Way of Escape (18 page)

As the turkey sandwich and bowl of soup were laid in front of him, he nodded to himself. She did deserve his estate. All of what his life became was because of her. They would talk soon and Sture would come to accept her. Carl-Joran knew the boy would be okay. His upbringing had been good. His mother had been a wonderful mother and Carl-Joran had loved her, differently from Bonnie, to be sure, but the love had existed for his family.

A peacefulness settled around the big man as he ate. Finally, he paid his bill and got back into the rental car. It was time to catch up, he thought, in many ways. The car grumbled over the parking lot gravel and jumped onto Highway 1. He wanted to get into San Francisco as quickly as possible.

There is nothing as agonizing as having to wait. He checked into a hotel near the airport and managed to get a few hours' sleep. Yet, he had dreamed uncomfortable, unhappy, tense dreams that made his jaw ache from clenching so hard.

He was absolutely certain there were Iranian agents after Bonnie and there he had been napping. He jumped awake at two p.m., had a quick shower, and trimmed his now bushy beard, ate a quick late lunch and hopped the shuttle to the departure terminal. He had coach seating on the big plane to New York.

He was standing behind a pillar where he could observe the incoming travelers when he saw first what was probably an FBI agent. What else could the tall black man in the brown suit with the almost invisible hearing aid-style transponder be? Yes, he even had the requisite trench coat over one arm. The presence of the United States security agency did not make Carl-Joran any less anxious. How could he know if they were any less hostile than the Iranian security agency?

Speaking of which, he spotted the ISF agent, a small weasel of a man, lurking by the espresso coffee stand. The two agents were blatantly aware of each other, glancing past each other, pretending not to notice the other's presence.

A tall, gawky young woman, whose wild red hair could only barely be contained by a rubber band, stumbled over another passenger's feet as she hefted two carryon bags into a chair. Behind the tall woman was a short, white-haired older woman whose beautiful blue eyes made Carl-Joran's heart race. Bonnie Seastrand. It was she. He had no doubts whatever. She had become a very lovely woman. The mousy little girl he had known those many years ago had matured into a fine lady.
Min gud
, he whispered, and I missed this. I missed all those years. He eased further around the post.

Who was the tall gawky young woman with her? A friend? He peeked at her. No, the family resemblance was there despite the height difference. It must be the daughter, Trisha.

The probable FBI agent sat near them. Carl-Joran's whole attention focused on this person, every protective instinct in his body aligned. The agent flipped open a newspaper in front of his face in an attempt to hide.

The tall young woman with bright red hair laughed and it could be heard all the way across the room. So they knew they were being tailed. Did they know about the Iranian?

Carl-Joran slouched as much as he could and made his way behind other people to the coffee stand. The ISF man was just being handed his espresso. With amazing deftness, the big man slid close enough to put a hand under the paper cup and tap it. Despite the cap on the cup, it popped and the thick, black really hot liquid poured down the front of the agent who yelled with the sudden pain. The little man, an utterly vicious expression on his face, scowled up at…no one was there. Carl-Joran was back behind the pillar. The ISF agent futilely brushed at his soaked and steaming shirt and pants. He glanced at the milling group of people being herded toward the boarding ramp. He glanced at the distant men's room and made the fatal decision to take care of his burning skin. He half ran toward the men's room and to Carl-Joran's relief, Bonnie nudged Trisha and the two shook their heads in unison, giggling. Yes, they were aware of the Arab. The probable FBI agent hid deeper behind his newspaper and Carl-Joran took the opportunity to hurry after the ISF man.

“First class boarding,” came the announcement as Carl-Joran emerged moments later from the men's room, “please present your boarding passes.”

The tall, red-haired woman, a massive grin on her face, grabbed up the carryon bags and nudged her mom. “That's us.”

“Yes, dear, let's go.”

Carl-Joran, also a smile on his face, watched the two women hold out their passes. His smile vanished though as the American agent pulled out his cell phone and, with one or two glimpses at the women, called someone. Carl-Joran guessed it was the man's superior, probably telling him that the women were on board and out of his jurisdiction, or simply that the next agent could pick up the trail at the plane's destination. When the agent turned and walked from the area, the latter guess was confirmed in Carl-Joran's mind. He mentally assessed how many people were left to board the huge jet, and then hurried after the departing agent.

At the next boarding area which was empty and out of view of the group he had just left, Carl-Joran slid up behind the black man and neatly, cleanly, snapped a quick stroke across the side of his neck. The blow instantly stopped the flow of blood to the man's brain for a moment and he folded softly into Carl-Joran's arms. Seating the man gently, the big man reached into his pocket and extracted the black man's ID; he was Agency, well, well—and also the phone. Punching redial, he noted the number, wrote it down on a piece of scrap paper. Someone answered the ring.

“Agent Tidewater's office,” said a woman who must have looked at the caller ID because there was instant surprise in her voice, “oh, hello again, Agent Claybourne.”

Carl-Joran scratched the phone to imitate static. “I need to get that information again,” he mumbled.

“I can barely hear you,” said the woman. “Did you find the ISF man? Is that what you're saying?”

Carl-Joran looked around anxiously at the lessening numbers of people waiting to board way down the hall. “Yes, he is in the men's room. He won't be on the plane.”

“Right, good, I'll tell Agent Tidewater,” the woman said.

Scratching the phone again, Carl-Joran asked, “When can I speak to Mr. Tidewater?”

“I told you, Mr. Tidewater just left along with his assistant, Mr. Snow. Do you want me to connect you to the helicopter?”

“No,” said Carl-Joran twiddling the volume dial, “I will contact him at the destination. When will he arrive there?”

“Ummm, they should be landing at Kennedy any minute and I believe going straight to Immigration.”

“Okay. I will call Immigration.”

“Sure thing, Agent Claybourne.”

Carl-Joran clicked off, wiped the phone and ID clean of prints, and slipped them back into the correct pocket. Agent Claybourne went on sleeping as the baron hurried back down the hall to the tail end of the boarding queue. He grabbed up his briefcase and duffel, dug out his boarding pass, and breathed a sigh of relief as he went down the ramp and into the plane. Then he saw Bonnie and her daughter sitting in first class. He would have to pass right by them. Twisting around, he managed to squeeze along the aisle with a chunky male passenger in front of him. Putting the duffel on his shoulder as he passed Bonnie, his entry went unnoticed. He did wish though, really wish, he were in one of those first class seats. His assigned seat, back in the cattle-car section, barely was able to contain his long, long legs. New York City and Kennedy Airport seemed forever away. He groaned and fastened his seat belt. The only good part of this whole flight was the fact that the Iranian was taken care of. Carl-Joran would, as soon as the seat belt sign went off, call Barbara Monday and see if she could find out who this Tidewater person was and which department he worked for and if there was anything to fear about his being at Kennedy when they arrived.

The soft Mediterranean night wind moved with little puffs in and out of the byways of Haifa and in through the barred, heavily screened windows of the big EW building near the docks. Dr. Legesse could smell the rich mix of wharf pilings, creosote, kelp, seaweed, and harbor mud left by the retreating low tide. Smells of women and children, packed in closely together, assailed her as she hurried through the sleeping hallways of the shelter area. She reached the front office just as a timid knock on the double front doors announced the arrival of Taqi's big Mercedes and Devi with the latest arrivals.

Dr. Legesse opened one of the creaky double doors and smiled at the khaki-dressed Devi who had one arm over the shoulder of a small black girl. Behind her stood the mom, a solid African woman in glorious long skirts and colorful blouse and Mom had an older girl in tow. Taqi stood right behind them, bags in hand. Devi pushed the little girl through the door.

“Judge Moabi wants you to call her right away,” said Devi.

“Right now, at night?” asked Dr. Legesse.

“Yep,” replied Devi already down the hallway.

Halima Legesse turned back to the stocky black woman, held out her big knobby hand, and gently took her arm to guide her in. “Welcome, Mrs. Makwaia.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said the woman, shaking with pent-up anxiety. “This daughter is Jo.” She made the older girl shake hands with Dr. Legesse, “and the other is Esie. Okay? Is it okay?”

“Yes, everything is okay. You are safe now. Come in, let us serve you some warm tea and good food, or do you want to go straight to your beds and sleep?”

“Tea would be wonderful,” said Fumilao Makwaia.

The older girl, Jo, spoke up as she passed the tall doctor, “I wanna go to the toilet.”

“Please, say please,” said Fumilao.

“Please,” said the girl.

“Go catch up to Devi, she will show you.” Dr. Legesse motioned to Taqi, “Their bags go into the fourth family room.”

The small man, smiling happily, nodded and carted the heavy bags down the broad hallway. He was this way every time he brought women in, happy, satisfied, and proud.

“Devi,” called Dr. Legesse, “I leave them in your hands.”

“No problem,” came Devi's voice, and Dr. Legesse waved the family on past her. She had better get that phone call made to the judge.

As Mrs. Fumilao Makwaia sat her bulk down at the dining room table, Devi hurried out with a pot of steaming tea, warm milk, and a stack of sandwiches left from lunch. “This okay, Mrs. Makwaia? Until breakfast? We don't know your diet needs yet.”

“This is more than I could ever wish for,” said Fumilao as a giant sigh came from the very bottom of her feet all the way up through her substantial bosom and round face. The two girls came bounding over to her and sat, digging into the leftover sandwiches as if this were a feast from heaven.

“Mom,” said Esie, “the room is very small. Can I sleep with you in the big bed? I hate sleeping with Jo. She kicks hard when she dreams.”

“Yes, little child,” replied the Mom, pouring the strong tea.

Devi hovered for a moment, then smiling at the small family, left the room to go to Dr. Legesse's office. Taqi waved at her as he departed.

The tall, black doctor was seated behind her desk, phone to her ear. She looked up at Devi, “Everything okay? If it is, go on home, get some sleep. The house matron can take over from here.”

“It is and I will,” said Devi.

Dr. Legesse pointed at the phone, “Kendalla Moabi,” and into the phone, Dr. Legesse said, “They're tired, but just fine. Yes, everything is fine. You're right, the Valentine woman has to make her skin blacker and get her hair dyed. Barbara can do that in Miami. Remember, Valentine was an actress so the Jamaican accent should be no problem. Yes, it's all arranged.” Dr. Legesse looked down at her phone board, “Can you wait a minute, Kendalla? I've got another call coming in on my private line. Hold on.” Halima punched the buttons, “Yes? Baron. Where are you?”

Devi, at the door, heard and stopped.

“Yes, yes, I understand. I'll have Siddhu on it immediately. No, I haven't heard from Barbara Monday. Yes, I'll take care of it. Say the name of that supervising agent again. Interesting. Tidewater. And his assistant is Snow and their office is in Washington, DC. When do you land in Kennedy? Yes, I'll have Siddhu find out everything before you land. Mrs. Ixey and her daughter are safely on the plane? That is good. Yes, everyone is fine here. The woman and her daughters arrived from Uganda just moments ago. Judge Moabi is ready to receive Valentine. It is working well. No, I have had no word from Habib Mansur. Not since he went through the Good Gate into Lebanon. Yes. Goodbye. Safe journey.”

Dr. Legesse punched a button and waved at Devi.

“I heard,” said the young woman, “I'll go wake Siddhu.” She trotted purposefully down the hallway to her own desk in the front office.

“Now, Kendalla, where were we?” Halima Legesse said into the phone. “They will be here only a week at most. I believe Dr. Bar-Fischer will house them in her hospital until they can be sent to Sweden. Everything is fine.”

Devi poked her head back into Dr. Legesse's office. “Siddhu is on it, Boss.”

Dr. Legesse nodded. “Go get some sleep.”

“Yes'm.” Devi saluted and left.

Muhit, strong old legs shuffling as fast as possible, hurried right past Walid, the secretary, who jumped to his feet, screeching, “Stop, stop!” but Ali Muhit was already pushing the big door open. Sadiq-Fath, busily writing a report to the assembly, straightened in surprise.

“He didn't make the plane.”

“Who…?”

“Our agent tailing Mrs. Ixey and her daughter.” Muhit slammed a fist against the wall, “He was put to sleep. Knocked out, something! I don't know. All I know is he woke up a minute ago with a terrible headache and called his superior in San Francisco.”

“May Allah curse him!” growled the darughih.

“It wasn't his fault, sir,” Muhit tried to apologize and Sadiq-Fath howled with rage.