Way of Escape (16 page)

Carl-Joran had a moment's spasm of fear, quelled it and firmly told himself that the passport nestled in his briefcase was not illegal…except for the changed date, more recent photo and immigration entrance and exit stamp pages photocopied from his real Swedish passport. Which did make it a little illegal…though its number did belong to Carl Joseph Mink. The fear tried to come back. He squelched it again. Thank God for his years of martial arts training, even if he had taken it for other reasons. He had never intended to actually
use
it! He had trained in order to overcome his inordinate clumsiness and he had done so. He lowered his heart rate and relaxed. He couldn't wait to write this whole experience down in his little computer file.

His turn came. The immigration officer he ended up with was an older Chicano man who appeared tired and ready to finish his shift. He glanced at Carl-Joran, asked the usual questions: how long had he been in Israel, did he get to visit Jerusalem? Wasn't he scared about the terrorist attacks?

Carl-Joran's American accent now was at home. The answers were no problem. The immigration officer stamped a page and handed the passport back to him. Carl-Joran slipped it back into the briefcase and walked like any other tired, returning tourist past the guards and out of the huge room, down another long corridor and through the giant glass doorway arch that led into the general hustle of LAX.

Immediately in front of the arch, half hidden behind a pillar stood Barbara Monday, sleek and trim in an olive-green cotton suit with a yellow silk blouse that spoke total native Los Angeleno, although Carl-Joran knew she had been born and raised in upstate New York. The woman fitted into her surroundings like a chameleon.

He had to laugh. So much like Tahireh Ibrahim in Paris, and Carin Smoland in Sweden and the older Lori Dubbayaway in Thailand. He had once read a book about the women spies of World War I and II and how extremely deadly they were because of their ability to blend, to make the men around them think they belonged in that place, at the time, with those people. Certainly, the women who moved about doing the rescue assignments for the EW fit very well into their predecessors' roles.

She did not look at him as he stepped through the glass arch. She did not approach him as he walked by her. His eyes couldn't help glancing at her, as any other man's in the crowd did. She looked so attractive. He wrenched his gaze back to the unknown people in the crowd in front of him and went along toward the main exit. She fell in behind him, casually walking as if going to meet someone else.

When she had come abreast close enough for him to hear her above the white noise of the bustling terminal, she said, “I need your help.”

Without seeming to talk to her, he said, “I've got to get to Morro Bay tonight.”

“It'll only take a couple hours.” She sped up enough to get ahead of him as they stepped onto the escalator leading down to the parking garages. “The private investigator hired by Valentine's husband has found where we're keeping her. She has to be moved tonight. She has to be brought to the safe house near here, near LAX, so she can be put on the eight thirty-five a.m. flight to Miami.”

“And there's no way you can do it by yourself?” Carl-Joran's face had a gravely perplexed expression.

“If the private investigator has told the husband already, we could have violence,” she whispered.

Carl-Joran snorted, replying sarcastically, “I think I win my bet. Okay, lead on, Ms. Monday.”

They stepped off the escalator together in the fore-lobby of the garages and both noticed the Arabic-looking individual near the tall potted plant beside an exit, watching Barbara from behind a magazine. Carl-Joran strode away from Barbara, separating from her. The Arab slid away from his potted palm and, sticking the magazine into a nearby chair, followed her through one of the exits leading to the parking garage.

Carl-Joran circled back and went after the Arab, who, once into the garage, paused to see where Barbara was headed. The man was completely absorbed in the fine legs and beautiful rump motion as she swung briskly along toward her rental car. Carl-Joran set his duffel and briefcase against a pillar and quietly came up behind the short, stocky man. As soon as no one was looking their way, he neatly—in a swift, small movement—pinched the side of the man's neck, dropping him like a stone. He caught him, one arm under the shoulders and as if carrying a drunk, took him to an elevator and gently placed him inside, pushing the top-most button. The doors slid shut.

Barbara, in her big rented Oldsmobile, pulled up as Carl-Joran retrieved his duffel and briefcase. He put them in the back seat and climbed into the passenger seat.

“Neatly done, old man,” she laughed.

“It is good to practice,” he responded. “Where are we going? And I assume you'll drop me off back here at my own car after we're finished?”

“We're on our way to Malibu and yes, you'll be brought right back here.” It was dark outside. The roads were black ribbons with huge lights. Barbara finessed her way out of the massive traffic circles around the airport buildings and was quickly onto the San Diego freeway headed north.

A few minutes later, Carl-Joran asked rather plaintively, “Do I really look older with my hair dark?”

“Well,” she began, trying to think up an inoffensive way to say what she felt she should say, that is, the truth, and continued with, “I think the dye made your skin seem darker and your beard emphasizes those little lines.”

“Oh,” he said, disheartened.

“Hey, you're still really handsome for an…” she said and then decided any more might be putting her foot in her mouth.

“
Ja-so
,” he muttered.

“I mean, look at Sean Connery and…and Edward Woodward and Clark Gable.”

“Mr. Gable is dead.” The big Swede loosened his seat belt.

Barbara switched to the fast lane and accelerated. “You're missing my point. Any woman would love to date Sean Connery or Tom Selleck or Clint Eastwood.”

“Uh.” Carl-Joran replied.

Soon, they left the freeway to turn onto Sunset Drive to wind through the big houses toward the ocean and Pacific Coast Highway.

It was something of a surprise when, after whizzing through Malibu, Barbara turned into the Pepperdine University entrance, but she seemed to know right where to go. Up past the last university building she swung onto a narrow drive that led to a small, dormitory-like structure. She pushed at Carl-Joran. “Get down.”

As she parked, she motioned her head toward a black sedan, lights out, windows shaded, half-hidden behind the hedge. Its occupant, a white man with a buzz haircut, was lighting a cigarette while lowering his night glasses.

“The PI,” she whispered.

Carl-Joran gave one quick nod. He signed to Barbara to put her hand over the interior car light. She responded immediately by taking a scarf and pressing it over the light. Smoothly, like a long snake, he pushed the passenger side door open, slid from the car and amazingly, for a man so tall, disappeared instantly into the mottled shadows of the other vehicles, the trees, the fence.

Barbara lowered the scarf. Waited several heartbeats and opened her door with the light unguarded. The PI's night glasses jerked back up to his eyes. Deliberately she put her long, beautiful legs out of the car and walked along the sidewalk where he could observe her. The man's neck craned around as she passed about fifty feet away bathed in the soft light from the porch lamp. As she went up the porch steps and under the shadow of the large portico cover at the front entrance of the building, the private investigator stubbed out his cigarette, lowered his glasses, and opened his car door.

At that moment, from below the car window height, Carl-Joran in one swift motion jerked the car door fully open and hauled the fellow out. As silently and swiftly as the Arab had been dispatched, the PI was unconscious. Carl-Joran gently laid the man back into the car seat and closed the door. Standing upright, he turned and headed for the portico. Barbara had already gone inside.

He was stopped at the door by a large woman who shook her head at him. Apologetically, she said, “We know you're a good man, but just wait here. It's our policy not to let men in. You'll have to wait.”

Not more than three minutes passed before Barbara and another largish woman, whom Carl-Joran guessed was the other half of a lesbian pair, stepped from the shelter carrying a thick suitcase and a smaller cosmetic bag. The woman handed both to Carl-Joran.

“Thank you so much, Baron,” she smiled, and promptly retreated back into the building.

Barbara motioned come along to someone behind her, someone who must not have wanted to leave because Barbara again motioned, and once more very firmly. A tall, stunningly beautiful black woman, nervously looking around, staring for a second at the car with the slumped over private investigator, finally, cautiously, stepped from the darkness of the doorway like a scared deer.

“Valentine,” said Barbara Monday, “this is Baron Carl-Joran Hermelin, your benefactor.”

“My God,” she breathed softly, her eyes moving up and down, “he's ‘bout as big as my husband.”

“We'd better go,” Carl-Joran urged them, “our sleeping watcher won't be unconscious much longer.” He led the way to the Oldsmobile, put the suitcase and bag into the trunk, and held a back door open for Valentine who, herself, had to duck low to get in. Passing that close, Carl-Joran was able to see on her dark skin, with only the interior car light, ugly bruises, half-healed, along the woman's jaw, neck, and lower arms below the short sleeves of her dress. He cringed.

Barbara opened her own door and had the engine started before Carl-Joran had clicked his seat belt. Off they went, back along Pacific Coast Highway, and this time, they stayed on the ocean-side highway until they were past Santa Monica. Barbara wound her way through the busy streets, busy even at this time of the night, and only after some round-about driving through one city street after another to be completely certain she had no one tailing her, did she slip back onto the freeway heading for the airport. The next stop was a ticky-tacky little house stuck between storage units behind an airfreight hanger. The vibrations of the incoming planes shook the car. They were directly under the near-end of the flight path.

“Sorry for the noise,” Barbara shouted over her shoulder, then got out and helped Valentine out while Carl-Joran went to the door of the house. He tapped lightly and someone peeked between torn curtains. The curtains fell back in place. The front door creaked opened and Barbara hustled Valentine in. Carl-Joran took her suitcase and bag from the trunk and handed it in the door, which promptly closed with him still on the outside and this time no apologies at all. Over the years, he'd come to accept that this is how it had to be. He had long ago refrained from questioning the women who ran these places about why he, the man who helped support them, was always refused entry. It was not important to him any longer. The job was getting done, so be it.

Not too long and Barbara hurried back. “She's a brave lady,” said Barbara. “Holding up a lot better than I would under the circumstances.”

“I saw the bruises. I am always amazed at the strength of these women,” commented Carl-Joran and, slipping into the passenger seat, put on his seat belt. “What is your schedule now?” he asked Barbara.

“I'm staying at the Airport Hilton tonight, then flying back to New York tomorrow morning. Sometime this week I'll go to Miami and help the crew get Valentine ready for her new life in Africa.” Barbara held up her cell phone. “Do you have my number in case you need me to help with the Ixeys?”

He nodded, patted his upper pocket. “Your number is close to my heart.”

“Such a romantic!” her New York City accent betraying her origins and she laughed out loud. “You nervous?”

He shrugged. “A little. Of course. Well, a lot. She…Bonnie and I will not meet until we are in the castle. I intend to make sure she will not know I am accompanying her.”

“What a shock that meeting will be!” Barbara pulled up to the rental car area. “I envy you, finding your lost love.”

“I do not envy me,” he snorted, smiled morosely at her, and got out, slamming the door shut behind him. Barbara shook her head and drove away.

It took only moments to retrieve the Saturn. He cringed at its small size, but within another ten minutes he, with only his duffel bag and briefcase to accompany him, was speeding north along the San Diego freeway. Once past Ventura and onto Highway 101, traffic at this midnight hour was minimal and he made better time.

Despite the wider highway, despite all the shopping malls and housing developments that had filled in every empty field between Los Angeles and Santa Barbara, it all was hauntingly familiar. The eucalyptus trees smelled the same, the ocean was the same, the rocky cliffs still brooded over the ocean, and his feelings were flashing back, sharp and clear, as he was physically returning to where they had been.

Trish insisted they take her van. “It's an all-wheel drive, Mom, and it'll be easier to deal with the bags.”

“You don't mind leaving it in long term parking?” asked Bonnie and the tall, gawky daughter shrugged.

“It's been in worse places,” she muttered, “what with the teams of kids I've had to cart around all over the state.”

Gryphon insisted on jumping in and out of the vehicle and Lou had to forcibly shove him out finally, before Trish could take her place at the wheel. The noon sun was warm, though the breeze off the ocean was brisk and chilly. As if sensing what was coming, Bonnie let her face bask in the sun for a moment before getting in.

“Got our tickets?” Trish asked.

Bonnie patted her small fanny pack. “Yep.”

Little Misimoto bid them good journey, smiling and bowing. Lou and Dell waved goodbye and Gryphon barked all the way down the drive, until he spotted the stranger standing near the mailbox. Dirt flying, he scrambled across the field only to meet with disappointment as the guy jumped into his car and drove down the road a way. As Trish pulled out of the drive onto the road, another car, the plain white United States government issue car hiding behind the second large oak tree, came to life. The black man in the trench coat was on duty this morning.