Way of Escape (25 page)

“
Ah, velkommen!
” said the woman, “
Sie ar den Amerikanishers, jo?
” She waved a massive, callused hand at them.

“
Ja
,” said Bonnie.

“
Ja, so
.” The woman wiped her hands on her apron and held out the right one. “
Jag heter Astrid
.”

“Astrid, the cook.” Bonnie confirmed.

“
Ja
,” the woman pointed a plate at the nook. “
Aten sie middag?
”

“
Ja!
” exclaimed Trisha and sat promptly. Bonnie sat next to her and Astrid served up plates of steaming noodles with slices of meatloaf-looking stuff. The vegetable was Brussels sprouts, and to Bonnie's amazement, Trisha devoured them, cleaning her plate in a flash and asking for seconds.

“Really good, Mom, really good,” she said between bites.

Astrid smiled, pleased and, reaching into the bigger refrigerator, pulled out a bowl of what looked like trifle. Bonnie, inwardly, groaned. She definitely was going to have to take up indoor tennis or cross-country skiing and both in the same day, anything that was very, very energetic.

The maid, Marie, came into the kitchen and told Astrid something, at which the large woman retrieved a serving tray and served up a meal for Marie to take away. Noticing Bonnie's gaze, Astrid said, “
Fur den ung herre
.”

Trish looked at her mother. Bonnie translated, “For the young lord.” Trish said, “Ahhh.”

Astrid nodded and said in a level of Swedish meant perhaps for a child, “
Han lasa bokker. Han studera den kvall. Han sager
er vilyan television bevittna? Eh, television?
” With a flourish, she grabbed out another serving tray and put two bowls of the trifle-like dessert onto it, with spoons and napkins. “
Kaffee?
” She held up a cup.

“
Nej fur me, tack
,” Bonnie responded. “Coffee, Trish?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Beer?”

“Be-er?” Astrid shook her head, shrugging. Trish went to the refrigerator and looked inside. Not there.

“Look in the pantry,” suggested Bonnie. “No one in Europe drinks cold beer.”

“
Warm
beer?” said Trish and went to the pantry. She held up a can. “Could this be it? It says
ol
.”

“Ahh,” nodded Astrid, “
Jo! Ol
.” She pronounced it like oil. She took the can from Trisha, found a glass beer mug and poured out the can of pale beer and handed it to Trish. “
Ol
.”

Trish sipped it. “Yep, beer. Not bad tasting either.”

“Television?” Astrid asked again, picking up the tray.

“Sure,” said Trish.

Bonnie said, “I really wanted to talk to Sture tonight, about the papers.” She got up and followed Trish and Astrid down the hall.

Astrid looked around at Sture's name, “
Den herre studera
.”

“Studying?” Trish guessed and Bonnie nodded, “Yes, well, he is in medical school.”

They were led to a small room about halfway down the hall. Warm and comfortable, with a big cushy sofa and two reclining chairs, the room was strictly modern. The television was actually a small movie screen and, after setting down the dessert tray, Astrid indicated where the controls were and pointed to a shelf full of videotapes. “Film? Okay?”

“Sure,” Trish agreed, “thank you.”

“
Tack so mycket
,” said Bonnie and Astrid, bowing a couple times, backed out of the rooms. It took Trisha only moments to figure out how to get the set on and where the channels were.

“Must be satellite,” she said and flipped through the offerings. Every conceivable language came at them. “Oh!” said Trish as the Finnish channel came through, “are they doing what I think they're doing?”

“Looks like it, kiddo,” laughed Bonnie.

“Right at dinner time, with no warnings on the channel info.”

“The Scandinavian countries have a much more relaxed attitude about sex,” Bonnie explained.

Trisha clicked through a bunch more channels with the same activities. “Guess so. Boy, the moral right in the US would have kitten-conniptions and then some.”

Bonnie ate a few bites of her trifle, then made a decision. “I'm going to see if I can find
den herre
. You stay and enjoy.”

“Notice something, Mom? Notice that there isn't one single violent movie on? Not one. It's like Lassie reigns. Lassie on half the channels and fun and games in saunas on the others.”

“Interestingly enough,” said Bonnie as she headed for the door, “I read an article some months ago that quoted statistics on teenage pregnancy in relation to sexual attitudes and the teens in Scandinavia have, by far, the smallest percentage of teen pregnancy, the fewest abortions per girl, and the healthiest babies of those who are born to teen moms.”

Trish looked up at her, “Really? Early sex education does that?”

“Probably more than mere sex education,” said Bonnie, “the entire society itself has different expectations for their kids, for example, there has been equality for women, and men, insisted upon for over seventy years. Men take paid child-care leave as easily as a woman, for up to two years. Plus, well, a lot of things contribute, and underlying it all, an excellent health care system which insists on preventive medicine first.”

“If I even hinted to my high school health class that we were going to show porno, my butt would be fried and fired so fast! The powers-that-be wouldn't give me time to clean my desk!” Trisha went back to channel surfing. “You're off to find Sture?”

Bonnie nodded. Her original intention of getting Trisha and Sture together would not happen this evening, she was certain, and it was for the best. They should have an opportunity to at least get to know each other better, to come to more familiar terms. So, barring that goal being reached in one evening, the first evening, Bonnie thought it likely she could get into the den and use some of her expertise in information research. She was completely intrigued over Sture's use of English verb tenses.

“Actually, I'm going to look into the family history if I can.” She smiled, thinking, that was one way to put it, and closed the door behind her. First she would have to get a sweater. The castle was quite cold. As she ascended the grand stairs, the ancestors in the portraits looked down on her. These were not angry people, nor overly proud and arrogant people. The Hermelins had expressions, for the most part, of contentment and satisfaction. The dates on the plaques on the paintings ran oldest at the bottom of the stairs to most recent at the top. In the alcove on the top landing were two she hadn't noticed her first time up the stairs, but then she was very jet lagged and wanting only a bath and a nap. The one was of Carl-Joran at about forty-five, tall and blond, with the slightly off-center features of his ancestors. His eyes held a sadness she would not have expected, like the grief of millennia had lodged in them. Next to him, and much younger when she was painted, was, Bonnie read the plaque: Heda Lind Hermelin, nee Bergshem, wife of Carl-Joran, Baron Hermelin, with the dates of birth and death. But Carl-Joran's gave only the date of birth. Had Sture not got to this yet?

Feeling the chill of the hallway, Bonnie moved on toward her room. The fleeting question of whether or not she should have her portrait put up was only momentary, more as a private joke. She truly felt an outsider. Sture was the natural inheritor here, and she did not want all of this on her conscience.

As for Sture, she heard music coming from the first door on the left after the alcove and was assured that the young man was diligently memorizing medical terms or figuring out how to cut open a patient. She hurried on and retrieved the thick sweater she'd packed in the duffel and headed back down the grand stairway. As she had guessed, the door to the den was not only not locked, it was standing open and one of the soft, indirect lights above the giant bookcases was on. Sture was not a naturally suspicious person, nor was the castle staff accustomed to security needs. Bonnie slipped into the den, let her eyes adjust and set about learning the filing system of the room.

It was what she, being a skilled librarian and researcher, generously called informal. No secretary had ever touched this collection of papers and bills and letters. One out box was labeled
bokforare
, and from what was stacked high there, she could assume was for an accountant. Another outbox read
advokat
, and she knew that meant attorney. Next to the telephone was a largish phone-memo-calendar book. In it were scribbled notations in various dates, plus phone numbers. She saw her and Trish's arrival noted, she saw on previous dates appointments for Sture with advokat Person and with other people—his professors possibly? And her eye caught the notation for tomorrow: one p.m. Krister
pa flygplats
. Krister had to be at the airport at one p.m.? Why? Who for? She gently rifled through the other papers scattered on the big desk. Sture's handwriting gave full evidence that he was to be a physician. It was barely legible. Stick-em notes to call Person, notes about Algbakdel, notes about the Ixeys with exclamation points after, notes about things that must be done in the castle and notes regarding the EW and…
far
. What about
far
, his father? The little she could interpret had to do with kronor and Swiss accounts. Not surprising, but not illuminating. She sighed. There was nothing that would explain the boy's English language quirks that she could decipher anyway.

Faintly, along the hallway, came the sound of footsteps. She slipped quickly to the door and peeked out. Her daughter, Trisha, was headed back to the kitchen. Bonnie smiled. She ducked out, leaving the light and the door as she had found them, and went back to watch the night's offering of Swedish television. Trisha appeared to have settled on a satellite channel of English programs with Swedish subtitles. Hercule Poirot was busy solving a case that she, Bonnie, already had read the ending to years ago. Oh, well, she liked the actor, she enjoyed the British accents, and she decided it wouldn't hurt to finish her bowl of trifle.

The beautiful yellow owl from Belize had enjoyed its moments of comparative freedom. It had flown well in the cool of the late evening. Everyone had enjoyed the sight, including Vizier Rida. Later as he left his duties behind him and headed for his quarters and his wives, he had only a momentary glitch of conscience about the plight of a tropical owl in the heat of the desert. Rarely did these magnificent birds live longer than three months at most. Air-conditioned and luxuriant cage-mews merely postponed the inevitable.

He paused at the back stairs, wondering if he had forgotten something. Whatever it was nagging at him would have to wait. He was hungry and he wanted to go home and he had had enough of the sultan's demands and family squabbles.

It was early morning, still dark, when Russ tossed a ring of duplicate keys onto the counter and Freddie, slowly, with deliberation as he did so, picked them up. Next, Russ pushed an addressed messenger delivery envelope across the counter. “At noon tomorrow exactly. That way it'll be delivered minutes before five p.m.”

“You really doing this? You really flying off to Israel?”

“Yep.” Russ slid onto a seat at the counter, patted his pocket where his official papers and passport were hiding.

Freddie took the ring of keys and put them in his pants pocket. He took the envelope and stuck it in the slot under the cash register. “Okay. I think you burning your bridges. One great conflagration. Whoom! All gone.” He poured Russ a cup of coffee. “The Agency don't take kindly to guys trying to burn their bridges with them. I doubt you can do it, completely.”

“How about some breakfast before my cab comes?” asked Russ, the butterflies in his stomach more obvious than he'd care to admit. He sipped his coffee.

“Sure thing. What you want?”

“Big bowl of oatmeal, toast.”

Freddie hollered the order back to the lone breakfast cook, then sat across from Russ. “How'd you get onto an El Al flight so quick anyway? My cousin and his church group took them a month just to get reservations.”

“Computer stuff,” smiled Russ. “Besides, I'm not going El Al. I'm taking another route that puts me in Geneva first. It's okay, don't worry. Israeli security will let me in. I got a high level passport.”

“Yeah, until your boss reads your letter of resignation this evening.” Freddie reached around and got the bowl of oatmeal and the plate of toast and put it in front of Russ. “There gonna be fireworks in that office like you never saw! You gonna be lucky if the man doesn't put a hit out on you.”

“The Agency doesn't do that sort of stuff anymore.” Russ made an effort to eat.

“Yeah, sure.” Freddie poured himself some coffee. “An' my Aunt Tillie still don't smoke cigars.”

“They don't,” Russ insisted.

“You watch, someone'll catch up to you about when you land in Tel Aviv. More ‘an that, inside a month, the IRS'll be auditing your Indian money accounts…”

“They can't. The accounts are in Canada and I got access with British banks as well as Canadian. Hey, my mom knew what she was doing both when the tribe was paid reparations and when they bought their land back with casino profits. Mom put almost every penny in long-term bonds and Canadian investments.”

“Smart move.” Freddie nodded, “Maybe you'll do all right, Injun. Maybe you'll rescue the girl and do all right.”

Russ pulled the picture of Tahireh out of his coat pocket. “Think she's worth all this?” He slid the computer printout across the counter.

The older man put the fingers of one hand delicately on the edge of the printout. “You going halfway round the world to rescue this lady? You either nuts or some crazed warrior on his vision quest. That's what I say.”