Way of Escape (13 page)

The Swede pounded his fist on the table making the room vibrate, “I don't like being dead. It's too damned much trouble.”

“I think,” the kindly Haji Habib leaned toward Carl-Joran, “you do not want to face this woman you once loved.”

Carl-Joran went silent for a full minute. All that could be heard in the room were the voices of the children playing down the hall, the hum of the air vent fans, the tick of the wall clock. With great discomfort, he finally said, “She and I will meet. We will talk. I don't think it is so bad.”

Habib laid a sun-tanned hand on Carl-Joran's paler one and smiling, said, “And you both will remember.”

Dropping his chin onto his chest, the big Swede shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Therefore, you must go to California.” Habib nodded, squeezed the big hand briefly, and stood.

“My friend,” Carl-Joran stopped him, “may I ask you a favor? Please, if it does not compromise your work?”

“Of course,” responded Habib.

“Could you, through your sources, see if Quddus Sadiq-Fath has put a fatwa on my son. And,” the big Swede added, “on Bonnie Ixey.”

“I will try. I tell you what you already know, that I must ask such questions very, very cautiously. Such information costs a lot of money to get and much more money to be kept from bouncing back to the source.”

Carl-Joran nodded. “I understand. Don't do it if it is too expensive and dangerous for you. I suspect the Iranians are already onto both of them.” He sighed and frowned. The brown abba swooshed near him as Habib moved away from the table and the smell of sandalwood filled his nostrils.

Habib Mansur half bowed to the doctor. “Halima, my love, I will be on my way. Siddhu, if you will get those funds to me tonight?”

“Yes, certainly,” said Siddhu.

Halima stepped around the table and gave Habib a strong hug. “Allah be with you.”

“So far he has remained on our side,” smiled Habib and hugged her back.

Carl-Joran stood, clapped the man on the shoulder. “My thoughts will be constantly with you,” Carl-Joran said.

“And mine with you,” said Habib, “for you are quite correct about the United States being violent. It is perhaps more violent than Saudi Arabia.”

“Yeah,” said Carl-Joran, “I'll be in more danger from guns than anyone in this room.”

Habib nodded. “So it is said.” He went to the door, “Goodbye, my friends.”

As soon as the brown abba had swept from the room and the door sssshhhhhed shut, Carl-Joran swung around to Siddhu, “Where is the money coming from for my trip to California? You know I can't take any out of my accounts, not as me anyway.”

“I have no idea,” replied Siddhu, “but I will have it by tonight. We must also get you a new passport and identification. You cannot go into the United States as Baron Hermelin.”

“Oh!” Carl-Joran straightened, a sudden inspiration striking him. “I remember something important. I have an old United States passport in another name. I've even got citizenship papers somewhere. They're in the name of Carl J. Mink, of course. They were expertly done. Toby Hughes had very good sources.”

“Where would those papers be?” asked Siddhu, standing. “If we can get them it will save us a lot of time, and money. Updating a passport is far, far easier than having an entirely new one made.”

“In my office in the castle,” he replied. “I'll have Sture find them and send them express to you Siddhu, here at EW.”

“Good,” Halima came up to him and put her knobby finger on his chest, “because I want you to be on a plane to Los Angeles tomorrow evening.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Carl-Joran agreed, half terrorized, half relieved.

Tidewater, coming back after lunch, poked his head into Russ's cubbyhole. “Snow, what we got on the Ixey woman? Is she still alive?”

“Yessir,” responded Russ Snow immediately, “Claybourne turned in a report first thing this morning.” The tall Native American handed his boss a one-page e-mail form. “Ixey's older daughter drove to Paso Robles, picked up the younger daughter and husband at the airport, and brought them to the farm. They were having some sort of party. Later in the evening, Claybourne spotted a well-known ISF operative, somebody he knows out of Los Angeles, keeping a watch on the home.” Russ chuckled, “The ISF guy got chased by the farm dog, and, ‘cause of that dog, Claybourne wasn't able to get a phone tap in until midnight. Just before he went off he recorded a conference call that originated from Sweden. Something about arranging for Mrs. Ixey to fly to Sweden.”

“Do say?” Tidewater glanced at the sheet and pursed his lips. “Neither Claybourne nor the dog scared the Iranian away, did they?” There was a slight note of potential disappointment in the question.

“I don't think so,” said Russ.

“Who's on now, watching her day activities?”

Russ shrugged, “I'm not sure, sir, someone Claybourne pulled out of the LA office this morning.”

“Okay, as long as Ixey's covered.” Tidewater went toward his office, saying over his shoulder, “Thanks, Snow, and tell Claybourne that I want him or his sub to call me direct if anything happens to Ixey.”

“Yessir,” said Russ.

Sitting behind his desk, Marion Tidewater considered calling Sadiq-Fath and immediately put aside the thought. Anything going on in Ixey's life would be reported to that weasel the moment it happened. God knows how many phone taps were in place already and it wouldn't surprise Marion if the ISF man had a video camera link hooked up to her bedroom wall. The woman wouldn't have a private moment from here on out. The only place she'd be relatively safe from harm in the days to come would be on the airliner going to Sweden.

Russ Snow peeked in, “Sir? The fourth party on that conference call was identified. It was Dr. Halima Legesse of Emigrant Women in Haifa.”

“Right. Smart move,” said Tidewater. “They're going to the source of money as fast as they can.”

“Need me for anything else today?” asked Russ.

“I've got three cases here which should be coordinated with their counterparts in Germany.” Tidewater pulled three folders from a stack on the desk.

“Are they imperative?” Russ slipped the folders under one arm. “It's just, I'm supposed to go to the pistol range this afternoon and see if I can qualify or if I need more training.”

“You should do that,” said Tidewater, nodding an affirmative. “Never know when you'll have to take someone out. Those files can wait until tomorrow morning. Go ahead.”

“Later then,” said Russ and left.

Russ Snow didn't like the firing range. He didn't like the noise, and guns, especially pistols, were low on his list of good things in the world. After all, the only thing a handgun was meant to do was to kill another human. Russ could understand a powerful rifle if there were a meal to put on the table, but even there, he believed as his father had taught him, that the animal life he took should be appeased and shown gratitude. It was a relief when the firearms instructor passed him with high marks. Russ quickly took leave of the firing range and hopped into the old jeep to get on the road. As he clicked his seat belt, he also patted his sharp throwing knife, kept hidden always in a sheath in his belt. Now that was a weapon of choice—deadly, silent, accurate, virtually untraceable.

Arriving home, he laid the knife on the table, poured himself a glass of wine, called the local shop for a pizza to be delivered immediately, and then clicked into the Ixey file. Last night he had rigged a forwarding order into her machine so that unknown to her, whatever was mailed her, or that she shipped out, would also come to him.

“Busy lady,” said Russ to himself. She had a stack of e-mail waiting. “Wonder if she always has this much?” he mused. Almost all of it dealt with research projects she was working on for any number of people all over the world. Several libraries had correspondence with her, asking for information and updates. Obviously the woman was extremely computer literate and, in addition, was highly educated and respected. What was it he'd read in her background check? A reference librarian—well, that didn't say it all. For an older woman, she certainly knew how to make use of cyberspace to do business.

A half-dozen personal messages were also there, and one notice from…ah-ha! SAS confirming two tickets, first class, booked from San Francisco to Stockholm, Sunday evening to be picked up at the boarding window. She and her daughter, Trisha would soon be on their way.

Russ imagined her finding this message on her machine sometime this evening or tomorrow morning. How would she react? What would she say? Had she started packing? He wondered what the older daughter was like? It was very, very tempting to peck out a few words, say hello, say he was worried about her, and just press that send button. In a flash, she would know…

The doorbell buzzed. His pizza had arrived.

Princess Zhara i-Shibl felt the breeze off the dunes and smelled the donkeys' approach before any other of her senses caught up. Her heart leapt into her throat. She had paced this wall of the compound each night at this time for a month, waiting, waiting for their nightly arrival, and waiting for something to bob up, but nothing had.

This particular spot on this particular wall was the only chink in her father's fabulous security system. An archway of stone rose about a foot above the huge pipe conduit that brought the water from the deep well half a mile away. Two years ago, their own well in the compound had failed and the new one had been dug, the pipe laid, and the arch in the wall constructed. Outside the wall, a shut-off valve allowed the camel herders and donkey boys to fill a basin for their animals. That way, the raggedy scum, as her father had described the working class and poor nomads, could be kept outside as much as possible.

Since there was, just inside the arch, a beautiful big fountain and pond, it was amazingly easy for the secret messages, enclosed in a bottle or plastic cover, to be reached through the arch and dropped into the pond or vice versa. Tonight, as on other nights, Zhara sat on the bench that edged the pond and dangled her fingers in the water, doing her best to look completely innocent as she teased the colorful koi. She would miss her pet koi. The black and orange one nibbled at her fingertips and even let her pet it. Tonight though, as she sat, playing with the fish and listening intently to the hubbub of noises outside the arch, donkeys braying, herders shouting at their animals, camel drivers gossiping, a plastic panty-hose egg shape suddenly bobbed to the surface.

She knew, as if by some extra sense, that this was it. Her heart did not race any more. A strange calmness enveloped her as she pulled apart the blue egg. The note inside, in the haji's perfect Arabic script, read: “We are on our way. Be ready to go. Do not bring anything with you. Dress everyday in your black robes and wear the mask. You will know when it is time.”

Immediately upon reading, she tossed the empty plastic shell back through the archway hole, which signified she'd received the message and thrust the paper into the pond and held it there until the koi had nibbled it to shreds. No one could find it now, it was gone into the tummy of her beloved fish. She let the black and orange koi nibble her fingers again and wished very much she could somehow take him with her. On the other hand, once she had returned to Europe, she could be with Emil and Emil had her dog, her beloved Charlotte. It had been an entire year. Waiting.

She sighed. Now would come the hard job of convincing her mother. She simply could not go away and leave her mother here. It would not do. It would not be safe for her mother. How though…?

The footsteps of the night watchman made her rise hastily. Taking a breath to calm herself, she pulled her hood and robes around her and walked gracefully back to the women's rooms.

The hallways of the Nof Hotel in the early morning were always busy: business people hustling off to meetings and tourists being called for their buses. One of the people bustling around was Siddhu Singh Prakash who at first knocked on the door of the big Swede's rooms, then pounded. Carl-Joran could sleep through an earthquake, thought the thin Indian. The Nof had allowed the EW to secure a room and to install a retinal reader for access. Siddhu had his eyeball scanned, entered the room, and closed the door behind him. Amazingly, Carl-Joran was in the shower, awake and moving around.

Siddhu stuck his head in the bathroom. “Hello, Baron, good morning!”

“
Fy fan!
” came the curse from the steam. “Isn't privacy at all known in other countries?”

“I have good news!” said the Sikh, disregarding Carl-Joran's displeasure. “We have found money for you.”

“Get out of my bathroom!”

“Do you want me to order coffee and breakfast?” asked Siddhu.

“It's already ordered. Get some for yourself if you want.”

Siddhu went to the phone and ordered tea. Moments later, room service delivered Carl-Joran's breakfast and acknowledged that Siddhu's was on its way. The big Swede appeared by this time, wrapped in a large towel and drying his hair with another one.

“What's the news?” he asked, sitting in front of the breakfast tray and pouring steaming coffee into a cup. “Coffee?”

“No thank you,” said Siddhu, “they will bring me tea in a minute. Here,” he handed an express packet of papers across the table.

Carl-Joran, coffee in one hand, shook out the packet with the other. An ancient and familiar United States passport, a sheaf of folded papers, and a little brown bank deposit book dropped onto the table. He sipped his coffee and opened the deposit book first. It was a savings account established in Calexico, California at a small local bank. Nine thousand four hundred three dollars and twenty cents was the final amount listed. He flipped through the pages, there was no stamp to say it had been closed or transferred. Was this money still there? Did the bank exist? He looked up at Siddhu.