Way of Escape (4 page)

As Taqi opened the car door for the haji, a thin Indian man with a neatly trimmed pitch-black beard and a glowing blue silk turban pedaled madly up on a bicycle. He shoved the conveyance into a parking slot, attached a lock, stood, and looked around as Haji Mansur and the tall Swede came toward him.

“It is so good to see you both,” the Sikh beamed nervously as he bowed.

Mansur bowed in response, “And to have you here, Mr. Prakash.”

“Siddhu, what's happening, my man?” Carl-Joran clapped the frailer man on the shoulder.

Siddhu Singh Prakash stumbled forward and grinned mightily, “The meeting happens, Baron.”

They filed in. It was not a warehouse inside. An office-like room took up the front space. Across the office wall was a large, beautifully painted sign that read in big green letters: SOCIETY FOR EMIGRANT WOMEN and under the English in other colors: SOCIETÉ POUR LES EMIGRES FEMININE, ASOCIACION PARA LOS MUJERES EMIGRANTE, SOCIETET PA KVINNOR UTVANDRARE and so on in numerous languages including Hebrew.

Devi Hamberg, the EW's secretary, her curly black hair disheveled and her eyes sparkling, clothed in the Israeli teens' common outfit—khaki pants and white blouse—greeted them as she retrieved a sheaf of papers from the humming printer.

She motioned with her head toward the wide double doors leading to a long hallway and said, “Dr. Legesse is pacing the floor. You better not keep her waiting much longer!”

Siddhu paused at Devi's desk long enough to pick up a large notebook and the printout. He scurried to catch up to the other men as they hurried along the hallway.

They passed rooms, designed like hotel suites, for women needing shelter, walked past the actual medical clinic, and near the far end, rounded the hallway, glancing into the big windows of the childcare room from which the noises of little people playing filtered through.

The men pushed open another double door and entered a vast room, warm with purple-red Persian carpeting and soft yellow-tan walls. There were a TV and VCR in one corner, an overhead projector and screen at the front, and a large map across the back wall. The entire center of the room was taken by a stunning black-and-white, long curved table made of metal and plastic with matching chairs padded with tan-gold pillows. At the top of the table's curve stood the majestic Dr. Halima Legesse.

“It is time,” she said gruffly. In front of her was Carl-Joran's laptop computer.

Siddhu hustled up to her and bowed, “We are so sorry to be late, Doctor.” He put down the notebook and paper and sat across from a very handsome, delicately boned, older woman with dark brown hair tied back in a bun. She had on a tailored, white-cotton pants suit. Carl-Joran smiled, almost flirting, as, recognizing Dr. Rachel Bar-Fischer, he held out his hand to her.

“How do you do?” she asked.

“I'm fine, Dr. Fischer. And how is the drug business?”

She laughed. “Our anti-drug unit is coming along.”

Haji Mansur shook hands with her next, saying, “It is a shame such a thing has become needed in Israel.”

“We can only be thankful we have so few cases and most of them immigrants,” she replied, and then added, “Your chief invited me to observe your meeting today.”

“Ah-hem!” Dr. Legesse pointed. “If you men will be seated, we do business.”

The men promptly sat.

“You go first, Siddhu, so we can know the present state of our finances,” Dr. Legesse also sat and nodded at the Sikh.

For the next fifteen minutes, Siddhu Singh Prakash expostulated on accounts and transfer of funds and the amounts needed for the projects on hand. When he stopped to take a breath, Dr. Legesse said, “Let's you and me finish the accounts after we discuss cases. We have to find out what more will be needed.” She turned to Haji Mansur, “Habib, tell us about the princess.”

The black abba-cape made a shhh-shhh as he leaned forward and pulled a small notebook from an inside pocket. Opening the back of it, he translated from his beautiful Arabic script into English. “Princess Zhara i-Shibl is eighteen and unmarried,” began Habib Mansur, “which is two or three years past the age when most girls are married in conservative Arab families. She is the daughter of Sheikh Rassid i-Shibl's first wife and thus her marriage is considered to be very important for political reasons. Her father had years ago arranged a match for her with the powerful ruler of a neighboring tribe, Sheikh Sultan Mustafa Bayigani. It probably won't be a tremendous surprise to you all that Bayigani is sixty-five years old and has nine wives already. Zhara objects and has objected since she was twelve. She has been brave enough to say out loud that she doesn't want to go through with this marriage. The only way she has avoided the marriage to date was staying at a private school in Paris for the last five years. We know she even has a French boyfriend. Her father has found out. Last week, he had her brought back to Saudi under court order. If Zhara again refuses the arranged marriage, he will have no choice but to let the court execute her as an adulterer.”

Carl-Joran nodded. It was not an uncommon story. Several years ago, just such a princess, sixteen-years-old, was snatched right from her school dormitory in England by Saudi operatives, brought home, and stoned to death for disobeying the judgment of the Saudi court that she be married to the family's choice. Her boyfriend, another Arab boy she'd met in London, was later caught and kidnapped out of England, brought back to Saudi Arabia and executed by public beheading in the village square on charges of adultery.

Carl-Joran turned to Habib and asked, “How did we hear about Princess Zhara?”

He answered, “Through the girl's headmistress in the Paris school who called the Torture Treatment Centre. Zhara tried to hide in the woman's house, almost got the poor woman killed.”

Dr. Legesse spoke up, “I've set up refuge for her in Switzerland at the Bergenstock School, you remember, Professor Freda Englich? The woman who took our escapee from Guatemala? She is ready to receive our princess as soon as we can get her out and she can protect her in that mountain retreat.”

“Where in Saudi is she?” asked Carl-Joran, a gleam in his eye.

“Up in the north, at her father's compound,” Habib Mansur replied. “It is not far from the Kuwaiti border.”

Dr. Legesse pointed a long, bony finger at Carl-Joran, “Don't even think about going in there, Baron. Habib will be meeting Tahireh Ibrahim and they have a plan well laid out.”

Carl-Joran squirmed. “Tahireh worked on the last rescue in Kuwait only a couple months ago. She's cutting it awful close, you know. She's a Baha'i, they'll be watching her because of that anyway.”

“Tahireh will remain all covered in black, with even her face mask on while we are in Lebanon,” Habib said lightly, “and you know the Arab men can't tell one woman from another. They simply don't look at women in black robes.”

“Haji…” Carl-Joran began to protest.

Halima Legesse insisted, “It is done, Baron. Do not try to involve yourself. They will be taking the princess to the American air base in Kuwait and she'll be flying out as an airman's wife. Tahireh has much experience doing this.”

Haji Habib patted his tall friend on the arm and added, “Zhara will be meeting Professor Englich right at the airplane in Geneva and going directly to the school.”

“If our sworn enemy Quddus Sadiq-Fath finds out,” Carl-Joran warned, “Tahireh won't live long. Nor you either, my dear Haji.”

“We will be careful,” Habib, in a very kind way, needled his friend. “After all, we have done this before, my dear baron. Besides, we are not in Iran, we will be in Saudi Arabia and Kuwait.”

The Indian accountant spoke up, “Baron. We must have transfer of funds to the Saudi bank where Habib can have access tomorrow. He will need several thousand dollars for bribes. Getting a princess out will cost a lot.”

“No problem. The living estate grant should have taken effect by now,” said Carl-Joran, “and all the monies in that one Swiss account will have been turned over to the EW's account.”

“Good,” Siddhu said, relaxing a bit, “because our own accounts, as I have been very careful to enumerate, are quite low.”

“Speaking of Kuwait,” Halima Legesse said, “Lori Dubbayaway in Thailand sent us e-mail yesterday.”

“Another servant girl in horrible circumstances, I bet you,” interjected Habib, shaking his head.

“Yes,” Dr. Legesse nodded. “Mr. Sanjay Pandharpurkar, the father of a fifteen-year-old girl named Milind, is terrified for her safety. Same story almost exactly as what happened to our own Taqi's daughter. Milind came with a shipload of teenagers from Thailand and Indonesia to work for the rich Arabs. She ended up as a kitchen helper in the Syrian embassy in Kuwait. At a big party, the son of a Saudi diplomat tried to rape her and she stabbed him with a butcher knife. Cut him pretty badly. She's due to be executed next week. The father is begging Lori for help. Lori says Carin Smoland in Sweden has a place for her if we can get her to Stockholm, and I've gotten confirmation by e-mail from Carin that all's ready there.”

Carl-Joran shook his head and said harshly, “Are you going to have Tahireh rescue little Milind too?”

“No,” Dr. Legesse shot back at him, “she couldn't do it anyway. The girl's in prison.”

“So how…?” Carl-Joran began.

Habib Mansur broke in, “I have a contact in Kuwait. A good man who can do the job with enough bribery money. Shamsi has already been to the girl's holding cell and used some of his own money to pay off some guards.”

“That's great,” said Carl-Joran and stretched out his long legs, “we can get him more money. That's the least of our problems.”

“Then,” said Dr. Legesse, “I will have Devi send all concerned word to that effect. If your Mr. Shamsi…”

“Mr. Shamsi Granfa,” interjected Habib.

“Right, if Granfa can carry this out without our personnel being needed, so much the better.” Halima looked around at Carl-Joran, raised her black eyebrows.

“Ready for my tale now?” he inquired, reaching for his laptop.

“Yes.” Halima glowered at him, “Although I am very angry at you for going out of Haifa.”

“I know, I know,” Carl-Joran motioned her to calm down. “I was absolutely safe.” He turned on his little screen and peered at it intently, struggling to decipher what, last night, had been perfectly intelligible to him. “Now, here we go, I think. I met Barbara Monday at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. She has a woman in the US ready to come out, a Polly…”

“Valentine,” Dr. Legesse blurted, “that is the code name.”

“Valentine it is, then,” said Carl-Joran. “Anyway, the woman is already in the Los Angeles shelter system and will be moved discreetly to the airport holding area and will be arriving in Miami in a couple days. She'll have to be disguised and shipped out of the US from there. She's the wife of a famous basketball hero and if we don't move fast, she'll become the accidentally-dead-in-a-car-or-boat-wreck wife.”

Dr. Bar-Fischer shook her head, “And I thought my drug unit was full of pain and suffering.”

“It goes on and on,” said Dr. Legesse. “Is Monday ready for her?”

Hermelin nodded. “She's all prepared on her end. You have to contact Judge Moabi in Uganda.”

“No problem,” Halima Legesse agreed. “Give me the particulars on paper and I'll have Devi e-mail her. In return, Kandella has…” Halima picked up a computer printout and read, “‘from Judge Kandella Moabi—I have a woman and two daughters living in Somalia. Fumilayo Makwaia, daughters Jo and Esie, who are asking for refuge so the daughters will not have to be circumcised. Can we put them at EW for a while?'“ Halima looked at Siddhu, “Do we have space?”

Siddhu thought a moment, “If they can arrive here next weekend we can keep them for a week. After that they will have to be moved.”

“Okay,” said Halima, satisfied, “I'll tell Kandella.” She sighed and held up a telephone message note. “Oh, my, I do wish he would get a computer and get online. This phone call is from our dear friend and helper Lama Kazi Padma in northern India.”

“Another sati?” asked Siddhu Singh Prakash, referring to the Hindu custom of wives being expected to sit on the pyre of their deceased husband and burn with him.

Halima Legesse shook her head, her ringlets quivered. “No, Lama Padma has been asked by a woman's group to stop a murder. It is common knowledge in the village where they work that a young wife Shai Nanek will be killed by the old man's sons from the first marriage the moment that he dies. They want the inheritance.”

“How much is the inheritance?” Carl-Joran interrupted. “Four pigs and a flock of chickens?”

“No, a bit more than that,” Halima gave her heckler a crooked smile. “The old man owns a fairly substantial restaurant business near the lakes.”

“Ahhh, then she is in danger,” Habib spoke up. “In India that is a fortune.”

Halima nodded. “The Lama has also sent the same message on to his brother-in-law, Vaughn Eames in London, who has worked with us many times. We're hoping he can do something. And that's it for today, my people! Except you, Siddhu—you and I have to confer.”

He nodded in agreement.

Dr. Bar-Fischer sighed. “Well, you know I will help if I am able. We can always put someone in our drug unit at the hospital. Perhaps those women from Africa? It would be a good place to hide a mother and daughters.”

“Thank you, Rachel,” said Halima. “We'll keep you in mind. Okay, Baron Hermelin, when Siddhu and I are finished, you and he must arrange the money we need and then all will be underway. Habib can go to Saudi Arabia and Barbara Monday can get the Valentine case out and the women can be flown in from Africa and so on.” She sighed with a relieved note of finality.

“Right away, Halima, boss-lady!” Carl-Joran said in his inimitable American-Swedish accent, and jokingly to Siddhu, “Aren't you glad you don't have a name like Monday.”