CHAPTER 7: MISSED OPPORTUNITIES

To keep the wind from whipping it away, the haji pulled his cloak around him as he stepped from the taxi. The air was viciously bitter cold. Dry brittle snow lay in drifting heaps along the cement pathways. It gathered in higher mounds along the eroded niches in the shrub-covered hillsides.

He paid the taxi driver and carefully averting his eyes from the heavily armed Israeli soldiers, walked along the starkly lighted corridor marked with bright orange stripes that designated the sidewalk for the Palestinian day workers coming and going through the Good Gate. So far he had not been challenged and he did not expect to be. His mind was perfectly calm and his body reflected his peaceful demeanor.

Habib had taken a bus from Haifa to Kiriat Shimona, the northernmost kibbutz of Israel, and there caught the taxi that had climbed up the steep road along the ravines. It had deposited him at the open-fronted film and snack stands that catered to the few tourists who visited and the many soldiers who paused long enough in their patrols to buy bagels or potato crisps or steaming coffee.

As Habib stepped onto the sidewalk lined with eight-foot high cross-wire fencing, a slight tremor of fear shivered through him. This portion of the long walk over the Israeli border always made him, and every other Arab who traversed it, feel trapped and helpless. It was designed to do just that. The Israeli Defense Force guards were always on alert, always had their rifles resting ready in their cradled arms along every step of the path.

Habib mixed in with the homebound housemaids, gardeners, mechanics, and other assorted workers up the switchback and into the slightly wider section of the corridor which lay before the actual Gate. It was slow today. The guards at the Gate were patting down persons such as himself in heavy cloaks.

When his turn came, he identified himself and the guard at least acknowledged his title, saying, “I’m sorry, sir, but we do have to search all full-bearded men in abbas, holy men or no.”

It went quickly. With the briefest respite of relief, he stepped through the Good Gate and into Lebanon. Although expected through familiarity, Habib Mansur felt an especial ache at the sight of the devastated countryside around him. The snow was deeper here, the wind more biting, the mountains so barren they hurt. There were no trees, no twigs, no bushes, no grass, no birds, no rabbits, nothing. The once plentiful vegetation and famous cedar trees had long ago been used for cooking fires by the encamped refugees. Any creature that had walked or flown had been put in someone’s pot for sustenance. Or simply shot and killed for the sport of it by rampaging soldiers of one faction or another.

As peace was settling shakily onto the countryside, moss and lichens were the first to appear in the more inaccessible rifts and, as Habib walked to the taxi queue, he could hear ever so faintly, the jingle of goat bells from behind the far hills to the south. There must be some islands of dried grass over there. Even such minute signs of returning life made him happy.

An aged, battered blue Mercedes was hunkered at the curb. It was the sole taxi available and the driver had only one hand, the absent one undoubtedly a casualty of the war. Habib nodded at him and got into the back seat. It smelled of unwashed humans and perhaps chickens. Yes, in one jagged rip near the center of the seat were some feathers from the last customers’ traveling companions.

“To Beirut,” Habib ordered the driver and they set off across the desolate land.

Lieutenant Ali Muhit peered through his cloudy eyes at the message being handed him by the computer man sitting in the massive security central command room.

“It’s about Habib Mansur and we have an order for urgent notification whenever his name appears,” said the young man and Ali Muhit nodded.

Moments later, the battered old warrior was walking into the beautifully appointed office of his boss. At the door to the inner sanctum belonging to Quddus Sadiq-Fath stood two guards from the darughih’s Special Operatives. Nearby was the large desk area of Walid, the personal secretary.

Walid blinked like a cat dropped into bright sunlight after being asleep in the shade, “Good day, Muhit, did you want to see the darughih?”

“I’ve a note to be delivered,” responded Ali Muhit.

“Uh, just a minute,” Walid said and leaned toward the intercom. “Darughih? Your lieutenant is here.” Some mumbles came through the speaker and he nodded. “Yessir.”

He waved at Muhit, “Go right in, sir.”

Quddus Sadiq-Fath resembled an animation-movie line drawing of a bad guy even to the squared facial features and perfectly trimmed mustache. His khaki uniform was as starched and precise as it could possibly be, giving the cruelly handsome man an almost inhuman look. He was signing directives and reports. The cold, black eyes looked up.

“What have we got?”

“A message from the operative at the Good Gate, sir,” the lieutenant lowered his creaky body into the chair closest to the far corner of the antique ebony wood desk. “Haji Mansur has entered Lebanon and is on his way to Beirut.”

“Ahhh,” Quddus sat back and peaked his fingers together in a church steeple. “I wonder why. Obviously Emigrant Women has sent him on a mission. Is there any indication of where he’s headed next?”

“No, sir. None. The taxi dropped him off at the Hilton Hotel.” Ali Muhit handed the note to his boss who took it and scanned it.

“Not much here,” muttered Sadiq-Fath. “What about our Beirut operatives? Haven’t they set up surveillance yet?”

“There was nothing from them today so far. Shall I push them?” The lieutenant sat forward, ready to go.

“Yes, yes,” Sadiq-Fath nodded, “and nothing’s come in from the operative in California?”

With a frustrated grimace, Muhit shook his head. “Not that you want to hear, Darughih.”

“Please tell me what it is that I do not want to hear,” the cold eyes sparkled with something approximating humor as the hands dropped to the desk.

“The night operative watching the widow’s farm was chased and bitten by the large dog that guards the property. I understand,” Ali Muhit could not restrain a crackly chuckle, “the part of the anatomy caught by the dog will render our operative unable to sit down for a while.”

“Ha!” the darughih laughed once and went directly on, “So where does that leave us with information about Mrs. Ixey’s activities?”

“It meant there was no tap put on her telephone,” Muhit confessed, “it means we do not know what her schedule is or when she is due to go to Sweden. We do know she must travel to Norrkoping to register as a Swedish citizen in order to take over inheritance of the baron’s estate, that much we got from our Swedish informant. But, we are handicapped—so to say—in California.”

“And Tidewater’s operatives? Have they acquired more information than our dog meat?” growled Sadiq-Fath.

“I am afraid they have.” Ali Muhit shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “A black agent named Claybourne got a tap on their telephone line last night while Faqir was fending off the dog.”

“May Allah preserve us from stupid operatives,” the darughih shook his head. “It appears I must call Tidewater to find out what Mrs. Ixey is up to. Do tell me, Lieutenant, do we have a more competent agent on duty now?”

“Yessir,” the old man smiled, “this agent brought American hamburgers with him and has managed to convince the mutt he means no harm. So it says in his report at noon today.”

“I am pleased,” Quddus Sadiq-Fath’s voice did not indicate pleasure, “we have established diplomatic relations with the Ixey’s dog. What a commendable step! Is there a reason the dog simply wasn’t killed?”

Muhit shook his head again, “Not a good idea in the United States, sir. Dogs and cats are considered part of the family. A dead dog would have instantly brought suspicion onto the watchers, and then the local police would have investigated.”

“Shame,” said Sadiq-Fath, spreading his fingers on the desk, stretching them. “Truly, the Americans are strange people. You are correct though. I remember in university how some of my dorm mates would go to tremendous lengths to have pets in their rooms despite the regulations against them. And spend fantastic sums of money keeping their pets happy and healthy!”

“Yessir,” Muhit agreed, shaking his head in mutual mock amazement.

The darughih looked down at his hands and resignedly put his chin on his chest. “I will call Tidewater and find out what is going on. Do we have any tidbits to feed back to him?”

“Only the news of the haji crossing the border into Lebanon.”

“Perhaps that will be enough,” said Quddus Sadiq-Fath and punching the intercom for Walid, ordered, “Get me a linkup to Marion Tidewater’s office immediately.”

“Yes, Commander,” came the computer guy’s voice.

***

Tidewater’s secretary was just handing Russ Snow a first cup of coffee as he sat down at the computer in his cubbyhole when the phone rang. She answered it, listened, and handed it to Russ.

“A call coming in from Iran, Mr. Snow, and Mr. Tidewater hasn’t arrived yet. You better take it.”

“Thank you.” Russ accepted the receiver. “I’ll deal with it.” He waved her out of the tiny room and closed the door after her. “Yes, good morning,” he said into the phone.

When the conversation was finished he felt slimy. True, he’d had a good laugh at the image of the Iranian operative running down the street with the farm dog munching on his hinder parts and ripping his pants, but that didn’t ease the unpleasant guilt responses about telling Sadiq-Fath of the Ixey’s travel schedule. There had, though, been a good trade-off, which would make Tidewater happy. The news about Haji Mansur was undoubtedly valuable.

This was proven accurate a few moments later when Marion Tidewater arrived and Russ handed him the recording of the conversation between himself and the darughih. As he listened, Tidewater’s eyebrows went up and he grinned broadly.

“Time to let our buddy Yusef in on this. What a plum!” exclaimed Tidewater reaching for the phone. “Whenever Habib Mansur goes to the Beirut Hilton, you can bet your britches that’s the first part of his pilgrimage into Saudi Arabia to rescue some woman and my best guess is he’ll be accompanied by Tahireh Ibrahim. Have you read about her in the reports, Snow?”

The Native American shook his head.

Tidewater lifted his phone and said to his secretary, “Lily, honey, get me a satellite link to Saudi Arabia and Commander Yusef’s office, will you?” Tidewater glanced up at his personal assistant while waiting for the link-up. “Ibrahim is a Baha’i. She’s been on Sadiq-Fath’s hit list since she led a woman’s revolt back when she was a teenager, which wasn’t too many years ago. A bunch of those women were summarily executed, but Ibrahim escaped. I understand she’s very beautiful. Too bad she’s determined to die young. That happens to anyone going against the Iranian strong men as she has.”

Tidewater’s attention reverted to the telephone for a moment.

Fascinated, Russ Snow asked, “How does she get her money, I mean, other than what the EW gives in funding operations?”

“I believe she’s a model. I know she works at various modeling agencies in France, mostly in Paris. That’s where she spends a lot of time volunteering at the Torture Treatment Centre.” Dismissively, Tidewater said, “Which is all good stuff. Really too bad she goes and helps someone like Mansur and the EW kidnap women out of Saudi and Iran.”

Wanting to keep this flow of information going, Russ prompted with, “What’s a Baha’i?”

Tidewater, falling into the pleasure of showing off his eruditeness, continued, “They’re some sort of heretical offshoot of the Muslim faith that came out of Iran back about 1860. They’ve got two prophets, someone called Baha’u’llah and someone called the Bab, who was martyred by the Iranians along with a bunch of his followers. The Baha’u’llah character was kept in prison in Acre for half his life. Not much has changed; the Iranians especially and most any of the Arabs take great delight in torturing and killing Baha’is whenever they can come up with whatever excuse is plausible. It gives the conservative Muslims the shaking willies that Baha’is actually have written into their religious codes that there has to be equality of men and women! There’s stuff in there that all religions are one, that there’s supposed to be formed some sort of World Justice Court or some such, and so on. Baha’ism has spread all over the world. There are some reports on it in our library…”

The phone buzzed and Tidewater leaned forward, then spoke into the phone, “Hello, Gurgin. Do I have something for you! Yessir, your holy man, ol’ Habib Mansur, has checked in at the Beirut Hilton. I suspect you better watch your women!”

Russ Snow didn’t want to hear what his boss was relating to Commander Yusef but what choice did he have? His job mandated that he listen and participate. Russ Snow suddenly realized he was more than uncomfortable, he was actually unhappy.

Habib was prepared for the skittering when he turned the bathroom light on, but the sheer number of cockroaches triggered a gut reaction anyway. His stomach tightened and his skin shivered and twitched like a horse trying to shake off flies. In the glare of the unshielded overhead light, most of the big, brown insects ducked down the drains and hustled under warped wainscoting and linoleum cracks. He sighed. It was one of those rare moments when he wished his vow to protect all life wasn’t so firm. He would have dearly loved to take off his shoe and use the heel to send some of these hideous creatures to meet their maker.

Once the majority of the insects were in hiding, Habib dealt with his bathroom needs. He was settling back onto one of the two uncomfortable beds when the tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap-tap on the door, announced Tahireh’s arrival. Before he could stand, she had let herself in.

There was a forceful grace about the woman that demanded attention, and it was neither her expensive Parisian perfume nor the exquisitely cut, full-length woolen dress and tailored chamois-golden greatcoat she had traveled in. Without the high-heeled boots, she stood five feet, six inches tall and her figure was slight. Yet, her energy filled the room. Her dark brown eyes sparkled.

She deposited her overnight bag on the floor, flung off the greatcoat and wool scarf, dropping them onto the other bed and smiled at her dearest friend. Her long tress of dark chestnut brown hair fell in waves down her back all the way to her waist and her skin, the color of coffee with rich cream, glowed in the evening lamp light.

Habib threw his arms open and they embraced, not as lovers, but as compatriots who’ve shared many terribly dangerous enterprises. Perhaps such a bond is more intense than any romantic connection between humans might ever engender.

“Have you eaten?” Habib asked in an innocent tone, pointing surreptitiously at the ceiling where the multiple smoke alarms and odd wiring running down the wall so obviously indicated eavesdropping apparatus.

“I’m fine,” she replied, nodding understanding. “The bellboy should be up in a moment with my suitcase. It was, of course, well searched at the airport. It is always interesting to see how much of my small wardrobe remains after coming through the Beirut airport.” She laughed gaily. “So when does this tour you’ve booked us on depart, dear Habib?”

“As soon as you’ve rested,” he smiled in response, “and put on your proper attire.”

“Ah, yes, I must constrain myself again. Oh, how I hate doing that!” She bowed slightly to Habib and indicated the bathroom. “Have you disposed of the inhabitants?”

“Ha! Most of them,” he said. “There are a couple though that defy the light, which you will notice I left burning. One truly ugly fellow was sitting on the edge of the sink, watching me as I did my ablutions. A truly insolent little creature.”

“You did not kill him?”

“Of course not,” he exclaimed in mock disgust, “how could I have determined if it were a he or a she? And I would have felt quite ungentlemanly smacking a female. Besides it would not speak to me.”

Tahireh peeked into the loo and groaned. “Your insolent one is still on the sink. Well, I for one have not the compunction you do.” She rolled up a tourist pamphlet that extolled the beauties of the now peaceful Lebanon and stepped into the bathroom. A loud kasmaack! resounded from the sink.

“Mon dieu! Le petit va vit!—Goodness, that sucker is fast!” came in French. “But at least he has put himself down the drain hole!” and she stuck her head out of the bathroom long enough to continue in that language, “Tip the bellboy when he comes, oui? Merci.”

“Yes, my dear,” Habib said in Farsi to the closing bathroom door and as if by cue, there was a knock on the door.

The bellboy, a thin Palestinian lad whose eyes had seen too much for such a young age, slipped the hardcover suitcase inside the room, and no further, and Habib paid him in euros. The boy regarded the holy man with hostile curiosity, aware as he was that the Parisian fancy lady with the Arab name, who’d arrived all by herself, would be staying in the same room as this haji. He turned away after snarling “Merci.”

Habib moved the suitcase to the baggage stand. There were corners of blouses sticking from one side and a strap hung from the front. Whoever had done the search had made no pretense of it.

“They really rifled through it, didn’t they?” commented Tahireh, coming out of the bathroom. “Let’s see if my robe is still wearable.” She clicked the snaps. It wouldn’t open.

“I’ll lean on it,” offered Habib, and put his entire weight onto the case. The latches finally gave. There could have been no predicting the mess inside. Tahireh sighed.

“Perhaps you should have met me at the airport after all,” she said and dispiritedly fingered through the wreckage of her belongings. Perfume had been spilled, makeup scattered over the clothing, and a bottle of shampoo leaked from the upper compartment. She found her silky robe, which had originally been laid across the top of the clothing, now at the bottom—where, at least, it was relatively unharmed, and jerked it out. Picking up the almost empty shampoo bottle and toiletry case, she stomped back into the bathroom. Another vicious kasmaack! echoed from behind the closed door along with a throaty growl in crudest French, “Take that you insolent beast!”

The shower water started and Habib, smiling, thought how lucky he was to have such a compatriot-in-arms. He turned his attention to a sheaf of papers he had been carrying in his cloak. They were the plans for tomorrow’s sortie into the desert. The tricky part would be driving the Land Cruiser through the broad expanse of enemy territory without being noticed. He had managed to round up some fairly inventive disguises, but still and all, the Arab police, as prejudiced and stonehearted as they are, were no fools.

Once he and Tahireh had met up with and joined the nomads and changed over to camel transport, they would be fairly safe. When the shower water stopped, he inquired through the door, “Can we leave tonight?”

“Yes! I want to be gone!” Tahireh’s voice came back, “Give me a couple hours to sleep, and then we will go.”

“Fine,” said Habib, “I will call and tell the rental agency to have keys ready for us.” He reached for the phone.

Bonnie walked with a brisk, bouncy step to the barn. The day had turned out to be very pleasant after the fog had burnt off. A bright and sunny winter’s day with the smell of low tide and the cry of ravens and gulls, and Bonnie could pick out the raucous chatter of a small flock of wild parakeets in the eucalyptus trees at the bottom of the property.

The massively shaggy Australian Shepherd came bounding from the lower pasture where he’d been diligently counting the ground squirrel population and greeted her as she approached the barn. He was grinning, his tongue lolling in doggy pleasure.

“What have you been up to, Gryph?” she asked, patting him on the broad forehead and noticing the dirt on his front paws and muzzle, laughed and inquired, “Did you get any of those squirrels or just extend the tunnel to China?”

He shook in seeming negation and galloped into the barn ahead of her and promptly set about digging for a mouse in the hay. The old orange barn cat, which’d probably spent hours waiting patiently on the wooden beam above that haystack for that mouse to venture out, regarded the big dog with vile contempt. The cat rose, stretched long, bony legs and knobby back, yawned sharp teeth, and ambled off along the beam toward the ladder to the loft, flicking his tail in a last sign of displeasure.

As Lou and Dell looked around at the sound of Bonnie’s footsteps, Gryphon produced some ragged bits of material that looked suspiciously like pockets from the backside of a pair of rayon suit trousers. He gamboled up to the three people, flinging the material like a prize trophy at their feet, then sat, grinning again, waiting for the praise he was expecting.

“Uh-oh,” said Dell, reaching for the scrap. She examined it, and then held it up to her mother.

“I’d say Gryph’s been protecting us from an intruder.”

Bonnie gingerly took the scrap between forefinger and thumb, eyed it warily, and gave it back to Gryphon. “Whoever he attacked hasn’t complained to us, at any rate. Here’s hoping the poor man doesn’t go to the sheriff.”

“I don’t think that’ll happen, Mom Ixey,” said Lou, leaning on his pitchfork. “I bet it was one of our spies down at the end of the drive. Maybe that Arab one. And since there’s been no complaints, well, those guys don’t want to be found out. That’s the answer.”

“I hate to admit it,” said Bonnie, “but you may well have something there.” She patted the grinning dog on the head, but Gryph looked disappointed. He’d expected more praise for such a job well done.

“Sure I do,” said Lou and, picking up the pitchfork and digging into the manure heap.

Bonnie laughed. “I guess wealth produces these sort of problems.” She put an arm around her daughter, “Dell, how long are you and Lou planning to stay? You told me, I’m sure, and not that I would ever dream of pushing you out! It would be nice though if you could stay on a little longer while Trish and I fly to Sweden.”

Dell nodded. “We can stay until Lou’s teaching term starts late next week. Right, honey?”

He smiled. “We would much rather hang around here and play with horses than be rained on in Seattle.”

“And after that, well, I could stay on for a while longer,” Dell said, a note of unwillingness in her voice, “I mean, if you think it’s necessary.”

Bonnie hugged her. “You know I’d never do anything to keep you from that gorgeous man of yours.” She kissed her daughter on the cheek, “It’s just, I don’t understand what’s going on here, what with these people spying on us, the whole business of the baron’s estate, just…everything.”

“And Dad’s farm is really important to you,” responded Dell, hugging her mom in return. “It’s pretty important to us, too. One of us will stay on and take care of it. Although, you know, Misimoto is as dedicated to the farm as we are.”

“I know, I know,” agreed Bonnie, “and I’ll speak to her. Perhaps what I need from you two is simply assurance that you are here, that you will be where I can talk to you.” Bonnie turned away and patted a nearby horse on the neck. “I may be your mom, but I’m not above asking for your moral support.”

“You’ll certainly have it,” said Dell and Louis looked around.

“Mom Ixey,” he said with conviction, “you can count on us.”

“Thanks, children.” She turned. “I’ve got to meet Trish in San Luis. We’re going to see if we can find any winter clothes.”

Lou said, “Try the ski shops.”

“And the outdoors equipment stores,” offered Dell.

Bonnie nodded, “And if worse comes to worse, we can shop when we get to Stockholm.”

“That might be even more fun, Mom,” said Dell, her face lightening up with the thought, “although probably much more expensive.” A funny look flitted over her face. “Oh, I guess that doesn’t matter any more. Oh, my. What a strange concept.”

“Are you flying to San Francisco or driving?” asked Lou, grinning as his wife struggled with the new sensation of being rich.

“You know how Trish is paralyzed with fear in those small planes. We’ll drive up tomorrow evening. See Ghirardelli Square, walk down to the Embarcadero, and have a good fish dinner. Spend Sunday at the Exploratorium or the museums,” Bonnie felt butterflies start fluttering in her own stomach, “and then we go to the airport. We leave at four on the first leg to New York.”

Dell smiled at her mom. “This could be the adventure of a lifetime, Mom.”

“Sure could,” Lou chimed in. “Lucky lady!”

“I wish I didn’t have such bad feelings about those spies who are watching us,” Bonnie said, “I wish I knew whether they meant us harm or not.”

“They’re just observing,” insisted Louis. “You’ll be okay. You and Trish will be fine.”

The silver-haired lady with the lovely skin and blue eyes pursed her lips and tried her best to be cheery. “I’m sure you’re right, my dear. I’ve always wanted to see where your grandfather and the Seastrand family came from. And we’ll be staying in a real castle. What could be scary about that?” Bonnie gave them both another hug and walked out of the rich-smelling barn. Gryphon followed her a ways back toward the house until, spotting a taunting ground squirrel far out in the pasture, he scrambled away in a flurry of yelps and barks to vanquish the tiny intruder, who merely popped down his hole to reappear yards away, chattering. It was a long-standing game.

Carl-Joran regarded his reflection in the window of the jet. They had taken off from Tel Aviv airport in bright sunlight and after a brief layover at Boston and six hours more in the sky, they were now on the long, long descent to Los Angeles. The sun was setting ahead of them. Lights, vast numbers of lights were coming on, rows and rows, hillside after hillside, freeway upon freeway became rivers of lights shivering in faint smog that hung year round in the LA basin. He could see enough of himself reflected in the window to be surprised.

The darkening solution he’d used on his hair had changed the complete texture of it and his skin seemed more tan, more lined. When had he aged that much? He didn’t remember having crows-feet around his eyes and smile lines near his mouth. The beard he had not shaved yesterday was already past the five o’clock shadow stage and well into prickly and rough. He sighed. With that and the grotesque California beach shirt, white jeans and baseball cap, he looked so much like one of those dreaded American tourists coming home it scared him.

Bump-bump-bump and they landed. “The weather in the Los Angeles basin tonight is clear and dry,” announced the pilot, “and you got some ocean winds and it’s sixty-five pleasant degrees.”

Very similar to what he’d left behind in Haifa, thought Carl-Joran, unlocking his seat belt as the plane pulled into its parking spot. He hated flying in the cattle-car section. It had been years since he’d done it. His little American bank account wouldn’t have supported more though. He pulled his briefcase from under the seat, keeping it securely next to him. It contained his precious laptop computer. Hair almost touching the ceiling, he stood and was able to reach above the other passengers as he grabbed his duffel from the overhead compartment and stooping to avoid knocking himself out on the bulkheads, he made his way along the aisle and, gratefully, stretched upright on the ramp. He should, he told himself, immediately go to the rental car desk and pick up the car and get onto Highway 101 up the coast.

The ramp, as all incoming foreign flight ramps do in all airports all over the world, led to an enclosed corridor down which all the passengers trod. After so many hours in flight, everyone was tired and wobbly-kneed. By the time they reached Customs and Immigration, most were beyond grumpy and had become obnoxious.

Into a huge room they went, channeled now into one long line that wound like a snake through the room. Unobtrusively—which wasn’t the way in other countries, specifically third world airports where they stood right along the line—guards with guns stood here and there against the wall or behind door edges.

Carl-Joran had a moment’s spasm of fear, quelled it and firmly told himself that the passport nestled in his briefcase was not illegal…except for the changed date, more recent photo and immigration entrance and exit stamp pages photocopied from his real Swedish passport. Which did make it a little illegal…though its number did belong to Carl Joseph Mink. The fear tried to come back. He squelched it again. Thank God for his years of martial arts training, even if he had taken it for other reasons. He had never intended to actually use it! He had trained in order to overcome his inordinate clumsiness and he had done so. He lowered his heart rate and relaxed. He couldn’t wait to write this whole experience down in his little computer file.

His turn came. The immigration officer he ended up with was an older Chicano man who appeared tired and ready to finish his shift. He glanced at Carl-Joran, asked the usual questions: how long had he been in Israel, did he get to visit Jerusalem? Wasn’t he scared about the terrorist attacks?

Carl-Joran’s American accent now was at home. The answers were no problem. The immigration officer stamped a page and handed the passport back to him. Carl-Joran slipped it back into the briefcase and walked like any other tired, returning tourist past the guards and out of the huge room, down another long corridor and through the giant glass doorway arch that led into the general hustle of LAX.

Immediately in front of the arch, half hidden behind a pillar stood Barbara Monday, sleek and trim in an olive-green cotton suit with a yellow silk blouse that spoke total native Los Angeleno, although Carl-Joran knew she had been born and raised in upstate New York. The woman fitted into her surroundings like a chameleon.

He had to laugh. So much like Tahireh Ibrahim in Paris, and Carin Smoland in Sweden and the older Lori Dubbayaway in Thailand. He had once read a book about the women spies of World War I and II and how extremely deadly they were because of their ability to blend, to make the men around them think they belonged in that place, at the time, with those people. Certainly, the women who moved about doing the rescue assignments for the EW fit very well into their predecessors’ roles.

She did not look at him as he stepped through the glass arch. She did not approach him as he walked by her. His eyes couldn’t help glancing at her, as any other man’s in the crowd did. She looked so attractive. He wrenched his gaze back to the unknown people in the crowd in front of him and went along toward the main exit. She fell in behind him, casually walking as if going to meet someone else.

When she had come abreast close enough for him to hear her above the white noise of the bustling terminal, she said, “I need your help.”

Without seeming to talk to her, he said, “I’ve got to get to Morro Bay tonight.”

“It’ll only take a couple hours.” She sped up enough to get ahead of him as they stepped onto the escalator leading down to the parking garages. “The private investigator hired by Valentine’s husband has found where we’re keeping her. She has to be moved tonight. She has to be brought to the safe house near here, near LAX, so she can be put on the eight thirty-five a.m. flight to Miami.”

“And there’s no way you can do it by yourself?” Carl-Joran’s face had a gravely perplexed expression.

“If the private investigator has told the husband already, we could have violence,” she whispered.

Carl-Joran snorted, replying sarcastically, “I think I win my bet. Okay, lead on, Ms. Monday.”

They stepped off the escalator together in the fore-lobby of the garages and both noticed the Arabic-looking individual near the tall potted plant beside an exit, watching Barbara from behind a magazine. Carl-Joran strode away from Barbara, separating from her. The Arab slid away from his potted palm and, sticking the magazine into a nearby chair, followed her through one of the exits leading to the parking garage.

Carl-Joran circled back and went after the Arab, who, once into the garage, paused to see where Barbara was headed. The man was completely absorbed in the fine legs and beautiful rump motion as she swung briskly along toward her rental car. Carl-Joran set his duffel and briefcase against a pillar and quietly came up behind the short, stocky man. As soon as no one was looking their way, he neatly—in a swift, small movement—pinched the side of the man’s neck, dropping him like a stone. He caught him, one arm under the shoulders and as if carrying a drunk, took him to an elevator and gently placed him inside, pushing the top-most button. The doors slid shut.

Barbara, in her big rented Oldsmobile, pulled up as Carl-Joran retrieved his duffel and briefcase. He put them in the back seat and climbed into the passenger seat.

“Neatly done, old man,” she laughed.

“It is good to practice,” he responded. “Where are we going? And I assume you’ll drop me off back here at my own car after we’re finished?”

“We’re on our way to Malibu and yes, you’ll be brought right back here.” It was dark outside. The roads were black ribbons with huge lights. Barbara finessed her way out of the massive traffic circles around the airport buildings and was quickly onto the San Diego freeway headed north.

A few minutes later, Carl-Joran asked rather plaintively, “Do I really look older with my hair dark?”

“Well,” she began, trying to think up an inoffensive way to say what she felt she should say, that is, the truth, and continued with, “I think the dye made your skin seem darker and your beard emphasizes those little lines.”

“Oh,” he said, disheartened.

“Hey, you’re still really handsome for an…” she said and then decided any more might be putting her foot in her mouth.

“Ja-so,” he muttered.

“I mean, look at Sean Connery and…and Edward Woodward and Clark Gable.”

“Mr. Gable is dead.” The big Swede loosened his seat belt.

Barbara switched to the fast lane and accelerated. “You’re missing my point. Any woman would love to date Sean Connery or Tom Selleck or Clint Eastwood.”

“Uh.” Carl-Joran replied.

Soon, they left the freeway to turn onto Sunset Drive to wind through the big houses toward the ocean and Pacific Coast Highway.

It was something of a surprise when, after whizzing through Malibu, Barbara turned into the Pepperdine University entrance, but she seemed to know right where to go. Up past the last university building she swung onto a narrow drive that led to a small, dormitory-like structure. She pushed at Carl-Joran. “Get down.”

As she parked, she motioned her head toward a black sedan, lights out, windows shaded, half-hidden behind the hedge. Its occupant, a white man with a buzz haircut, was lighting a cigarette while lowering his night glasses.

“The PI,” she whispered.

Carl-Joran gave one quick nod. He signed to Barbara to put her hand over the interior car light. She responded immediately by taking a scarf and pressing it over the light. Smoothly, like a long snake, he pushed the passenger side door open, slid from the car and amazingly, for a man so tall, disappeared instantly into the mottled shadows of the other vehicles, the trees, the fence.

Barbara lowered the scarf. Waited several heartbeats and opened her door with the light unguarded. The PI’s night glasses jerked back up to his eyes. Deliberately she put her long, beautiful legs out of the car and walked along the sidewalk where he could observe her. The man’s neck craned around as she passed about fifty feet away bathed in the soft light from the porch lamp. As she went up the porch steps and under the shadow of the large portico cover at the front entrance of the building, the private investigator stubbed out his cigarette, lowered his glasses, and opened his car door.

At that moment, from below the car window height, Carl-Joran in one swift motion jerked the car door fully open and hauled the fellow out. As silently and swiftly as the Arab had been dispatched, the PI was unconscious. Carl-Joran gently laid the man back into the car seat and closed the door. Standing upright, he turned and headed for the portico. Barbara had already gone inside.

He was stopped at the door by a large woman who shook her head at him. Apologetically, she said, “We know you’re a good man, but just wait here. It’s our policy not to let men in. You’ll have to wait.”

Not more than three minutes passed before Barbara and another largish woman, whom Carl-Joran guessed was the other half of a lesbian pair, stepped from the shelter carrying a thick suitcase and a smaller cosmetic bag. The woman handed both to Carl-Joran.

“Thank you so much, Baron,” she smiled, and promptly retreated back into the building.

Barbara motioned come along to someone behind her, someone who must not have wanted to leave because Barbara again motioned, and once more very firmly. A tall, stunningly beautiful black woman, nervously looking around, staring for a second at the car with the slumped over private investigator, finally, cautiously, stepped from the darkness of the doorway like a scared deer.

“Valentine,” said Barbara Monday, “this is Baron Carl-Joran Hermelin, your benefactor.”

“My God,” she breathed softly, her eyes moving up and down, “he’s ‘bout as big as my husband.”

“We’d better go,” Carl-Joran urged them, “our sleeping watcher won’t be unconscious much longer.” He led the way to the Oldsmobile, put the suitcase and bag into the trunk, and held a back door open for Valentine who, herself, had to duck low to get in. Passing that close, Carl-Joran was able to see on her dark skin, with only the interior car light, ugly bruises, half-healed, along the woman’s jaw, neck, and lower arms below the short sleeves of her dress. He cringed.

Barbara opened her own door and had the engine started before Carl-Joran had clicked his seat belt. Off they went, back along Pacific Coast Highway, and this time, they stayed on the ocean-side highway until they were past Santa Monica. Barbara wound her way through the busy streets, busy even at this time of the night, and only after some round-about driving through one city street after another to be completely certain she had no one tailing her, did she slip back onto the freeway heading for the airport. The next stop was a ticky-tacky little house stuck between storage units behind an airfreight hanger. The vibrations of the incoming planes shook the car. They were directly under the near-end of the flight path.

“Sorry for the noise,” Barbara shouted over her shoulder, then got out and helped Valentine out while Carl-Joran went to the door of the house. He tapped lightly and someone peeked between torn curtains. The curtains fell back in place. The front door creaked opened and Barbara hustled Valentine in. Carl-Joran took her suitcase and bag from the trunk and handed it in the door, which promptly closed with him still on the outside and this time no apologies at all. Over the years, he’d come to accept that this is how it had to be. He had long ago refrained from questioning the women who ran these places about why he, the man who helped support them, was always refused entry. It was not important to him any longer. The job was getting done, so be it.

Not too long and Barbara hurried back. “She’s a brave lady,” said Barbara. “Holding up a lot better than I would under the circumstances.”

“I saw the bruises. I am always amazed at the strength of these women,” commented Carl-Joran and, slipping into the passenger seat, put on his seat belt. “What is your schedule now?” he asked Barbara.

“I’m staying at the Airport Hilton tonight, then flying back to New York tomorrow morning. Sometime this week I’ll go to Miami and help the crew get Valentine ready for her new life in Africa.” Barbara held up her cell phone. “Do you have my number in case you need me to help with the Ixeys?”

He nodded, patted his upper pocket. “Your number is close to my heart.”

“Such a romantic!” her New York City accent betraying her origins and she laughed out loud. “You nervous?”

He shrugged. “A little. Of course. Well, a lot. She…Bonnie and I will not meet until we are in the castle. I intend to make sure she will not know I am accompanying her.”

“What a shock that meeting will be!” Barbara pulled up to the rental car area. “I envy you, finding your lost love.”

“I do not envy me,” he snorted, smiled morosely at her, and got out, slamming the door shut behind him. Barbara shook her head and drove away.

It took only moments to retrieve the Saturn. He cringed at its small size, but within another ten minutes he, with only his duffel bag and briefcase to accompany him, was speeding north along the San Diego freeway. Once past Ventura and onto Highway 101, traffic at this midnight hour was minimal and he made better time.

Despite the wider highway, despite all the shopping malls and housing developments that had filled in every empty field between Los Angeles and Santa Barbara, it all was hauntingly familiar. The eucalyptus trees smelled the same, the ocean was the same, the rocky cliffs still brooded over the ocean, and his feelings were flashing back, sharp and clear, as he was physically returning to where they had been.

Trish insisted they take her van. “It’s an all-wheel drive, Mom, and it’ll be easier to deal with the bags.”

“You don’t mind leaving it in long term parking?” asked Bonnie and the tall, gawky daughter shrugged.

“It’s been in worse places,” she muttered, “what with the teams of kids I’ve had to cart around all over the state.”

Gryphon insisted on jumping in and out of the vehicle and Lou had to forcibly shove him out finally, before Trish could take her place at the wheel. The noon sun was warm, though the breeze off the ocean was brisk and chilly. As if sensing what was coming, Bonnie let her face bask in the sun for a moment before getting in.

“Got our tickets?” Trish asked.

Bonnie patted her small fanny pack. “Yep.”

Little Misimoto bid them good journey, smiling and bowing. Lou and Dell waved goodbye and Gryphon barked all the way down the drive, until he spotted the stranger standing near the mailbox. Dirt flying, he scrambled across the field only to meet with disappointment as the guy jumped into his car and drove down the road a way. As Trish pulled out of the drive onto the road, another car, the plain white United States government issue car hiding behind the second large oak tree, came to life. The black man in the trench coat was on duty this morning.

“Either we will be exceptionally well taken care of,” said Bonnie with some sarcasm, “or this will be a veritable television shoot-’em-up drama all along the coast.”

“I hope not the latter, Mom,” said Trisha and headed for Highway 1.

Since she wasn’t driving, Bonnie could take more notice of the passing scenery. Funny how it is that hills and coastline you’ve driven by hundreds, if not thousands of times suddenly develop spots you’ve never seen, consciously that is, when you were driving. A house there, an unusual tree. Or you notice how the winter storms have eaten away at the beach around the lighthouse, or how few tourists are waiting in San Simeon today to tour Hearst Castle. A squadron of pelicans, in as precisely straight formation as a marching band, dipped and skimmed the waves. Bonnie truly loved this part of California.

“Mom, you were right,” said Trish, glancing in the mirror, “we’ve got both secret agents on our tail.”

Bonnie turned around. There they were. “The Arab fellow doesn’t know the road very well,” she commented.

Trish nodded. “But the black guy drives like he’s got it memorized. Like us.” Trisha sighed, “Oh, well. I’m not going to try outrunning them or anything. Highway 1 is dangerous enough without this sort of thing.”

Bonnie smiled, nodded. She knew she was in very good hands with her daughter driving.

By the time they approached Big Sur, the winter sun touched the edge of the horizon. As the shadows lengthened, the stark cliffs, the black-green trees, and half-hidden resort buildings took on an unreal quality for Bonnie. Then suddenly, there was the little resort they had stayed at for those brief few days—she and Carl. The cabins were the same, the twinkling lights through the trees made her remember…things. Things as they were, emphasizing the were as she was coming to terms with Carl’s death. How cruel fate could be, she thought, a red surge of anger slipping through to color her mind’s flashing images. She wondered what the title of her life story would be: The Sunset of Our Lives or How Many Roads Must a Woman Walk Down? It certainly wasn’t the Casablanca her parents’ life had been.

“Want to stop, Mom? Want a snack or a cup of tea?”

“How’s our time, kiddo?”

“We’re fine.”

Bonnie considered, and then thought, if we stop here, I’ll remember more. She shook her head. “No, let’s get on into San Francisco. I’ll save my appetite for dinner.”

“Okay,” Trish looked in the mirror, chuckled. “The black secret agent is in front of the Arab now.”

“Wonder if they’ll have dinner with us?” Bonnie glanced back.

“We should pick a good restaurant.”

“Yes, we should,” laughed Bonnie. “And what is it Muslims can’t eat?”

“Sorta like Jews, I think,” said Trisha, “no pork, no crabs, or shrimp.”

“Right, then may I tender the suggestion that we eat on the wharf?”

“Ha! Great!” Trisha laughed out loud.

Two-and-a-half hours later, they pulled into the parking area under the small hotel, the Franciscan, checked in, and gleefully, like a couple of wayward teenagers, took off walking to Ghirardelli Square. They picked the one restaurant that promised only fish dinners and took immense enjoyment at the fact that the Arab agent stayed out on the sidewalk in the chilly foggy night. The black agent took a seat at a distance furthest from them and seemed to appreciate their choice of restaurant.

After two glasses of wine, Trisha leaned over to her mother and whispered, “I wanna walk past him and just say hi.”

Bonnie giggled. She too had had some wine. “Tempting, isn’t it?”

Trish sat up, looked directly at the agent, then back at her mom, “Better not. I mean, we really don’t know how serious this all is.”

“True,” sighed Bonnie and at that moment, the black agent was joined by the woman agent they’d noticed arrive at the farm each night. The two chatted quietly to each other, then the black agent finished his dinner and discreetly slipped out the front door.

“Change of guard,” said Trisha.

Bonnie nodded. “What happens when we get on the plane, I wonder?”

“That will be interesting.” Trish cleaned her plate, deliberately staring at the woman agent. “Hey, I’ve got a super idea. Why don’t we walk up to Ghirardelli Square and pig out on a chocolate sundae?”

Bonnie glanced at the woman agent who was built very solidly. “Bet she has to really watch her weight. Yes, let’s do it.”

“Let me know the Ixey itinerary soon as you get it,” Tidewater said to Russ as the older man headed for his office.

Russ jumped to his feet, moving quickly after him. “They got to San Francisco last night, their plane leaves for New York this afternoon at 4:15. Arrives in New York at 7:35. At Kennedy.”

Tidewater, taking his cup of coffee from Lily, nodded as he sipped. “You’re one hot son-uv-a-be-hive, young man. Okay, get us a chopper into Kennedy in time to be there. I want access into Passport Control. She’ll have to move all the way from their national flight to the SAS International flight. Which national carrier are they on?”

“Delta, sir,” Russ replied.

“Okay. And pack your weapon.” Tidewater patted his waist where he kept his pistol tucked away.

Hoping that his knife would count, Russ nodded. He had decided, after carefully reading his transfer papers, that carrying the pistol he’d been assigned this morning was not part of his job description. “Are we interviewing Ixey? Or holding her? Or…what?”

Tidewater paused as he was putting his butt into the chair, “I’m gonna see if we can hold her up on some sort of passport violation thing. That should give the EW some fluttery heartbeats!”

“Yessir,” said Russ, being wise enough not to shake his head in frustration until he’d made it back into his cubby. He was having a very difficult time with this. What was it in Tidewater that made the man hate EW with such fervor that he would destroy it? Why did the rescue of terrified, endangered, battered women make him crazy? The Native American drew in a calming breath and ordered up the helicopter, sent an e-mail to Kennedy Airport Customs and Immigration Passport Control, and accessed SAS to see which gate the flight to Stockholm would be departing.

The tap on his door by Tidewater came as he scribbled down the latter number.

“Are we ready?” the older man asked.

Russ nodded, held up the slip of paper. “Everything online.” He grabbed up his leather jacket and bundled into it as he followed Tidewater to the elevator.

As the elevator shot to the roof, Tidewater smirked at Russ, “Ever ride in a chopper?”

Images, one upon another, stormed through Russ’s mind: smoke, fire, leaping into the unknown, flames licking at his boots trying to pull him in, or so it seemed as he and his crew dropped into hell. This boss, thought Russ, must not have read his résumé very carefully.

“More times than I care to remember,” said Russ softly.

Almost disappointed, Tidewater mumbled, “Oh. Doing what?”

“Earned money for college as a smoke jumper, sir.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Tidewater ducked off the elevator onto the roof ahead of him. “You’re a man of many talents.”

“Yessir,” was all Russ said. More words would have been wasted in the drone of the chopper blades starting their warm-up. The pilot motioned them onboard.

“Kennedy?” he shouted. Tidewater nodded. The pilot pointed to their seat belts. “Make yourself comfortable. It’ll take me a while to get clearance.”

Tidewater wrapped his belt tightly around himself. “Why? Just tell ‘em it’s FBI business.”

“That won’t go for squat,” said the pilot. “Sunday’s their busiest travel day. Squeezing us into a landing area will be like doing it without K-Y, boss.” He chuckled and adjusted his radio headset.

Tidewater clenched a fist even while he laughed. Russ, too, had to smile. He put his belt on loosely, not comfortable with being locked in tightly. After all, when you’d jumped from these damned machines, what did seat belts mean? While the pilot negotiated with ground control, Russ watched the winter traffic far below, crawling along on the throughway. He was going to see Mrs. Ixey very soon, and her daughter, Trish. And what would he say? Probably nothing, probably he would be as still as his ancestors had drilled into him for dangerous situations…make no move, listen, put no words in, take no words out, always do your best to walk in peace. That was the crux of the dilemma on him, wasn’t it? He was out of harmony. He was koyaanisqatsi as the Hopis put it.

“Got it,” said the pilot and started the check off on his engines. “You all belted in? Okay, here goes.”

The familiar whine and jerk of the rotors made Russ instantly sleepy. An old habit—if you were riding into danger, sleep while you could.