Way of Escape (35 page)

Tahireh and Shamsi gently lowered Dim Mahesh into the bag. Shamsi snapped his fingers several times and the girl went stiff as rigor mortis. “She'll stay that way until I tell her to come out of it.” He stood. “Ready for the gauntlet?” He stepped to the door, opened it. “Go get that pallet.”

Sliding out the door, Tahireh trotted to the far end of the corridor where a long pallet on wheels had been left. It was one of the clumsy kind with an unmanageable long handle. She pulled it to the room and the two bodies were put onboard.

“The vehicle I use is an ugly brown color with lots of rust spots,” Shamsi told her. “You can't miss it. It's at the other end of the alley from where I met you. In the coroner's parking spot. You can wheel the pallet right up to the back doors. Trust me, no one will look at you for more than a second. People are terrified of death. Get the girls in and leave the pallet back in the alley. Start the engine. Be careful not to flood it. Be ready to pick me up. I have no idea what these guys have planned.”

“I can do that,” Tahireh assured him as he wedged his metal case between the bodies.

“I know you can.” Shamsi looked out along the corridor, “Go. There is a double door exit to the right, way down there. That leads directly out into the alley. Go.”

She went, dragging the heavy pallet behind her. It took all her strength to raise the meter-long lever off the doors. She was amazed that the entire hallway was empty. The alley was also empty of guards, of people, of everyone. The bribes had worked, surely that could be the only explanation for the clear path. She heard a volley of gunfire from somewhere close and shuddered. Her stomach was sickly sour.

A dirt-colored ancient army medic's vehicle was parked exactly where Shamsi had said and because of her surging adrenaline levels, Tahireh jerked the bodies into the back of it with a minimum of grunting and heaving. The medical case she laid beside them. The pallet shoved back into the alley, Tahireh got the van engine going. Minutes passed. She turned on the heater. Suddenly, without warning, the pudgy form in uniform popped out of a side door along the other back street that T'd to the alley. The form waved. Tahireh jammed into first gear as she leaned over and unlocked the passenger side door and Shamsi was in.

“Drive back to my building,” he ordered.

“I don't know where that is!” she retorted.

“Turn left onto the main boulevard and keep going. Just keep going.” Shamsi squeezed between the seats and into the back of the van. Tahireh heard him unzipping the bags, clicking open the case. She heard him order Dim awake and mere moments later, the shaken girl was crawling into the passenger seat. Little Dim was laughing and shivering and crying at the same time, hysterical and ecstatic. Fumbling, Tahireh managed to get the heater going. Shamsi shouted directions for Tahireh to drive and after fifteen minutes they pulled up behind Shamsi's building. He was still working on Milind. “Is the driveway clear?” he asked, wheezing.

“All clear,” said Tahireh.

“Help me get Milind inside. You two, come on.” He pushed open the back doors.

“Will she live?” were Dim's first words.

“Yes,” said Shamsi as they carried her. “She'll have a nasty scar on her neck, but that is a small price to pay. Tahireh,” he smiled with satisfaction, “make sure to remind me to have her take the abortion pills before she leaves here.”

“You think of everything,” Tahireh remarked in awe.

“A lot of experience, a lot of planning,” was his response.

“How could it happen!” Darughih Sadiq-Fath screamed into the phone at Ali Muhit. “I can't believe it's the wrong person!”

“Our doctor suspected as much when he examined him,” Muhit explained in as calm a manner as was possible. “This man has been in jail for many years. His teeth are bad; he's much older than Granfa is. I don't know why the Kuwaiti officials would do such a thing when you gave a direct order.”

“And paid a lot of money,” Sadiq-Fath added. “I will find out. Dispose of that body. Wait there in Kuwait for further orders. I will get back to you as soon as I talk to someone in authority.”

“Yessir,” Muhit agreed. “We'll be at the hotel.”

The night sky was filled with dust. Quddus Sadiq-Fath had decided to come home about an hour ago. It had not been a good day. He was mulling over whether or not to have the two agents in Sweden executed or to bring them back to Iran and strip them of all rank and put them in jail for the rest of their lives. Yet, obviously, it did not make sense that both agents, highly trained, skilled at their jobs, should have such high levels of alcohol at any time, not to mention at the same time. It frankly did not make sense that even one of them would drink. They were both conservative Muslims. Something was done to these men and the Swedes were taking advantage of a law meant for Swedes.

Besides, he was extremely unhappy about Ali Muhit being there and not here. Ali was too old for this kind of work, his vision was poor…yes, all in all, Sadiq-Fath decided, no more missions for him, it was time for the old warrior to retire.

Sadiq-Fath rang for the servant girl to serve him supper and for his boy of the night to prepare the bath. The darughih needed to relax.

“There is another suite of rooms at the Nof Hotel,” said Siddhu. “It is not on the roof like the baron's suite. It is only on the second floor, above the kitchens. Still, it is comfortable and has an excellent view.”

Russ looked up from the monitor screen. “I haven't a clue what you're talking about, Siddhu.”

“You can't stay at the drug rehab center any more. Dr. Legesse told me to find you living quarters.”

“Ahhh, I see.” The tall man smiled. “Hotel rooms are not my style. I'd rather find a place of my own.”

Siddhu shrugged. “The suite would be temporary.”

“Okay, temporary.” Russ turned back to the screen. “By the way, I'm in.”

“In?”

“Into Tidewater's files. His new computer jockey isn't very skilled at making firewalls.”

Russ put a finger onto the screen, “Okay, okay…here we are. Photos from Commander Gurgin Yusef. Downloading as we speak. Bing! Saving them onto this computer. Take a minute to open.”

Siddhu came closer. He bent down. His eyes widened. “You are sure those are the photos of Habib's body?”

“You read the writing under the photos. I don't know Arabic.”

Siddhu peered into the screen and spoke, “Yusef's assistant, a guy named Faruq, describes how the hajis were shot, the wounds, the way the bodies were carted off by the Bedouins, everything. Let me see that close-up of the face they say belongs to Mansur. Oh!” the Sikh straightened up. “Oh!”

“What?”

“It is not Habib Mansur. It is not our haji.”

“Seriously?” Russ demanded.

“Absolutely. It is not Habib.”

“I'll be damned,” said Russ. The Indians' eyes met and Russ's head leaned to one side. “If this isn't Habib Mansur, then what happened to…”

“Indeed.” Siddhu shook his head, perplexed. “Does this mean our haji is alive?”

“You better tell the doctor and the baron.”

Siddhu threw up his hands, “Yes. I will tell everyone here and you can e-mail the baron and his wife at the school. You have the e-mail for Professor Englich's school?”

“The Weisburg Hochschule. Yep. Even have Freda Englich's private e-mail address. No problem!” The smile of satisfaction on Russ Snow's face was matched by the smile of relief and gratitude on Siddhu's.

“Thank you,” said Siddhu.

“Hey, I only found out this guy wasn't him.”

“Perhaps it is a good sign.” Siddhu danced out of the office and down the hall. His voice trailed back, “Dr. Legesse! Halima!”

“Go for it!” shouted Russ and began running a search to find access to Bedouin websites. He could think of no other way to obtain evidence of the continued existence of Haji Mansur.

Geneva, Switzerland was cold, but not as cold as Vasteras, Sweden. Geneva in the dark was stunningly beautiful. A city of exquisite jewels strewn around a lake and onto the sides of precipitous mountains, twinkling like stars fallen to earth. So thought Bonnie as they rode in the taxi from the airport to downtown. Dawn was breaking over the Alps and she wanted nothing more than to go to bed and sleep. Breakfast would be nice too. The big man beside her was snoring gently. As he had many, many years ago, Carl-Joran could fall asleep anywhere, any time. It was a handy talent to have.

The taxi pulled up in front of a small hotel that faced onto the white, icy lake. The city lights were blinking off. Bonnie shook Carl-Joran awake and they climbed out as the taxi driver handed their small amount of luggage to the doorman.

“Good morning, sir, madam,” said the doorman in perfect English, “your rooms are ready. Follow me, please.”

“Could we order breakfast?” asked Bonnie as they crossed the lobby.

“Of course, I will take the order myself,” said the man, holding open the elevator doors. “What would you like?”

Shortly after noon, Carl-Joran gently awakened Bonnie. After a pleasant cup of coffee with bowls of fruit—at Bonnie's insistence—her calorie intake had to be cut she asserted, they went out to do business. It was amusing to watch the bank manager's expression as he came to terms with Baron Hermelin's being alive, but still dead. Ms. Person had forwarded all the paperwork. It did not take much time at all to have Bonnie sign the requisite forms.

What surprised Bonnie was the ease with which the bank manager quickly accepted the situation. Since his English was good, Bonnie inquired and the manager pursed his lips while squeezing his chin against his neck. When he glanced up at her through his thick half glasses, he allowed himself a tiny smirk. He leaned close to her and whispered, “You would be shocked, madam, to know how common such arrangements are.”

Having confessed this, the manager scooted them out of the bank and on their way. From the hotel room, as Bonnie packed, noting that her baron had not changed his untidy habits one bit, Carl-Joran called Siddhu and told him the EW's account was accessible again. There was a fairly long conversation in Swedish about Tahireh and two Thai girls and then the baron called Carin Smoland in Stockholm. This conversation was about the Thai girls also and heated. Bonnie heard the name Barbara Monday over and over and finally, a sigh and the big man hung up.

“Let us go to the airport and meet Professor Englich and Princess Zhara.” He smiled and took Bonnie in his arms. “Ready?

“Yes. But what was that I heard you talking about on the phone, about Monday?”

“We need an emergency place for the young girls Tahireh has rescued. One is sixteen, one fifteen. Children really. We, Carin and I, do not want to send them to Lama Padma-Lakshmi in India because they both need medical care. London is out and Carin has her hands full with Fumilao and her two daughters who arrive today in Stockholm.”

“Fumilao? I've missed the history on all these people, dear.”

“Fumilao Makwaia brought her two daughters to the EW shelter to keep them from being circumcised. You know what a vicious procedure that is? No? I will explain later. Judge Kandella Moabi in Uganda was their supporter. We arranged for Fumilao to settle in Uppsala near the university in a community of other African refugees. Carin should be meeting the mom and her girls at the airport very shortly.”

Bonnie shook her head in amazement. “I had no idea how extensive EW's work was. Somehow I thought it was like a big women's shelter, sort of on a multicountry scale.”

“More like an underground railway. We have at least one agent in every country. Some agents have more power to help than others. Barbara Monday, for example, works through a United Nations organization and oversees women escaping from the United States. Barbara helped you through Kennedy Airport. At the same time, I might add,” he grinned, “that she was supervising the escape of the wife of a famous athlete out of Miami.”

“How did all this come about?”

“You mean Emigrant Women? It grew. Fast. We were astonished at the rate it grew. Our biggest problem has been to vet the huge number of people who want to help. Men as well as women. For example the Lama in India and Vaughn Eames in London and the pediatrician in Berlin, Dr. Norbert Nusbaum. Health organizations and battered women's shelters and military adjuncts like Captain Lonnie Maxwell in Kuwait who got into it when she was doing counseling for military officers' spouses. The list goes on and on. Communication has been a nightmare and I sincerely hope our new agent, Mr. Snow, can fix that.”

“But those men following Trisha and me at Kennedy, they weren't there to help.”

“No, my dear, they were there to stop you and for some moments you were in grave danger.” He stood, zipped up his duffel and her suitcase, and put a smile back on his face. “We better be on our way.”

“That is one part I do not understand,” said Bonnie, “why anyone would impede efforts for finding safety for these women.”

“And children, like these two Thai girls. Come on,” Carl-Joran urged, “we have to go.”

“But why?” Bonnie followed after him.

“I cannot explain. Maybe Halima can find the words, but after all is said and done, you must reach an understanding of the great hatred of women on your own.” He indicated she should punch the elevator button. “I certainly do not have any rational answers.”

The concierge quickly ushered them through the lobby and into a waiting cab. When they were settled in the taxi, Carl-Joran went on with, “I have loved two women in my life, you and Heda, the mother of Sture. Perhaps it is because I am Swedish. Perhaps it is because I am of royal blood. Perhaps it is because of you. In my life it has never once occurred to me that a woman had any less status than a man.”

“To an American woman that is a bizarre concept; a man who truly considers a woman his equal.”