Way of Escape (15 page)

She deposited her overnight bag on the floor, flung off the greatcoat and wool scarf, dropping them onto the other bed and smiled at her dearest friend. Her long tress of dark chestnut brown hair fell in waves down her back all the way to her waist and her skin, the color of coffee with rich cream, glowed in the evening lamp light.

Habib threw his arms open and they embraced, not as lovers, but as compatriots who've shared many terribly dangerous enterprises. Perhaps such a bond is more intense than any romantic connection between humans might ever engender.

“Have you eaten?” Habib asked in an innocent tone, pointing surreptitiously at the ceiling where the multiple smoke alarms and odd wiring running down the wall so obviously indicated eavesdropping apparatus.

“I'm fine,” she replied, nodding understanding. “The bellboy should be up in a moment with my suitcase. It was, of course, well searched at the airport. It is always interesting to see how much of my small wardrobe remains after coming through the Beirut airport.” She laughed gaily. “So when does this tour you've booked us on depart, dear Habib?”

“As soon as you've rested,” he smiled in response, “and put on your proper attire.”

“Ah, yes, I must constrain myself again. Oh, how I hate doing that!” She bowed slightly to Habib and indicated the bathroom. “Have you disposed of the inhabitants?”

“Ha! Most of them,” he said. “There are a couple though that defy the light, which you will notice I left burning. One truly ugly fellow was sitting on the edge of the sink, watching me as I did my ablutions. A truly insolent little creature.”

“You did not kill him?”

“Of course not,” he exclaimed in mock disgust, “how could I have determined if it were a he or a she? And I would have felt quite ungentlemanly smacking a female. Besides it would not speak to me.”

Tahireh peeked into the loo and groaned. “Your insolent one is still on the sink. Well, I for one have not the compunction you do.” She rolled up a tourist pamphlet that extolled the beauties of the now peaceful Lebanon and stepped into the bathroom. A loud kasmaack! resounded from the sink.

“Mon dieu! Le petit va vit!—Goodness, that sucker is fast!” came in French. “But at least he has put himself down the drain hole!” and she stuck her head out of the bathroom long enough to continue in that language, “Tip the bellboy when he comes, oui? Merci.”

“Yes, my dear,” Habib said in Farsi to the closing bathroom door and as if by cue, there was a knock on the door.

The bellboy, a thin Palestinian lad whose eyes had seen too much for such a young age, slipped the hardcover suitcase inside the room, and no further, and Habib paid him in euros. The boy regarded the holy man with hostile curiosity, aware as he was that the Parisian fancy lady with the Arab name, who'd arrived all by herself, would be staying in the same room as this haji. He turned away after snarling “Merci.”

Habib moved the suitcase to the baggage stand. There were corners of blouses sticking from one side and a strap hung from the front. Whoever had done the search had made no pretense of it.

“They really rifled through it, didn't they?” commented Tahireh, coming out of the bathroom. “Let's see if my robe is still wearable.” She clicked the snaps. It wouldn't open.

“I'll lean on it,” offered Habib, and put his entire weight onto the case. The latches finally gave. There could have been no predicting the mess inside. Tahireh sighed.

“Perhaps you should have met me at the airport after all,” she said and dispiritedly fingered through the wreckage of her belongings. Perfume had been spilled, makeup scattered over the clothing, and a bottle of shampoo leaked from the upper compartment. She found her silky robe, which had originally been laid across the top of the clothing, now at the bottom—where, at least, it was relatively unharmed, and jerked it out. Picking up the almost empty shampoo bottle and toiletry case, she stomped back into the bathroom. Another vicious kasmaack! echoed from behind the closed door along with a throaty growl in crudest French, “Take that you insolent beast!”

The shower water started and Habib, smiling, thought how lucky he was to have such a compatriot-in-arms. He turned his attention to a sheaf of papers he had been carrying in his cloak. They were the plans for tomorrow's sortie into the desert. The tricky part would be driving the Land Cruiser through the broad expanse of enemy territory without being noticed. He had managed to round up some fairly inventive disguises, but still and all, the Arab police, as prejudiced and stonehearted as they are, were no fools.

Once he and Tahireh had met up with and joined the nomads and changed over to camel transport, they would be fairly safe. When the shower water stopped, he inquired through the door, “Can we leave tonight?”

“Yes! I want to be gone!” Tahireh's voice came back, “Give me a couple hours to sleep, and then we will go.”

“Fine,” said Habib, “I will call and tell the rental agency to have keys ready for us.” He reached for the phone.

Bonnie walked with a brisk, bouncy step to the barn. The day had turned out to be very pleasant after the fog had burnt off. A bright and sunny winter's day with the smell of low tide and the cry of ravens and gulls, and Bonnie could pick out the raucous chatter of a small flock of wild parakeets in the eucalyptus trees at the bottom of the property.

The massively shaggy Australian Shepherd came bounding from the lower pasture where he'd been diligently counting the ground squirrel population and greeted her as she approached the barn. He was grinning, his tongue lolling in doggy pleasure.

“What have you been up to, Gryph?” she asked, patting him on the broad forehead and noticing the dirt on his front paws and muzzle, laughed and inquired, “Did you get any of those squirrels or just extend the tunnel to China?”

He shook in seeming negation and galloped into the barn ahead of her and promptly set about digging for a mouse in the hay. The old orange barn cat, which'd probably spent hours waiting patiently on the wooden beam above that haystack for that mouse to venture out, regarded the big dog with vile contempt. The cat rose, stretched long, bony legs and knobby back, yawned sharp teeth, and ambled off along the beam toward the ladder to the loft, flicking his tail in a last sign of displeasure.

As Lou and Dell looked around at the sound of Bonnie's footsteps, Gryphon produced some ragged bits of material that looked suspiciously like pockets from the backside of a pair of rayon suit trousers. He gamboled up to the three people, flinging the material like a prize trophy at their feet, then sat, grinning again, waiting for the praise he was expecting.

“Uh-oh,” said Dell, reaching for the scrap. She examined it, and then held it up to her mother.

“I'd say Gryph's been protecting us from an intruder.”

Bonnie gingerly took the scrap between forefinger and thumb, eyed it warily, and gave it back to Gryphon. “Whoever he attacked hasn't complained to us, at any rate. Here's hoping the poor man doesn't go to the sheriff.”

“I don't think that'll happen, Mom Ixey,” said Lou, leaning on his pitchfork. “I bet it was one of our spies down at the end of the drive. Maybe that Arab one. And since there's been no complaints, well, those guys don't want to be found out. That's the answer.”

“I hate to admit it,” said Bonnie, “but you may well have something there.” She patted the grinning dog on the head, but Gryph looked disappointed. He'd expected more praise for such a job well done.

“Sure I do,” said Lou and, picking up the pitchfork and digging into the manure heap.

Bonnie laughed. “I guess wealth produces these sort of problems.” She put an arm around her daughter, “Dell, how long are you and Lou planning to stay? You told me, I'm sure, and not that I would ever dream of pushing you out! It would be nice though if you could stay on a little longer while Trish and I fly to Sweden.”

Dell nodded. “We can stay until Lou's teaching term starts late next week. Right, honey?”

He smiled. “We would much rather hang around here and play with horses than be rained on in Seattle.”

“And after that, well, I could stay on for a while longer,” Dell said, a note of unwillingness in her voice, “I mean, if you think it's necessary.”

Bonnie hugged her. “You know I'd never do anything to keep you from that gorgeous man of yours.” She kissed her daughter on the cheek, “It's just, I don't understand what's going on here, what with these people spying on us, the whole business of the baron's estate, just…everything.”

“And Dad's farm is really important to you,” responded Dell, hugging her mom in return. “It's pretty important to us, too. One of us will stay on and take care of it. Although, you know, Misimoto is as dedicated to the farm as we are.”

“I know, I know,” agreed Bonnie, “and I'll speak to her. Perhaps what I need from you two is simply assurance that you are here, that you will be where I can talk to you.” Bonnie turned away and patted a nearby horse on the neck. “I may be your mom, but I'm not above asking for your moral support.”

“You'll certainly have it,” said Dell and Louis looked around.

“Mom Ixey,” he said with conviction, “you can count on us.”

“Thanks, children.” She turned. “I've got to meet Trish in San Luis. We're going to see if we can find any winter clothes.”

Lou said, “Try the ski shops.”

“And the outdoors equipment stores,” offered Dell.

Bonnie nodded, “And if worse comes to worse, we can shop when we get to Stockholm.”

“That might be even more fun, Mom,” said Dell, her face lightening up with the thought, “although probably much more expensive.” A funny look flitted over her face. “Oh, I guess that doesn't matter any more. Oh, my. What a strange concept.”

“Are you flying to San Francisco or driving?” asked Lou, grinning as his wife struggled with the new sensation of being rich.

“You know how Trish is paralyzed with fear in those small planes. We'll drive up tomorrow evening. See Ghirardelli Square, walk down to the Embarcadero, and have a good fish dinner. Spend Sunday at the Exploratorium or the museums,” Bonnie felt butterflies start fluttering in her own stomach, “and then we go to the airport. We leave at four on the first leg to New York.”

Dell smiled at her mom. “This could be the adventure of a lifetime, Mom.”

“Sure could,” Lou chimed in. “Lucky lady!”

“I wish I didn't have such bad feelings about those spies who are watching us,” Bonnie said, “I wish I knew whether they meant us harm or not.”

“They're just observing,” insisted Louis. “You'll be okay. You and Trish will be fine.”

The silver-haired lady with the lovely skin and blue eyes pursed her lips and tried her best to be cheery. “I'm sure you're right, my dear. I've always wanted to see where your grandfather and the Seastrand family came from. And we'll be staying in a real castle. What could be scary about that?” Bonnie gave them both another hug and walked out of the rich-smelling barn. Gryphon followed her a ways back toward the house until, spotting a taunting ground squirrel far out in the pasture, he scrambled away in a flurry of yelps and barks to vanquish the tiny intruder, who merely popped down his hole to reappear yards away, chattering. It was a long-standing game.

Carl-Joran regarded his reflection in the window of the jet. They had taken off from Tel Aviv airport in bright sunlight and after a brief layover at Boston and six hours more in the sky, they were now on the long, long descent to Los Angeles. The sun was setting ahead of them. Lights, vast numbers of lights were coming on, rows and rows, hillside after hillside, freeway upon freeway became rivers of lights shivering in faint smog that hung year round in the LA basin. He could see enough of himself reflected in the window to be surprised.

The darkening solution he'd used on his hair had changed the complete texture of it and his skin seemed more tan, more lined. When had he aged that much? He didn't remember having crows-feet around his eyes and smile lines near his mouth. The beard he had not shaved yesterday was already past the five o'clock shadow stage and well into prickly and rough. He sighed. With that and the grotesque California beach shirt, white jeans and baseball cap, he looked so much like one of those dreaded American tourists coming home it scared him.

Bump-bump-bump and they landed. “The weather in the Los Angeles basin tonight is clear and dry,” announced the pilot, “and you got some ocean winds and it's sixty-five pleasant degrees.”

Very similar to what he'd left behind in Haifa, thought Carl-Joran, unlocking his seat belt as the plane pulled into its parking spot. He hated flying in the cattle-car section. It had been years since he'd done it. His little American bank account wouldn't have supported more though. He pulled his briefcase from under the seat, keeping it securely next to him. It contained his precious laptop computer. Hair almost touching the ceiling, he stood and was able to reach above the other passengers as he grabbed his duffel from the overhead compartment and stooping to avoid knocking himself out on the bulkheads, he made his way along the aisle and, gratefully, stretched upright on the ramp. He should, he told himself, immediately go to the rental car desk and pick up the car and get onto Highway 101 up the coast.

The ramp, as all incoming foreign flight ramps do in all airports all over the world, led to an enclosed corridor down which all the passengers trod. After so many hours in flight, everyone was tired and wobbly-kneed. By the time they reached Customs and Immigration, most were beyond grumpy and had become obnoxious.

Into a huge room they went, channeled now into one long line that wound like a snake through the room. Unobtrusively—which wasn't the way in other countries, specifically third world airports where they stood right along the line—guards with guns stood here and there against the wall or behind door edges.