Way of Escape (19 page)

“Yes it was, however it happened, he should not have been so incompetent as to get
put to sleep
. What's going on over there?” the Iranian commander stormed as he jumped to his feet. “Who took him out? The Agency? Get me Tidewater. Now!” Sadiq-Fath punched the intercom and shouted at Walid. “Get me a direct line to Marion Tidewater's office.”

“I assure you,” said Muhit, trying to placate the infuriated commander, “it was not an American agent. You will want to talk to Tidewater. He may not know that his man was also taken out.”

Sadiq-Fath's storm blew cold. “What?”

“Tidewater may not know that Agent Claybourne, the black agent assigned to Mrs. Ixey in California, was put to sleep in the San Francisco airport also. Our agent found him when he woke up and came out of the men's room.”

“Found him?”

“Unconscious in an adjoining boarding area.” Muhit let a tiny smile cross his aged features.

“May Allah praise us!” Sadiq-Fath said in shock. The intercom buzzed. It was Walid.

“Mr. Tidewater's secretary on the line, sir.”

“Put her on,” he ordered.

“Hello, hello?” came Lily's voice. “Uh, both Mr. Tidewater and Mr. Snow are out of the office,” she said insistently.

Reeking with contempt, Sadiq-Fath inquired, “Do you know where your Agent Claybourne is?”

“Commander Fath, sir,” Lily replied being as diplomatic as possible, “I have no idea who you are talking about.”

Sadiq-Fath paid no attention. “Tell Marion that his west coast agent is asleep in the San Francisco airport.”

Lily sputtered, “You shouldn't know anything about…”

“But I do and you are found out, aren't you? The man's cover was blown.” He laughed cruelly and hung up.

Muhit was nodding. “I'm sure you are right.”

“I know I am right. I would love to see Marion's face when his secretary tells him. Ha!” Quddus Sadiq-Fath clapped his hands twice. “I would die a happy man believing that Marion Tidewater has just had his whole EW operation completely broken open.”

The old warrior in front of him grinned, then said, “I will tell our New York office to get an agent to Kennedy immediately.

“Yes, do that and make sure
he
is at least competent enough to stay on the Ixeys this time!”

“It will be done,” promised Muhit, still smiling.

At the very moment Lily was frantically trying to explain something she did not at all understand to Russ Snow, who was madly waving to Tidewater to come to the Immigration desk phone, a sleepy Siddhu Singh Prakash in Haifa, Israel was calling the airplane carrying the baron to Kennedy Airport.

A flight attendant gently shook him until he awoke. “You have a call, Mr. Mink.”

“Yes,” said Carl-Joran, “where do I use the telephone?”

“Either up front or in the tail section, sir,” she smiled.

Extracting himself from the cramped seat, the big man made his way back to the tail section and picked up the receiver. “Yes, this is Mink.”

Siddhu laughed. “Baron, you will not be so surprised to find out who Agent Marion Tidewater is.”

“Eh? I won't?”

“He is very high ranking Agency man.”

“He? His name is Marian?”

“Yes. M-A-R-I-O-N,” Siddhu spelled it out, “and the Mr. Russell Snow is his assistant, a new man, in Agent Tidewater's office only for the last week. He was transferred from the Computer Records office. He is American Indian.”

“I see.” Carl-Joran yawned. “So these two men are waiting for Bonnie and Trisha at Kennedy. Why? What does the Agency want with the Ixeys?”

“Do not ask me! I cannot help you on that,” replied Siddhu. “I can only access the employee tax and payroll information.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

An announcement came over the plane's speakers, “Please take your seats and fasten your seat belts, we are starting our descent into Kennedy Airport.”

“I have to go,” said Carl-Joran.

“Be careful,” warned the Sikh, “these men could be very dangerous. I have sent help.”

“I am always careful,” said the big man. “Always.” He hung up and made his way dutifully back to the cramped seat, vaguely wondering as he stuffed himself back into a seat belt, who Siddhu would have called to help.

It took forever, seemingly, for the passengers to file off the big jet and by the time Carl-Joran hurried down the ramp, Bonnie and Trisha were walking quickly toward the moving walkway that would take them to the international flight departure area and the Swedish plane. As the baron hefted his duffel bag under one arm, he spotted a robust man with long black hair pulled back into a ponytail step away from the bookstall and walk the same direction as the Ixeys. Carl-Joran moved quickly to get behind him. He didn't look Middle Eastern. Irish maybe, but not Arab…unless…perhaps one of the Iranian-American fellows born from an American Marine father during the Shah's regime. The man was definitely following Bonnie and Trish.

Suddenly, an ugly little man, partly balding and with beady black eyes and dressed in the requisite well-tailored suit, popped out of a side hallway right next to Bonnie and Trish and almost arm-to-arm with them, though not saying anything, walked alongside them. This was the Agency, thought Carl-Joran, perhaps Mr. Tidewater himself. The robust man with the ponytail held back a couple paces more, which further confirmed Carl-Joran's assumption.

The long group came to the guards and metal detectors at the head of the international departures boarding area. Trisha put the two handbags in the x-ray machine and the two women stepped through the metal detectors without problem. The agent flashed a badge and stepped hurriedly through, signaling to a tall, darker man on the other side.

Ponytail man hesitated. Carl-Joran ducked behind a column, then into a tax-free shop. From there he watched helplessly as darker man, whom Carl-Joran was guessing was Mr. Russ Snow, came closer and closer to Bonnie and Trisha, as they picked up their handbags from the x-ray table.

Suddenly, from a boarding area behind Mr. Snow, hustling at great speed, came Barbara Monday. Carl-Joran stared. How the hell did she get here? Oh, he remembered—Siddhu's “help.”

She half-shoved Mr. Snow to one side, which put her face to face with Bonnie Ixey. Barbara, a very serious expression on her face, said something to the small woman, flashed an ID card and taking her elbow, stuffed the ID card back in a pocket before grabbing Trisha with the other hand. Barbara pulled them forward, right past Snow.

The man Carl-Joran assumed was Marion Tidewater waved frantically at Snow. Both of them rushed after the women. Ponytail man now made his move, going quickly and uneventfully through the metal detector and after the now even longer group.

Carl-Joran went through next. He quickly caught up with ponytail and just as they passed a men's room, Carl-Joran quietly tripped ponytail so that he fell sideways into the tiled entryway. In a flash, ponytail recovered his balance and struck out with a pinpoint accurate kung-fu punch to Carl-Joran's midsection. Carl-Joran felt the wind suck out of his lungs and several impressions flashed at light speed through his mind; first, that this man whose eyes were as green as any Irishman's was most probably not Arab but Irish and secondly, he was a worthy and dangerous opponent.

A second blow, a karate chop was coming for Carl-Joran's neck. The big man straightened despite the pain in his chest, and diverted the chop into the tiled wall. It must have hurt, but ponytail showed no pain, rather he struck quickly with the other hand just as a man coming from inside the men's room shouted and ducked back in. Carl-Joran neatly caught the strike with a
katatori sankyo
grab that brought a muffled scream from ponytail as his wrist snapped while he flew on his own momentum into the men's room. Carl-Joran knew Airport Security would soon arrive. With the grace of a ballerina, the giant of a man leapt into the men's room and snapped his fingers across the upper bridge of ponytail's nose spewing blood across the floor and the man soundlessly went limp. Carl-Joran turned to his unwilling audience who had watched in horror.

“Excuse me, but he is a terrorist. You will watch him until Security arrives and tell them all about it?”

“I gotta get a plane, buddy,” said one man, quickly sidling past the bleeding hump on the floor.

“Yeah, me too,” the other squealed as he followed the first. “Didn't see nothing. Don't wanna be held up. Gotta be in Paris tomorrow. Hey, I'm outta here.”

Carl-Joran laughed. He'd counted on that. “
Kom, slofock
,” he insulted the unconscious man in Swedish, and stuffed him into a stall. Back in the hallway, there was no sign of the women or the American agents. He sighed with anxiety. Cautiously he moved along the edge of the hallway toward the SAS International boarding area. After all, Bonnie's plane was not supposed to leave for Stockholm for another two hours. What was Barbara going to do with the women until then?

He saw the Agency men at the doorway to the Diplomats Lounge on the other side of the SAS boarding area, talking animatedly with an immense black fellow in African dress. Only those with diplomatic passes got into that area. The huge black fellow ferociously shook his head and Tidewater was snarling back, his voice carried.

“This is official business, I want to talk to someone in this area.”

“You cannot!” responded the African.

Tidewater turned to Snow, “Go get Security.”

“Yessir,” said the Native American and turned away to hurry toward where Carl-Joran was hiding.

The huge black man smiled nastily and shut the door in Tidewater's face.

As Carl-Joran stepped aside in order to keep his face from being seen by Russ Snow, Barbara Monday's voice softly said, “I need you in Miami.”

He couldn't see her until he looked back toward the women's room. “How did you get here?” he whispered loudly.

“I was in my office at the UN when Siddhu called. So here I am. You should be thankful.”

“So, I am thankful. But,” he shook his head, motioned toward the Diplomats Lounge, “I cannot go to Miami with you.”

Russ Snow passed, hurried on toward a phone. Once he was gone, Barbara peeked out. “That Agency man knows who I am, he said so right to my face. He'll have someone on my tail. You have to go to Miami—now! And help them get Valentine onto the plane to Africa.”

“Oh, jeez!” cursed the baron, “Now I must go to Sweden, I must stay with Bonnie.”

“She's safe. My buddy LaFoon will see to that. He's a prince.”

“A prince of a guy? Eh?” The note of jealousy made Barbara smile, which made Carl-Joran Hermelin lean back against the wall in defeat. “Which plane?”

“American Flight 122, leaves in half an hour. Someone will meet you at the airport.”

“Skitskrap!”

“Ooo, naughty language,” the fine lady in the pink suit scolded. “I promise, you'll be on the next flight out of Miami to Stockholm. Promise, promise. You better call Sture and tell him to get Bonnie and her daughter.” The woman glanced around at the returning Russ Snow who had Airport Security in tow. She ducked back into the women's room. Carl-Joran turned his back to the security entourage.

The next words he heard were swear words from Agent Tidewater as Security informed him that his quarry had been officially taken into Prince LaFoon's protection.

“Prince of what! Which country?” screamed Agent Tidewater.

A Security officer shrugged, “Who knows? But he's a diplomat and diplomats got immunity.”

Carl-Joran peeked out in time to see Tidewater jerk his hand toward Snow. As they walked down the hallway past Carl-Joran, Tidewater growled, “Get us an agent in Sweden, get someone on Monday's tail, and find out what the hell country LaFoon is prince of. God damn them all to hell!”

“Yessir,” was Snow's meek response.

Very, very reluctantly, Baron Hermelin pulled himself away from the wall, and from the SAS boarding area, and hefting up his duffel and briefcase, moved along toward the domestic flights departure area. He did not want to go to Miami. He really didn't. Just before he boarded the Miami-bound plane, at least he was flying First Class this time, he phoned Sture. Actually, Carl-Joran was amazed that his son knew that many vulgar Swedish words. He must have learned them in medical school. Yet, what choice did the boy have? He and Krister would pick up the women in Stockholm and stall: take them shopping, see the Vasaskjept, the palace, anything they wanted before finally taking them out to the castle, and, Carl-Joran insisted, tell them nothing until the baron arrived. When? He didn't know. At least Miami would be nice and warm.

Their instant and strange African benefactor with the pitch-black skin and gloriously colored robes had accompanied them hand-in-hand to the boarding ramp and made sure they were safely onto the Swedish plane before bowing ever so politely and bidding them a very
gentile adieu
. A flight attendant guided them to their first class seats. He almost had to wrestle the hand baggage from Trisha to put it in the overhead bins. With a sigh, Trish sank into her seat and accepted the glass of champagne that he put into her hand.

“If you wish more drink, tell me,” he insisted, smiling at the tall, anxious redhead.

Trisha nodded, sipping the champagne. Her mom slipped into her seat and grinned at him. “I'd like something warm to drink, please.”

“
Ja so
,” he smiled, helping Bonnie to fasten her seat belt. “Tea, coffee,
choklad mjolk
?”

“Oh, the milk please.” Bonnie turned to her daughter. Trisha had set the glass on the armrest and had leaned her head back against the seat. Her eyes were closing. She sighed again.

As the milling passengers filed onto the giant plane, the attendant somehow managed to bring Bonnie a tall cup of hot chocolate. “This is wonderful, thank you,” said Bonnie.