Way of Escape (33 page)

“I understand,” said Bonnie, hugging him in return. She laughed sharply. “Two weeks ago I would have been outraged at being told such a thing. I guess it takes only once to learn the reality of being stalked, of having someone hate you enough to kill you. An enlightenment I owe all to you, my dear…husband.”

He shrugged. “It is the Iranian Darughih Sadiq-Fath who has the more murderous operatives tracking us. He does not hate us. He does not have that kind of emotion. It is business for him. Strictly business. His pride has been hurt because we in EW, especially I, have been able to elude him for so long. No, not hatred.”

“I don't understand,” said Bonnie as they walked down the long hallway.

Carl-Joran's face became somber, “Don't try. This kind of hell and deceit does not become you.”

“Lies do not become you either,” she said up to him.

A crooked smile spread across his face, “All of my life is true.”

“Even the lies?”

“Especially the lies.”

Darughih Quddus Sadiq-Fath gloated. “Are the agents in place?” he asked Muhit, stepping into the bulletproof Mercedes. The car still dripped steaming water from its morning wash. The driver closed the door behind the darughih.

As the car pulled away from the heavily guarded residence, Muhit, bundled in a thick bomber jacket, turned in his seat to look at his boss. “We have reached an understanding with the judges who are to try the Milind Pandharpurkar case. The verdict, and the punishment, should be swift.”

“That was a given regardless of our interference,” said Sadiq-Fath, wishing he had put on his warm overcoat. “Driver, turn on some heat back here.” Around them, covering the higher suburbs of Tehran, a thin layer of snow frosted the lovely gardens and trees. House servants were busily sweeping steps and patios. A few maids were slipping and sliding their way to market. Here and there, the big black Mercedes had to circumvent cars and trucks that had not made it up, or down, an incline.

Almost immediately, warm air filled the back of the Mercedes and Sadiq-Fath relaxed. He hated to be cold. “We have information from the prison guards that there is a man who is trying to rescue the Pandharpurkar girl, he's been dealt with?”

“Shamsi Granfa is his name. He is under constant surveillance and his phone is tapped.” Ali Muhit watched the road.

“Is this man connected to EW? That isn't clear to me,” Sadiq-Fath commented.

The old soldier pushed his chin down onto his chest. “It isn't clear to us either.” His hand lay, out of long habit, on the butt of the 9mm pistol in the holster on his belt. “We don't believe he is one of their regular operatives. He's new on the scene and his calls to them just began with this case. In fact, his calls went first to Lori Dubbayaway in Bangkok, whom we are certain is EW. We do believe he will be contacted by the EW administrator, Prakash, about the Pandharpurkar girl and that EW money will be put in Granfa's hands sometime this afternoon. Of course, that will be too late for Milind.” Muhit leaned onto his hand on the gun butt at this waist. “There is another servant girl in prison. One EW will feel compelled to try and rescue. We're hoping this Granfa bloke will also want her.”

“Why?”

“She is pregnant by a Kuwaiti dignitary who has asked that she disappear.”

“This dignitary can't send the girl home?” The question was mere curiosity. Certainly Sadiq-Fath did not care one way or another.

“Too dangerous. Her father is a low-wage clerk in the Thai government, Bureau of Parks, I believe, and the mother is a teacher. He and his wife might come after the baby's father for money, not that they would be able to collect. Still, it would get to Amnesty and the other humanitarian organizations and cause unpleasantness for the dignitary.” The car was pulling into the courtyard of the security agency office building. Muhit unlocked his seat belt and put on his hat.

The driver parked and jumped out to open the darughih's door. Together, Sadiq-Fath and the aged assistant walked into the tightly guarded building. It was cold in here also and Sadiq-Fath grumbled, “Why must I be chilled everywhere I go?” He shouted at a nearby secretary, “Have the heat turned up.”

Eyes averted, the man replied, “The furnace is not working, sir, we have been freezing all morning.”

“Has a repair man not been called?” asked Sadiq-Fath in astonishment.

“I believe so, sir, yessir,” said the secretary, cringing, “I can check to see what is happening if you want?”

“Find the building manager. You aren't responsible for heat, he is. Have him report to me.”

“Immediately, sir,” the man responded and scurried away.

As they entered the darughih's office, two other male secretaries were plugging in space heaters. It was a couple degrees warmer in this room already. “Thank you,” Sadiq-Fath acknowledged as the two men left. Turning his rear end to a heater, Quddus Sadiq-Fath looked at his assistant. “So it is all in place?”

“We will plan to pick up Granfa, and whoever else we can catch, interrogate them, and hold them until the people at EW give us the location of the women they have taken from Iran.”

The darughih nodded. “And then we execute Granfa and this whomever person, perhaps after a trial of some sort?”

“That's the plan, sir,” smiled Muhit. “I personally will bring Granfa and any associate here to Iran and we will execute them.”

Jani's hair had been cut and bleached and dyed a charcoal salt and pepper. Tahireh had expertly applied makeup and Captain Maxwell had chosen an ostentatious pantsuit that screamed Rodeo Drive. The addition of oversized earrings and a clunky necklace finished the job. When Jani stepped in front of the full-length mirror, she gasped.

Zhara covered her mouth to keep from exploding in laughter.

“But look at you!” exclaimed Jani. The two stood side by side. Zhara's long dark hair was sun-bleached blonde with a streak of flashy silver and perfectly straight, her exposed skin a creamy tan. She looked like a teenage model right off Malibu beach. Her attire consisted of tights and an open-knit, baby doll top over a turtleneck jersey and high-heeled sandals. There was an engagement ring and a wedding ring on her finger. She hugged her mom with one arm and peered into her passport with the other hand. “Mrs. Zoë Feldenstein. Eighteen…no, just turned nineteen. Born in Hollywood, California on Christmas day. What a blast!”

Lonnie Maxwell handed Jani her passport. “You are Mrs. Myrna Feldenstein. A widow from West Hollywood, you and your daughter-in-law are going home after a visit to your son Paul, who's a pilot serving in the air force. Memorize everything. Your birthday, birthplace, all the countries you've visited. Do those rings fit?”

Jani…a.k.a. Mrs. Feldenstein Sr. twisted the diamond ring on her ring finger and then flicked through the stamped pages of her new passport. “My goodness, I have certainly traveled a lot!”

“You'll notice that most of them are takeoff points for cruises. You're husband hunting.” Lonnie grinned. “Think you can manage that?”

“No more husbands, thank you,” Jani laughed in return and picked up the large handbag to sort through the rest of her stuff. There were also two entire carryon backpacks for Jani and Zhara to explore.

Zhara had shaken out her small fanny pack purse and was going through her new possessions. “When do we leave?”

“In an hour. You'll be flying out on a military transport to Frankfurt, Germany. There you'll go by taxi to the civilian Frankfurt airport and get onto a Lufthansa flight to Geneva. Mrs. Englich will meet you in Geneva. She'll take you to her private school and there you'll stay.”

Tahireh, who had gone to the commissary after finishing Jani's makeup, came back. She dropped a couple newspapers onto the table. “The Saudi newspaper has an article about the death of the hajis. Only two paragraphs and it says they were murdered by Bedouin discontents. Sort of a silly thing to say since two of the hajis are known to be Bedouins.” She pointed down at the women's photos on the front page of the paper. Jani was in full mufti standing next to her husband and the one of Zhara showed her in school uniform. Tahireh smiled with satisfaction. “You turned out well. No one could possibly recognize you. Come on, we better get you to the plane.”

“I can take them,” Lonnie Maxwell said and gathered up her uniform jacket and jeep keys. “Do up those packs, put the passports in your purses, let's go!”

“God, I have butterflies in my stomach again,” exclaimed Zhara-Zoë.

Jani-Myrna had no time to grieve any more. A flash of emotional pain went through her and that was all she allowed herself. Quickly, she zipped up the packs and loaded them onto the wheeled carryall. “Ready to go!”

Captain Maxwell turned to Tahireh Ibrahim. “You need sleep. You need rest. I expect to find you doing both when I get back.”

Tahireh smiled and nodded. The moment the jeep engine started, Tahireh picked up the phone and dialed Granfa's cell phone number.

Shamsi Granfa sweated. In his late thirties, he looked years older. Overweight, flushed, he came away from the small grocery store that was his secret currency exchange depot. Anyone who did business in Arab countries had their source for receiving and sending foreign currency. It was a necessity. He had thought about running a money exchange from his own business location, but exchanges were often raided by the security forces. His business affairs had to be kept absolutely free of government interference, and so far, because of the clientele who sought him out, he had been left strictly to his own devices. This was good for what he called his extracurricular activity of rescuing victims of the Kuwaiti purges.

His familiarity with the word extracurricular came from a long career as a student at the University of Washington. Of all things, he had a doctor of science in nursing and pathology. Years he'd spent in Seattle attending university—years! to keep himself from being thrown out by the American HS, back to Iraq and certain death as a Kurd. When he did get his final degree, he also picked up American citizenship, which allowed him to come to Kuwait as an investor three years ago. He still felt like a foreigner in Kuwait and he probably always would.

Sometimes memories assailed him. He would watch his mother dying in the gas attack on that lonely mountain pass in north Iraq while he and his younger sister hid in a tiny hole in the cliff. Everyone in the group perished. He and his mother and his older sister, Rané, were trying to join up with his father and his two brothers in Turkey. But his two brothers never made it out of Turkey; they were shot as spies. Shamsi and Rané nearly starved on that cold pass. Only by the grace of some higher power did a herdsman find them and feed them. That amazing man managed to slip them over the Turkish border disguised as sheep. Allah be blessed, that herdsman had wrapped sheepskins over them and had them crawl, in the dark, past distant border guards and into a border village to the man's cousin's house. To this day, Shamsi retched at the smell of raw lanolin.

They had not got off free though. The cousin had raped Rané. They'd run again. A missionary family from Seattle had gathered them in and sent them to America. Sounds simple in retrospect. Simple, except for the recurring bouts of terror.

Rané, actually, was all he had left of his family after his father died last year. She had managed to get into University of California at Fresno six months ago and was supremely happy in her college studies. One of the reasons he did the work he did was to have money to send to her. Thus, in every way that counted, he was alone and he hated being alone in the world. He wanted family, he wanted to belong to something, to someone. Maybe he'd take better care of himself when that something or someone became genuine.

Shamsi hurried along the busy sidewalks. It was noon and offices and stores had closed for midday prayers. Allah u abha! came the first call from the muezzin tower and many of the people around him knelt, facing Mecca. Religion was another thing he'd cast off when he cast off Iraqi citizenship.

His cell phone vibrated. He looked at the caller ID. Not one he knew…wait, it was a prefix for the American air base. He answered, confirmed who it was and said in careful measured instructions, “Yes. The alley behind the courthouse, south side. Dress as we agreed.”

This too was good. He'd long wanted to tie in with the EW's cause, and now it was doubly official. He not only had money committed to him, he had an operative.

CHAPTER 13: SNOW IN THE DESERT

Dinner at the Hanley Arms was always worth the wait. Although Tidewater had palmed some very large currency into the maitre d's pocket, it still took close on to fifteen minutes to be guided into the smaller of the private dining rooms. The waiter carried their drinks and luckily, taken the meal order as well. Marion stretched, rolled up his cuffs, put his arm around the buxom Lily, and his beeper vibrated.

“Damn!” he groused, looking at the number. It was Norm, his new assistant who had been given strict instructions not to disturb his boss unless the heavens were falling. Marion Tidewater shrugged and said to Lily, “Gotta make a phone call.”

“Have the waiter bring a phone in here,” she smiled.

“Ah, right. You, my dear,” he nuzzled her, “know all about my work anyway. Such a good girl.” Tidewater leaned out the doorway and waved at his waiter. A phone appeared almost instantly. “Norm, this better be…”

“Sir,” the man's voice was deadly serious, “the agents we had covering the Hermelin castle in Sweden are in lockup.”

“What?” Tidewater could feel the blood drain from his face.

Norm went on in one fast breath, “I just received a request over the Interpol connection to confirm identification of two men. They are our men. They were arrested in Norrkoping and put in jail in Vasteras.”

“Interpol?” Tidewater was having trouble comprehending this.

Norm slowed his speech. “The Swedish equivalent of highway patrol officers arrested both agents outside the little community grocery store in Norrkoping late yesterday, six-thirty Swedish time. That was twelve hours ago.”

Every muscle in Tidewater's body was in catatonic rigor. “I don't understand. How could they be arrested? On what charges?”

“I've got the booking charges here, Agent Tidewater, and they're for real.” Norm could be heard changing positions in his chair. “DWIs.”

“Say that again.”

“Drunk driving, sir. It's a very serious offence in Sweden. Very serious. One step removed from attempted manslaughter.”

“Our agents were driving while intoxicated?”

“From what I've pulled up on the booking sheet, which I had to have translated, it seems they were not driving. That is, the automobile they were in was not moving. The grocery store manager was going off shift and when he went to throw out the day's garbage, he discovered the agents parked by the trash bin in the lot behind the store. He tried to talk to the men to tell them to move on, but they were obviously too drunk to drive so he called the highway patrol. The responding officers found both agents passed out. The officers attempted to wake them up for a field sobriety test but neither agent could stand up. They were put into a paddy wagon and taken to a lockup where both agents were given blood tests and found to have such high levels of alcohol in their system that they were instantly incarcerated at a facility for alcoholics. Do not pass go; straight past a judge, into a dry-out facility.”

“I can't believe this.”

“Believe it, sir. Agent Warwick and Agent Kleinem are in the Swedish equivalent of a Betty Ford clinic with bars. For two weeks minimum stay. Their status and jobs mean nothing. By Swedish law, the failing of the alcohol level test is guilt. It'll be simpler to have them go through treatment than to go through the paperwork to get them out.”

Tidewater pounded the table with his fist spilling his drink of whiskey and soda all over the tablecloth. “How could they be drunk? They were on duty. They know we'd fire their butts if they were drunk on duty. Then you say the car wasn't moving? How can they be charged with drunk driving when the car was parked?”

“The Swedes don't quibble about such details,” Norm laughed harshly. “If you are behind the wheel of an automobile, whether it's moving or not, and you are legally drunk, you land in jail. Drunk, sir, is one glass of wine with dinner the night before testing.”

“My God!”

“Furthermore, if you are drunk while riding in the car and you can't take over for the driver if he's caught, you go to jail also.”

“Unbelievable!”

“Not only that, but you get sent direct to dry-out. Zap! No discussion, no appeals.” Norm explained, “In addition, the Agency will be billed for the treatment and it'll be expensive!” He slowed his words down again and continued, “The only bright light in this tunnel, sir…?”

“You mean there is one?”

“Yessir. The Arab agents were also convicted of DWI and put in drunk tank, sir.”

“No!”

“Yep.”

“Muslims don't drink alcohol. Conservative Muslims, that is, and agents of the Iranian Security Force don't touch the stuff.”

“Our agents will need to do a lot of explaining, sir,” said Norm, “their agents will have to plead for their lives. Oh, and,” he paused for the effect, “they were all put in the same room in the same lockup so it seems they were all picked up together.”

Many scenarios went through Tidewater's mind, images of the agents being rolled out of their cars, trying to explain what had happened, and Tidewater was convinced EW was somehow behind this. He would have to ask the dirty tricks guys downstairs how inebriation can be achieved in unwilling agents. It was done all the time to civilians the Agency wanted compromised. Tidewater hung his head and muttered to Norm. “I suppose it's much too late to assign other agents. Our birds have flown.”

“The last message we had from Kleinem was that the Hermelin son was seen driving down the highway to Stockholm and a reservation had been made on a flight out of Vasteras for two people under the name Ixey. Kleinem assumed Bonnie and Trisha Ixey were on their way home.”

“Well, thanks for the update, Norm. Go to bed. Get some sleep. Nothing more we can do from here.”

“No sir.”

Tidewater clicked off and laid the phone on the table. “Lily, let's have a great evening. We are celebrating the demise of a powerful EW agent and that hasn't changed. Nothing worse could possibly happen.”

“Oh, Marion, you are such a charming man,” she cooed.

The small jet's wings were being heavily doused with anti-icing compound and would continue to be right up to engine ignition. Bonnie looked askance at the black runway barely visible through the blowing snow. Vasteras was a middling size city about halfway to Stockholm on the same Lake Malaran. As any large lake did, Lake Malaran generated its own nasty weather.

The captain of the plane seemed not the least concerned. Bonnie had seen her walk completely around the plane, patting it down like a horse and chatting with the refuelers before climbing onto the onramp. At the moment, she was chatting nonchalantly with the navigator as they walked ahead of the passengers. Both officers paused to greet their human cargo. The captain did a semisalute as Carl-Joran came up to her.

“
Hur ga det, min herre baron?
” she asked.

“
Mycket fin
,” he responded with a smile. “
Sshh,
jag ar inte har. Jo?”

“
Ja so
,” the captain agreed and waved them to their seats at the front of the plane.

“What did you tell her?” asked Bonnie as they sat.

“That I wasn't here,” said the big man, grinning.

“Okay,” said Bonnie, buckling up. As much as she wanted to be calm about this, there were still butterflies in her stomach. Her knuckles were a glowing white.

Carl-Joran took her hands in his. “Captain Johanneson was a fighter pilot in our military before she came to this airline. Don't worry.”

“Women's equality, eh?”

“Women's superiority,” He chuckled. The jet engines roared to life. “The Swedes have known for fifty years that women tend to be as good, maybe better fighter jet pilots as men. Same for Navy work. You see, the Swedes are far more practical than you Americans. If a thing works, use it.”

Bonnie gulped as the little jet neatly pulled onto the runway. “I think it has to do with prejudice, my dear. Americans can be terribly small minded.”

With a whoosh! the jet skimmed the icy runway and seemed to be lifted by the swirling white snow into the black sky.

“Well, I am glad you said that and not me,” he smiled and curled into his seat for the short flight over the high mountains to Oslo.

Devi had managed to convince Russ that they should stop for lunch on the way back from computer shopping. He stood next to her and Taqi in front of the open café and drank in the smell of low tide, oiled pilings, the harbor, the odors of frying fish and strong coffee. It was his body that finally sent the message to his brain that the breeze he felt was warm, blessedly warm. He realized again that the water lapping at the dock nearby was of the Mediterranean. It was true. He was in Israel.

Lunch, consisting of gyros and salads, in hand, the three of them with their precious load of computers arrived back at headquarters. Taqi helped carry stuff. Russ had decided to buy several computers, one of which he would take with him to whatever place he would use as a residence. He set one up in Devi's office and ran cables to a neighboring room, unused except for storage, and in there he constructed what would be his onsite tech cubby. The lack of windows was a nuisance, but he understood the need for complete security that obviated any windows anywhere in the complex. Taqi stayed to help push tables, shove cabinets, and carry boxes. Meticulously, the installation evolved. Every so often they had to shoo an anxiously hovering Siddhu from the area. Finally, around eight o'clock in the evening, Siddhu stomped his feet and decreed that it was suppertime, that they'd skipped right over teatime in their obsession to work, and that they bloody well better stop to eat supper.

“We're ready to rock and roll anyway,” Russ said.

“Really?” Siddhu clapped.

“Really.”

“Wait, I will fetch Halima.” Off he raced. Moments later, as Devi and Taqi were laying out the boxes of Chinese curry that Siddhu had ordered, Dr. Legesse strode into the front office. “We can have a toast!” said Siddhu, holding up a champagne bottle in one hand and tonic water in the other.

Devi passed around small paper cups. She and Russ and Dr. Legesse took some champagne. Siddhu and Taqi took tonic water. The cups in the air, Russ reached over and pushed the first button. His main computer lit up and hummed. Devi stepped out and turned hers on. The beeps and whines and hums announced that all was well.

“Next, a webpage!” proclaimed Russ and Halima almost choked on her drink. Russ laughed and toasted, “To Emigrant Women!”

Devi, Taqi, and Siddhu echoed this. “To EW!”

“To EW!” exclaimed Halima, catching up. “You are exactly right, Mr. Snow. Next you make us a webpage, although God help us, we do not need more business at the moment! After that, your assignment is to convince Lama Kazi Padma-Lakshmi in India to obtain e-mail.”

“Done!” Russ promised. “Do I have to go there to do it?”

“Maybe,” Siddhu warned.

“Hand me a ticket to ride!” the tall dark man laughed happily. “Now, all of you except Devi, scram. It's time to get the Internet connections done. As soon as we're online, I can do some serious work.”

“Those photos, please,” begged Halima.

“Yes, those are first on my list,” he promised and while the others dug into the Chinese curry, Russ took his plate and sat down in his own very small, but very high tech cubby. He'd been pleasantly surprised at the ease with which he could get absolutely fresh gear from Haifa stores. In fact, the selection was from a worldwide market: Japanese, American, Russian, French, Dutch, British, even Chinese and some places he had never heard of. Kid in a candy store, he was content. Before he logged on, he pulled the beaded headband from his pocket—the infamous headband that had started his move to Israel. He put it firmly over his scalp. He was home.

A warmth suddenly hung over his shoulder. He glanced up. The gawky tallness of Dr. Legesse bent to tell him, “Captain Maxwell at the American air base in Kuwait called me just before I came in here to tell me that Tahireh Ibrahim is not there. She has put on a disguise and has left to join the man we know as Shamsi Granfa.”

Russ breathed in, and out slowly. “Get me Maxwell's e-mail address. Immediately. And Granfa's.”

“Captain Maxwell I can get. Granfa is a complete puzzle to us.” Dr. Legesse straightened up. She turned to Devi. “Give Russell what he needs.”

“Of course,” Devi scurried to her desk.

With a shake of his broad shoulders, Russ said, “If Granfa has e-mail, it'll be in my file before midnight.”

Dr. Legesse poured herself some more champagne. “We hope Tahireh can tell us she is safe before midnight.”

“We can do more than hope,” said Russ firmly and sent out the first search order. It took only seconds to show a website in Granfa's name. “I got a hit.” Russ announced. The others gathered around. The screen was white with ten language choices. “This is a huge site,” he explained, and grimly went on, “it's heavily encrypted.”

“What does that mean?” asked Siddhu.

Devi spoke up, “It means you can't get in without a password.”

“It means,” Russ turned to them, “that this man runs a kind of business where only those who are given permission can enter. You want to pay this man money; he has to approve of you first.”

“What could the business possibly be?” Halima sulked.

Russ clicked the keys. “All I can tell you is that the search engines find his site with the words: adoptions, transplants, hearts, livers, medical supplies, biomedical consultations…here, see for yourself.”

They looked over his shoulder. Siddhu jerked upright and whispered in dismay, “Does Granfa sell babies and body parts?”

The late afternoon sun tried its best to warm them. The frigid air trapped in the alley between the large courthouse and larger jail made Tahireh's skin crawl. Frost glittered in the darkest shadows. Dressed in a white clinician's coat and pants with a long tan trench coat over both, her head and hair covered in a white and checkered
burqa
and a wide moustache tickling her nose and mouth, she looked male, Arab and professionally medical. Her hands, clutching a thin leather portfolio briefcase, were in thick camelhair lined gloves, for which she was very thankful because she'd been waiting almost twenty minutes.