Close as we can tell, about five years ago he lost his wife to cancer. Instead of just getting married again, he set out to help…to help women,” Tidewater related in an almost puzzled tone. “Guess he thought of himself as some sort of Schweitzer or Wallenberg or something. Anyway, he has, or had, a vast fortune, even a castle in Sweden. Maybe it was Legesse who talked him into helping. Dr. Halima Legesse is the brains of Emigrant Women. She's a black doctor, a gyn-ob who was exiled from Ethiopia ‘cause of her stand against the government's war over there. She settled in Haifa, Israel, and started giving aid to women on the run. Emigrant Women or EW. It's a society, an organization for taking women out of a country's borders illegally. At first it was sorta like a battered women's shelter. Now it's a damned international underground railroad. They pull families apart, take a woman right away from her husband. Just like that.” Tidewater snapped his fingers and shook his head in disbelief. “What gall to take a wife right out of the family!”

“Maybe if the woman's really in danger…?” Snow offered tentatively.

“She should get the hell out and call the police, let them handle it,” said Tidewater with certainty.

“I've heard sometimes it can be pretty bad,” the young man said, thinking of what his sister's friend on the reservation had gone through. “Some men go nutso.”

“Guess there are a few crazy fellows out there,” Tidewater looked over his desk for his phone list, “but overall if a woman's a good wife, a man's gonna be happy.” He picked up a couple files. No list.

Snow decided not to pursue his side of the question. Obviously his new boss wasn't hearing what Snow wanted to get across and Snow had learned well from his elders. Listen well. Listen until the man wants to talk no more. So Russ Snow asked in a helpful manner, “What are you searching for? It may be something I put in a drawer.”

“My phone list.”

“Top drawer on the right.”

Marion Tidewater pulled open the drawer, “Ahhh.” He flipped to S and found Sadiq-Fath, Quddus Sadiq-Fath, the
darughih
of the Iranian secret police. Sadiq-Fath had once translated darughih as high constable, which was a leftover from the British rule of years ago. Of course, the weasely, vicious man was also a graduate of the Agency's best training schools and by providential circumstance, in the same graduating class as Tidewater. Perhaps Quddus was a friend, if that relationship could be said to exist among these ruthless men. Such is the way of international security forces. Tidewater waved the open book at Snow. “Get me this guy. It's past work hours in Iran but he can be found. He'll talk to me.”

Snow took the proffered address book and nodded. “Will do, sir.” As he stepped from the room, the briefest of speculations went through his head about why his boss was hotly against an organization that helped women emigrate, how such an organization could be considered subversive. It was merely an intellectual kind of questioning though. Russ would know when he had a need to know or when he decided he needed to know he'd set some forces moving through his Internet connections.

He punched up a satellite link to Tehran, Iran, and didn't even look in his boss's book. Russ had been hired because of his expertise with computers and as far as he was concerned, any idiot could find any of the phone numbers or e-mail addresses to contact the darughih of Iran without the use of paper.

With long, loping strides, Carl-Joran jogged downhill, cutting across the tightly curved road back and forth, past the little markets busy on this Monday afternoon. He stopped, puffing lightly, at his favorite hole-in-the-wall cafe and was quickly served Turkish coffee and a huge plate of bagels with assorted fillings. This coffee was the real stuff, as an American might say. The cup was not more than two inches across and it truly would keep one of the small sugar spoons upright if stuck into the grounds at the bottom. The rich taste was due to the raw honey-sugar that had been brewed into the blend. Carl-Joran stood against the high table with all the other customers getting their after-lunch caffeine fix, and sipped slowly, savoring the tiny helping. He felt the
crinch
across his forehead as the caffeine went to his brain.

A horn, deep and sonorous,
booppped
outside, and turning, Carl-Joran saw the familiar cream-white Mercedes-Benz. Taqi had found him. He grabbed up the last bagel, stuffed it with vinegar soaked cucumbers, wrapped a paper towel napkin around it, and dashed to the car. Pulling open the back door, he bent way down to crawl in, one long leg at a time.

“Good day, Baron,” a richly masculine voice said from within.

Carl-Joran, his bagel dripping vinegar, squeezed onto the seat. “How are you, Haji Mansur?”

The solid, powerfully centered man taking up the rest of back seat was the baron's age, though his full beard and curly hair already had gray streaks. His long abba, a soft black wool full-length robe, was pulled around him for warmth and on his head was a low, hat-like dark red turban, with checked scarf about his neck. This was the proper, conservative clothing for a haji; that is, a Muslim holy man of the Sunni tradition who had made the pilgrimage to Mecca.

Carl-Joran breathed in the smell of the man, much like a horse lover or a farmer relishes the enveloping odors of a familiar environment. Habib Mansur always filled his space with the gentle aroma of sandalwood. The sable brown eyes held the quality of an old wolf, wise, unyielding, and fearless. Such a man would have looked not the least out of place riding beside the Prophet, sword in hand, galloping across the plains of Arabia centuries ago.

“I am in fine health this day,” he exclaimed, slapping his knee. “We will have a good meeting.”

“Yes, undoubtedly,” agreed Carl-Joran and how could he not agree? Habib had been personally responsible for the rescue of a half-dozen women from the harems of the Saudi and Kuwaiti sheikhs. His being along today meant they were ready to go into one of those countries again. And why would a conservative Sunni rescue women from the very practices his religion embraced?

Carl-Joran knew of the sister Habib had lost to a violent husband years ago. Despite his influence, Habib had been unable to break the codes which kept the girl of sixteen in the clutches of the older man until she died in childbirth of…officially the diagnosis had been miscarriage. But Halima had told Carl-Joran it was massive internal bleeding from being beaten so badly. And the reason for that final beating?

Halima had looked away when she related to Carl-Joran that the doctor, after an ultrasound ordered by the husband to determine the sex of the child at six months, had told the husband, not the girl, that she was carrying a girl child. In a rage, the husband had decided to force her to abort. How ironic that the modern technical device should give the husband the power to kill for such an ancient reason, Halima had murmured.

As the big Mercedes whirred down the steep hill, Carl-Joran leaned forward. “Taqi, you okay this morning?”

“Very good, Baron,” responded the little Palestinian. He didn't turn around as they were approaching the thoroughfare at the bottom of the hill where they would turn to go to the harbor. Traffic was heavy along here and Taqi concentrated on changing lanes so they could scoot in behind a lorry that was also heading toward the docks. It took only moments to reach the big brick building that housed the EW's headquarters. On the outside, this building looked exactly like other warehouses along the water. No sign announced it.