Way of Escape (21 page)

Freddie put some plates of excellent enchiladas con frijoles y cheso in front of the two of them. Though the aged Cheyenne kept keen attention on his two cooks in back, he pointed his fork at Russ. “You lucky you still in the man's office, you lucky he didn't find some way to fire you on the spot.”

“Maybe he will and it's taking him time to come up with something that'll prevent me from suing his butt.” Russ dabbled in the food.

“Eat!” ordered Freddie. “So tell me what the secretary said again.”

“Lily. Yeah,” Russ tried a bite of the enchilada. It was heavenly and delicious and outstanding! He dug in and between mouthfuls, reviewed Lily's remarks. “She waved at me when I came in from lunch. Waved me over to her desk, and out of god-knows-where asks me to spell my name. Which I do. S-N-O-W. And she gives me this strange look and asks if that's my real name, did I get it from my family? And were they the Arizona Snows. And I say my folks are north country Snows from up against the Minnesota Canadian border. Snow's the name I use for my records and my job, and for when I was in school, but no, it's not my family's name. Oh, she says all sweet, and what was your birth name? So I get some pride in me and I tell her: Snow-from-Night-Sky. This is my mother's clan name. Like it should be if you're from a tribe of the Iroquois nation.”

“You only half Menomonee, why not pass and use your father's white name?”

“Didn't know my dad. He left so quick. Mom said he was a kid her age and he got killed in ‘Nam. Maybe so, maybe not. No records, nothing left. Maybe if I ever have kids I'll go look up the guy's history, you know, for medical purposes. Make sure he had good genes, mostly white from what Mom knew. I got his name written in my baby book.” Russ finished off the plate of Mexican food and sighed. “So my genes are half and half, but my soul is Iroquois.”

Freddie kept his respectful silence for a long moment, and then sagely nodded. “Yep, I'm almost all Cheyenne. I don't even know what the rest is, maybe black. Happened in Oklahoma a lot after the Civil War, slaves hiding out with our tribe. We understood, we helped when it was possible. And our women weren't so prejudiced like the white society.” He refilled Russ's cup with decaf. “What else did this Lily woman say?”

“Not much, like, oh, that's interesting and you're so good at computers…” Russ laughed in pain, “Like I'm supposed to weave baskets or something?”

“You'll be back in the Intelligence Section by tomorrow. Watch what I say.” Freddie cleaned the last few bites off his plate, then wiped his hands on his apron and glanced around the busy kitchen. Satisfied, he picked up his and Russ's empty plates and considered the fact that he ran a competent crew. He put the plates in the wash sink and helped himself to several dessert dulches—a cross between cookies and doughnuts, some pink ones, and put them on a napkin in front of Russ, who had shrugged again, muttering, “Like I need this job?” and ate one of the dulches.

So an hour later, sleepy with his full stomach, he was sitting at his desk, reading the reports he had forwarded from his office computer. All he could think was that his mom had sensed the future again. The darkness was closing in fast. The Thai girl was up for assault all right, but Amnesty International made it very clear that it was self-defense. She'd been fending off the son of a Saudi diplomat who was trying to rape her in the kitchen where she worked, of all places, and she'd stabbed him with a butcher knife. Although there was to be an official trial, the outcome was already on the books, that the punishment was execution by garroting. Women simply didn't strike back in conservative Muslim culture.

Russ knew for certain, with the conviction born of his mother's brother's honor as a warrior, that Russ Snow-from-Night-Sky would not pass on any more helpful information to Yusef or Sadiq-Fath or the not-so-honorable Marion Tidewater. For example, the bits and pieces he'd pulled up on Mr. Granfa, the man who was trying to bribe the guards to get Milind out? Why should Russ condemn a man who was trying to do something good? No more. Russ printed out the material on Tahireh to read in bed. She was on his mind a lot.

Sture wanted to pace the waiting area outside the passport and immigration check-in room, but there was a huge crowd milling around the big double doors that would soon open to let the recently arrived passengers out. He felt overdressed in his expensive wool slacks and trendy pullover sweater. He carried his matching jacket over one arm.

Krister, in his uniform, calmly flicked the sign above the heads of the crowd. He had neatly printed in big letters: BONNIE und TRISHA IXEY, copying the spelling of their names carefully from the official documents.

Sture brushed imaginary lint off his wool slacks for the umpteenth time. He was not happy with his father's demand that he and Krister entertain the Ixeys in Stockholm for the day. Why not just take them to the castle and turn them loose? Surely his father was not going to be so long in Miami that Bonnie's being at the castle would do any harm? Yes, Sture did realize that the moment Bonnie arrived in Norrkoping, Miss Algbak from the Pastorkirche would have a right to interview her, demanding that papers be signed, and Ms. Person would come to defend the Hermelin estate and things could get crazy fast. Sture brushed his pants again and Krister, very respectfully, harrumphed at him.

Inside the immigration terminal, Trisha was pushing the baggage cart containing their two big suitcases, plus the carryon luggage past the nothing-to-declare sign and toward the door. They had sped through the passport stamping section with no more than a casual “Why are you in Sweden? How long will you be staying?”

“It's not as cold as I expected,” said her mother and Trisha nodded. “Yeah, I thought we'd have to put on our new jackets by now,” Trish said, almost disappointed.

They pushed through the big double doors with a phalanx of other people and Trisha instantly saw a small man with thin face and pale skin, in a chauffeur's uniform hold up a sign with their names on it. “Look, Mom, that must be them.” Next to the chauffeur was a very tall young man with untamed, ruddy hair and startlingly blue eyes.

Bonnie strained to her tiptoes, but could not see over the crowd.

“Come on,” Trisha pushed the cart in that direction and flung her hand in the air in a semaphore motion. “Wow, Mom, a chauffeur and everything!” Bonnie felt the sadness leap into her throat again. She still did not know what she should say to the son, the stepson she had never met, never even known had existed. How would he react to her? She deliberately kept a few feet behind her large and enthusiastic daughter.

The chauffeur was the first to reach them. He had slipped through the throngs of mostly tall, blonde people and gently, but firmly took the cart from Trisha. He bowed politely. “
God dag, mina damer
.”

“Hello,” said Trisha, half bowing in response.

“You don't have to do that,” said the young man tensely. He stepped past Trisha and very formally held out his massive hand to Bonnie. “I am Sture Nojd Hermelin.”

Bonnie put her tiny hand in the great big one. It brought back an instant picture of the boy's father, at the same age. “I'm your stepmother, Sture,” she said softly.

“
Ja so
,” he melted a tiny bit and overcoming his reluctance, smiled at the pretty little lady, “I guess it is true.” He turned stiffly to Trisha and proffered a hand.

Trisha's clumsy big hand almost matched his in size. “Hi, I'm your stepsister. I'm Trisha.”

Sture did not acknowledge this comment, but rather said, “This is Krister.” He waved at the chauffeur, who touched his cap and, motioning them to follow, set off, pushing the cart ahead of them, clearing a path through the crowd. The lanky young man, struggling with the English words, blurted out as they came to the front of the terminal, “My father wants…” he blushed bright red and coughed, “he wanted you to be comfortable, I am sure.
Ja so?
And you must be hungry for breakfast? Krister can take us to a good restaurant.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Bonnie agreed, doing her best to make the young man comfortable. They stepped outside and the intense darkness at six in the morning, plus the bitter cold hit her like a brick to the face. She quickly put on her new, extra-warm coat.

Sture had paid no attention to her words. Slipping into his suit coat, he stood at the edge of the sidewalk and scanned the throng bustling toward their cars.

Trish laughed her loud, very American bray, “Yeah, I'm really hungry for a decent meal.” She either didn't notice, or simply was not paying attention to his discomfort. She too, was slipping into her coat, pulling up the high collar to ward off the deep-freeze chill. Sture motioned to Krister to get the car and the small man hurried off, pulling on his gloves as he trotted down the sidewalk, leaving the two women and Sture waiting at the curb.

The wind blew fitfully, carrying what felt like shards of glass. Trisha looked around and commented, “How come there's no snow on the ground and what's this hitting my face?”

“Dat is snow,” said Sture, almost as an aside. “You see snow on the ground very soon. Here there is pipes under the road? Right? Hot water from the electric plant? So, no ice, no snow.”

“That's an excellent plan,” said Trisha, standing on tiptoes to watch Krister's progress to the parking lot.

“And this snow?” Bonnie brushed at her face, “It feels like ice.”

Sture's flitting gaze had stopped on a small, dark man getting into a white Mercedes at the far end of the terminal roadway. “
Ja so
.
Da ga det
,” he muttered, and then glanced at Bonnie. “It is dry snow. Because it is so
kalt
.” He started anxiously shuffling his feet.

Trisha did notice this. She turned to him, “Aren't you cold without a big coat?”

“
Nej
,” he tried to smile. It came out as a grimace. “It is warm right here, maybe only ten below freezing point?” His head went up as a big, black Saab pulled into the roadway and drove past the Mercedes and up to them. Even before it completely stopped, he had jerked open the back door. “You,
fru
Ixey and
froken
Ixey, you get in, please. Quickly.”

Krister had hopped out and as he came to take over the door-holding job, Bonnie—Trisha had already climbed in—saw Sture nod toward the white Mercedes idling some yards behind them and Krister return the nod. Krister firmly took Bonnie's elbow and bowed, almost forcing her into the back seat. As soon as the door closed behind her, Sture jumped into the passenger seat and Krister literally ran to the driver's side. He said something in Swedish as he fastened his seat belt and Sture turned to the women, motioning his own seat belt fastening.

“It is the law,” said Sture, again trying to smile, but his eyes flicked up, past Trisha's head, and out the back window. He exclaimed a string of words in Swedish to Krister, who immediately released the parking brake and sped down the roadway.

Trisha, as she locked her seat belt, turned her head to see what Sture was watching. She whispered, “Mom…”

Bonnie looked around. “The Mercedes?”

Trisha nodded, then asked Sture, “Are there secret agents after us here too?”

“Too?” He finally looked directly at the two women. “You mean, they are after you before?”

“Back at the farm,” said Bonnie slowly so the boy would understand, “we had two agents watching us. In San Francisco, at the airport there was a black man, sometimes a woman, and some Arab guys. At Kennedy Airport several agents, I guess they were agents, came after us and a woman from the UN helped us get past them.”

Sture sat back into his seat, sighed, said something in Swedish to Krister, who shook his head, resignedly it seemed. They carried on a terse conversation in Swedish for several minutes, of which Bonnie only understood the words
far
,
slott
,
fru
,
froken
, and some liberally used swear words such as
fy fan
. Funny how she remembered the words her father had told her never to repeat. The chauffeur and the young man became mostly silent as the busy-ness of the airport approach road turned into a long, empty, dark highway. Far off, on the horizon, were sparkling bright city lights. In the sub-zero cold, they looked like crystals glowing. Bonnie assumed that was Stockholm.

Trisha began to squirm in her warm leather seat and turned to her mom, “I gotta go.”

“I will have to in a few minutes too.” Bonnie leaned forward. “Sture, were we going to stop for breakfast?”

Instead of immediately answering, both Sture and Krister glanced in the rearview mirror. Trisha craned her head around also. Sture muttered, “
Nu! Tva!
”

“
Ja!
” the chauffeur responded.

“Two?” Trish asked.

“Yes,” said Sture, “two cars are behind us.”

“Shit,” growled Trish, then, “I really gotta go.”

“We are going,” Sture said back to her in a similar growl.

“No! I mean I gotta
go
.”

Bonnie laid a hand on her daughter's arm. “That's slang for having to go to the bathroom, Sture.”

“
Bad?
You need a
bad
!” The boy was frantic. “You cannot wait until we get to the castle?”

“
Bad
, Mom,” whispered Trisha urgently, “what's a
bad
!”

“No, Sture,” Bonnie tried to be pleasant, “she meant she has to find a WC.”

“Oh,” Sture sighed and repeated WC to Krister in Swedish. The chauffeur laughed out loud.

“What the hell's a WC?” insisted Trish.

“Toilet,” Bonnie told her.

“Oh, jeez, why double-u see?” The tall woman squirmed again.