CHAPTER 9: MINK CASTLE

Marion Tidewater stepped quietly into his assistant’s office. “Snow?”

The man jumped, startled, “Yes, Mr. Tidewater.” He had been completely absorbed by what was on the computer screen.

“Waiting for that information,” the agent demanded softly. He had an expression on his face that the Indian hadn’t seen before, sort of a cross between hatred and numb shock, with a fleeting coarse little smile thrown in. Marion Tidewater had not been in a good frame of mind since yesterday, but the moment Russ had come within sight of him this morning, the agent had turned uglier than usual.

“Right, yessir,” Russ Snow shook his head, put a finger on the screen. “As far as I can see from airline bookings and her credit card use, Barbara Monday is still in New York. She had a reservation yesterday on American Airlines to Miami, Florida, but she cancelled it right after our meeting at Kennedy.”

“Miami?” Tidewater’s voice didn’t have the usual clipped terseness. It seemed to reek of caution. “Wonder if she cancelled because of us?”

Was it something he had, or had not, done, Russ mused. In a nervous movement, he lifted the feathery beaded headband and swept his black hair back across his head. “Yep. And I’ve tapped into the women’s shelters in Miami, their encryption is minimal.” He shook his head. “No listing of rescued women though. Their computers may be second-rate, but they aren’t stupid about what files to leave open.” He sat back in his chair and sighed. “And nothing, absolutely nothing from San Diego. Claybourne was taken to the hospital. He has a dislocated shoulder and a really bad bruise on the back of his neck, plus continuing dizzy spells. Hasn’t a clue who knocked him out or how.” Russell held up both hands and shrugged.

Gingerly, as if approaching something dangerous, the ugly little agent sat on the metal chair next to Russ’s computer array. He said, “I had a phone call from Commander Yusef in Saudi Arabia just now. He’s received word from his contact at the women’s jail that a man named Shamsi Granfa is paying all sorts of bribe money around. The suspicion is that it’s for a Thai girl about to go to trial on assault.”

“What’d she do?” Russ casually asked while tapping on the keyboard. Definitely, his boss’s eyes were constantly snapping back to the headband. Was it against some Agency dress code to wear native handiwork? He’d received it in the mail yesterday from his mother with a note saying he had to wear it to keep the evil spirits away. Mom said she’d been having dreams lately that he was walking close to darkness. That was Mom, a walker in the old ways, but Russ never made the mistake of dismissing her clairvoyant abilities. Russ would be calling her later today and nothing on Earth could make him lie to his mom. So he had to wear the headband.

“Huh, oh, the Thai girl?” Marion Tidewater shifted in his chair, “she’s one of those indentured servants brought in from Asia.”

“Yes, but what was her crime?” the Native American insisted without taking his eyes from the screen.

“Assault, I said that didn’t I?” Tidewater growled. “I don’t know. Find out for yourself.”

Russ nodded, looked around. “Sure, sure.”

Tidewater went on, “Now, there’s no evidence that this Shamsi is any way tied in with Habib Mansur or the EW. This is their style though. Do Yusef a favor and get some dope on Mr. Granfa? See if you can backtrack his financing.”

“Um,” said Snow, “I can try.” His thoughts went to the girl, locked away in the Arab prison.

“If we can do Yusef that favor, we’ll have something to collect on him later.” Tidewater suddenly looked very despondent. He wrapped his hands together and wrung them as if washing the backs of his fingers. “Who took out Claybourne and the Iranian agent? Who the hell has the expertise? Clean, efficient.” Marion Tidewater let his eyes drop.

“Well, you might like to know,” said Russ, with a little smile, “that just after we left the airport, a known Irish operative was found unconscious in the men’s bathroom…”

Tidewater perked up. “Where?”

Snow grimaced, “…about fifty feet down the hall from the Diplomats Lounge.”

The corners of Tidewater’s mouth flicked. “Really? Tall, nasty asshole named McCranny?”

“That’s him. He’s in police custody. That’s how I found out. Came over the police booking monitor.” Russ tapped some keys and a booking photo of McCranny blinked onto the screen. The man’s face was puffed up with bruises.

“Damn.” The agent nodded, slightly mollified.

Russ tapped a few more keys to bring up the booking report. “Found a couple plastic weapons on him, which didn’t seem to have stopped his assailant. A wad of money, no ID. Interpol ID’d him from fingerprints.”

“Well, well, well. Someone’s bringing in big guns to track the Ixeys.”

“You think so?” Russ asked the agent.

Tidewater slowly got to his feet, “Why else would a high-flying asshole like McCranny be that close to us? Hmm? Taking that kind of chance?” Tidewater turned, “Get that info for Yusef, okay? And if you can find out who hired McCranny, all the better.” The agent slouched out of the cubbyhole.

“Yessir,” Snow replied and tapped up the you’ve-got-mail button to access the new downloads that had come in from the Paris gendarmerie. It was going to take some time. There were several jpg and gif files, meaning photos. His eyes strayed back to the McCranny file. Although not proven, McCranny was suspected in several assassinations, two bombings, and four robberies. Russ Snow felt a deep discomfort. Someone was so eager to keep the Ixeys under surveillance that they had hired an assassin to do it. A sociopath who’d have not the slightest hesitancy to eliminate a fifty-year-old librarian or a twenty-six-year-old PE teacher on a mere word. Who…?

As the photo of a very beautiful woman began appearing from the Paris downloads, Russ suddenly recalled that there had been not one Arab-looking person in the SAS waiting area when they were there. Not one. Of course, he thought, the Iranians had lost two agents tracking Bonnie Ixey so far that he knew of, one to a dog bite, the other to this person who was taking out any potential threats to Bonnie Ixey. Two of their own, so Sadiq-Fath must have decided to let someone else try tracking, someone even more sinister than ISF men.

Russ tensed his legs, moving to get up, to go tell Agent Tidewater what he suspected, when a great invisible hand pressed down on him. Russ sat back down. A howl of conscience went up from his throat but never surfaced to sound. Another level of conscience had emerged, a warning like the internal shockwave of thunder after lightning. A great battle stormed through his body, into his mind, deep, deep into his soul. He fell forward toward the desk, caught himself with outstretched hands, and muffled a scream. Then his eyes looked into the big computer screen and saw the stunning woman with café-au-lait skin, sleek black hair pulled into a tight bun, eyes the shade of Apache tears, glinting in the runway lights. The dress she was modeling was a tiny thing of shimmering ivory-cream that left long, long legs in the bright lights. A soft olive jacket was slung over her shoulder. Yet this was no frail, underfed model. Muscles rippled under that beautiful skin. A runner? Bike rider?

Russ pulled up the next page. Tahireh Guillé Ibrahim. Guillé was her stage name….”The advant femme Guillé in the little silk frock from the genius of…” Russ Snow gulped. His face got hot. He read through her entire biographical sketch. How much had her modeling agency put in there and how much was real, who could say, except Tahireh and the agency. Yet it seemed she was an amazing contrast to other women of her culture. Put into school in Paris for safekeeping by her Iranian parents at the age of six, she had escaped the purge of Baha’is in Iran, only to lose her parents, her brother, most of her relatives over the next few years. She volunteered with the Torture Treatment Centre in Paris beginning as a teenager and somehow continued her humanitarian work while establishing her career as one of Paris’s most glamorous models. The clothes designers loved the shade of her skin. It was perfect to show off their whites and creams and pastels.

The tall Native American stared at the photo. This was the woman Tidewater, his boss, wanted him to report on to the most heinous security chief in the world. This was the woman whose life would be severely terminated if ever caught back in Iran. How could it be?

With great exertion, Russ tapped the save key and let the photo go away into some sparkling electronic file in the bowels of his computer.

He set to work on the other assignment: Shamsi Granfa and the Thai girl in the Arab prison. It took about an hour of searching. As he was about to take a break for lunch, the computer binged and up came two files on women prisoners in Arab countries, one from Interpol and the other from Amnesty International. He read the Interpol report first. She was not in Saudi Arabia, she was in a Kuwaiti jail. Her name was Milind Pandharpurkar, she was…Russ sucked in his breath, fifteen-years-old, no, she’d have just turned sixteen. Sold into servitude by her parents to help support her ten brothers and sisters in Thailand. She was, had been, employed in the Syrian embassy kitchen. Her crime? She’d knifed the son of a Saudi diplomat. Okay, thought Russ, that was assault all right.

He set about downloading the preliminary investigation reports. They were all in Arabic. He programmed them to go to the translator. He’d retrieve them after lunch. As he stood, the booking photo of Milind Pandharpurkar flashed across the screen. A tiny, terrified girl whose face and obviously naked shoulders were striped with welts of some sort. Russ was on his feet though, and determined to get out and get some food. It was almost two p.m. and he was starving. He’d read the translations and the Amnesty report when he returned and he started the research on Granfa.

Tahireh, at this very moment, bore no resemblance to the sexy, gorgeous Parisian model in the photo in Russ’s computer file. Not unless grunge had suddenly come into style. The bright ruddy light of the big central campfire sent sparks into the desert night sky. The women of the Bedouin camp were gleefully patting Tahireh’s heavy cotton shirt and pants to make the dust swirl. Her face was streaked with grime and she, too, was giggling. The tribe was turning her into a camel boy. The men and boys in charge of the donkey and camel caravans were squatting in the dark outside the circle of women, critically observing the process. To them it was a life or death operation and they felt entitled to their occasional shouts of advice and teasing.

The elders of the tribe were huddled with Haji Habib Mansur. There would be rituals to take care of in the morning before the men and boys set out with the camels and donkeys to the i-Shibl compound. Habib was obligated to pay his respects to the other hajis and wise old men. He would bless their wives and children and receive in return the Bedouin assurance of protection. Habib, though, was well aware that the only real protection these remnants from a time in history long, long past, could afford him and Tahireh, was temporary invisibility. Even that was not what it used to be, what with the way satellites could pick out even individual people in the remotest locale. Luckily, at this moment, it was highly unlikely that any military observer cared about a wandering tribe of Bedouins.

It was muggy in Miami, like walking into a glass-covered arboretum. The reflected lights on the surrounding black water had been beautiful. The night sky had been misty. Carl-Joran slung his duffel over his shoulder and trudged, dog-tired from the plane. His eyes did the cursory scan of people waiting in the nearly empty boarding area. Mostly Latino people, no one obviously Iranian, no one obviously FBI or Agency. Two women, dressed alike in tank tops, mussed shirts and blue jeans, one skinny with clipped blonde hair, the other thickset, black-skinned and very serious, both not much more than teenagers, disengaged themselves from their chairs and caught his glance. He gave a little nod.

They walked quickly out of the boarding area and down the long hallway. He followed. They went through the large terminal, onto the arrival pick-up sidewalk, across a pedestrian zone, and hurriedly into a large parking area. The sky was lit by the reflection of the airport landing lights on the lowering mist. It wasn’t raining, but the threat was there. The humidity was so high it condensed on Carl-Joran’s skin.

The women unlocked and got into an old purple van. Carl-Joran hung back. The engine started up, it pulled forward, the sliding door opened, and he jumped in. The skinny blonde slammed the door shut as the black girl accelerated out of the lot. Gratefully, the baron fell into the bench seat. The skinny blonde held out her hand, “I’m Tammy. That’s Sherralyn.”

The driver held up one hand in a semisalute. “Bet you’re jes skunked.”

“Um, if you mean, am I exhausted,” Carl-Joran said, “yes, I am. Very.”

“We get you to bed real soon.” Her seriousness evaporated into a broad grin reflected in the mirror. Tammy wriggled into the front passenger seat. “Then we get to work on Ms. Valentine. She safe by the way. An’ doin’ fine. Learnin’ to speak Jamaican dialect real quick.”

“Excellent,” said the big man, barely able to keep his eyes from closing.

Tammy glanced back at him, “Go ahead and sleep if you want. It’s a ways to the shelter.”

“Thank you,” said Carl-Joran and promptly passed out.

It was late in the evening when Russ Snow sat down at his desk at home to read the translations and the Amnesty report. He’d stopped off at a little restaurant on the way home, a place run by an old Cheyenne friend of his. Russ needed to talk to someone and Lost-in-Clouds, whose white name was Freddie, was a good listener.

“So what’d you expect?” was Freddie’s summation of Russ’s complaint. The tall Native American with the cook’s apron around his middle shrugged his broad shoulders and slumped into his chair. “Hey, my grandfather was a sniper during WWII. Got wounded on Iwo Jima, got all sorts of medals and was treated like crap after being de-mobbed. Like, prejudice still happens.”

Freddie put some plates of excellent enchiladas con frijoles y cheso in front of the two of them. Though the aged Cheyenne kept keen attention on his two cooks in back, he pointed his fork at Russ. “You lucky you still in the man’s office, you lucky he didn’t find some way to fire you on the spot.”

“Maybe he will and it’s taking him time to come up with something that’ll prevent me from suing his butt.” Russ dabbled in the food.

“Eat!” ordered Freddie. “So tell me what the secretary said again.”

“Lily. Yeah,” Russ tried a bite of the enchilada. It was heavenly and delicious and outstanding! He dug in and between mouthfuls, reviewed Lily’s remarks. “She waved at me when I came in from lunch. Waved me over to her desk, and out of god-knows-where asks me to spell my name. Which I do. S-N-O-W. And she gives me this strange look and asks if that’s my real name, did I get it from my family? And were they the Arizona Snows. And I say my folks are north country Snows from up against the Minnesota Canadian border. Snow’s the name I use for my records and my job, and for when I was in school, but no, it’s not my family’s name. Oh, she says all sweet, and what was your birth name? So I get some pride in me and I tell her: Snow-from-Night-Sky. This is my mother’s clan name. Like it should be if you’re from a tribe of the Iroquois nation.”

“You only half Menomonee, why not pass and use your father’s white name?”

“Didn’t know my dad. He left so quick. Mom said he was a kid her age and he got killed in ‘Nam. Maybe so, maybe not. No records, nothing left. Maybe if I ever have kids I’ll go look up the guy’s history, you know, for medical purposes. Make sure he had good genes, mostly white from what Mom knew. I got his name written in my baby book.” Russ finished off the plate of Mexican food and sighed. “So my genes are half and half, but my soul is Iroquois.”

Freddie kept his respectful silence for a long moment, and then sagely nodded. “Yep, I’m almost all Cheyenne. I don’t even know what the rest is, maybe black. Happened in Oklahoma a lot after the Civil War, slaves hiding out with our tribe. We understood, we helped when it was possible. And our women weren’t so prejudiced like the white society.” He refilled Russ’s cup with decaf. “What else did this Lily woman say?”

“Not much, like, oh, that’s interesting and you’re so good at computers…” Russ laughed in pain, “Like I’m supposed to weave baskets or something?”

“You’ll be back in the Intelligence Section by tomorrow. Watch what I say.” Freddie cleaned the last few bites off his plate, then wiped his hands on his apron and glanced around the busy kitchen. Satisfied, he picked up his and Russ’s empty plates and considered the fact that he ran a competent crew. He put the plates in the wash sink and helped himself to several dessert dulches—a cross between cookies and doughnuts, some pink ones, and put them on a napkin in front of Russ, who had shrugged again, muttering, “Like I need this job?” and ate one of the dulches.

So an hour later, sleepy with his full stomach, he was sitting at his desk, reading the reports he had forwarded from his office computer. All he could think was that his mom had sensed the future again. The darkness was closing in fast. The Thai girl was up for assault all right, but Amnesty International made it very clear that it was self-defense. She’d been fending off the son of a Saudi diplomat who was trying to rape her in the kitchen where she worked, of all places, and she’d stabbed him with a butcher knife. Although there was to be an official trial, the outcome was already on the books, that the punishment was execution by garroting. Women simply didn’t strike back in conservative Muslim culture.

Russ knew for certain, with the conviction born of his mother’s brother’s honor as a warrior, that Russ Snow-from-Night-Sky would not pass on any more helpful information to Yusef or Sadiq-Fath or the not-so-honorable Marion Tidewater. For example, the bits and pieces he’d pulled up on Mr. Granfa, the man who was trying to bribe the guards to get Milind out? Why should Russ condemn a man who was trying to do something good? No more. Russ printed out the material on Tahireh to read in bed. She was on his mind a lot.

Sture wanted to pace the waiting area outside the passport and immigration check-in room, but there was a huge crowd milling around the big double doors that would soon open to let the recently arrived passengers out. He felt overdressed in his expensive wool slacks and trendy pullover sweater. He carried his matching jacket over one arm.

Krister, in his uniform, calmly flicked the sign above the heads of the crowd. He had neatly printed in big letters: BONNIE und TRISHA IXEY, copying the spelling of their names carefully from the official documents.

Sture brushed imaginary lint off his wool slacks for the umpteenth time. He was not happy with his father’s demand that he and Krister entertain the Ixeys in Stockholm for the day. Why not just take them to the castle and turn them loose? Surely his father was not going to be so long in Miami that Bonnie’s being at the castle would do any harm? Yes, Sture did realize that the moment Bonnie arrived in Norrkoping, Miss Algbak from the Pastorkirche would have a right to interview her, demanding that papers be signed, and Ms. Person would come to defend the Hermelin estate and things could get crazy fast. Sture brushed his pants again and Krister, very respectfully, harrumphed at him.

Inside the immigration terminal, Trisha was pushing the baggage cart containing their two big suitcases, plus the carryon luggage past the nothing-to-declare sign and toward the door. They had sped through the passport stamping section with no more than a casual “Why are you in Sweden? How long will you be staying?”

“It’s not as cold as I expected,” said her mother and Trisha nodded. “Yeah, I thought we’d have to put on our new jackets by now,” Trish said, almost disappointed.

They pushed through the big double doors with a phalanx of other people and Trisha instantly saw a small man with thin face and pale skin, in a chauffeur’s uniform hold up a sign with their names on it. “Look, Mom, that must be them.” Next to the chauffeur was a very tall young man with untamed, ruddy hair and startlingly blue eyes.

Bonnie strained to her tiptoes, but could not see over the crowd.

“Come on,” Trisha pushed the cart in that direction and flung her hand in the air in a semaphore motion. “Wow, Mom, a chauffeur and everything!” Bonnie felt the sadness leap into her throat again. She still did not know what she should say to the son, the stepson she had never met, never even known had existed. How would he react to her? She deliberately kept a few feet behind her large and enthusiastic daughter.

The chauffeur was the first to reach them. He had slipped through the throngs of mostly tall, blonde people and gently, but firmly took the cart from Trisha. He bowed politely. “God dag, mina damer.”

“Hello,” said Trisha, half bowing in response.

“You don’t have to do that,” said the young man tensely. He stepped past Trisha and very formally held out his massive hand to Bonnie. “I am Sture Nojd Hermelin.”

Bonnie put her tiny hand in the great big one. It brought back an instant picture of the boy’s father, at the same age. “I’m your stepmother, Sture,” she said softly.

“Ja so,” he melted a tiny bit and overcoming his reluctance, smiled at the pretty little lady, “I guess it is true.” He turned stiffly to Trisha and proffered a hand.

Trisha’s clumsy big hand almost matched his in size. “Hi, I’m your stepsister. I’m Trisha.”

Sture did not acknowledge this comment, but rather said, “This is Krister.” He waved at the chauffeur, who touched his cap and, motioning them to follow, set off, pushing the cart ahead of them, clearing a path through the crowd. The lanky young man, struggling with the English words, blurted out as they came to the front of the terminal, “My father wants…” he blushed bright red and coughed, “he wanted you to be comfortable, I am sure. Ja so? And you must be hungry for breakfast? Krister can take us to a good restaurant.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Bonnie agreed, doing her best to make the young man comfortable. They stepped outside and the intense darkness at six in the morning, plus the bitter cold hit her like a brick to the face. She quickly put on her new, extra-warm coat.

Sture had paid no attention to her words. Slipping into his suit coat, he stood at the edge of the sidewalk and scanned the throng bustling toward their cars.

Trish laughed her loud, very American bray, “Yeah, I’m really hungry for a decent meal.” She either didn’t notice, or simply was not paying attention to his discomfort. She too, was slipping into her coat, pulling up the high collar to ward off the deep-freeze chill. Sture motioned to Krister to get the car and the small man hurried off, pulling on his gloves as he trotted down the sidewalk, leaving the two women and Sture waiting at the curb.

The wind blew fitfully, carrying what felt like shards of glass. Trisha looked around and commented, “How come there’s no snow on the ground and what’s this hitting my face?”

“Dat is snow,” said Sture, almost as an aside. “You see snow on the ground very soon. Here there is pipes under the road? Right? Hot water from the electric plant? So, no ice, no snow.”

“That’s an excellent plan,” said Trisha, standing on tiptoes to watch Krister’s progress to the parking lot.

“And this snow?” Bonnie brushed at her face, “It feels like ice.”

Sture’s flitting gaze had stopped on a small, dark man getting into a white Mercedes at the far end of the terminal roadway. “Ja so. Da ga det,” he muttered, and then glanced at Bonnie. “It is dry snow. Because it is so kalt.” He started anxiously shuffling his feet.

Trisha did notice this. She turned to him, “Aren’t you cold without a big coat?”

“Nej,” he tried to smile. It came out as a grimace. “It is warm right here, maybe only ten below freezing point?” His head went up as a big, black Saab pulled into the roadway and drove past the Mercedes and up to them. Even before it completely stopped, he had jerked open the back door. “You, fru Ixey and froken Ixey, you get in, please. Quickly.”

Krister had hopped out and as he came to take over the door-holding job, Bonnie—Trisha had already climbed in—saw Sture nod toward the white Mercedes idling some yards behind them and Krister return the nod. Krister firmly took Bonnie’s elbow and bowed, almost forcing her into the back seat. As soon as the door closed behind her, Sture jumped into the passenger seat and Krister literally ran to the driver’s side. He said something in Swedish as he fastened his seat belt and Sture turned to the women, motioning his own seat belt fastening.

“It is the law,” said Sture, again trying to smile, but his eyes flicked up, past Trisha’s head, and out the back window. He exclaimed a string of words in Swedish to Krister, who immediately released the parking brake and sped down the roadway.

Trisha, as she locked her seat belt, turned her head to see what Sture was watching. She whispered, “Mom…”

Bonnie looked around. “The Mercedes?”

Trisha nodded, then asked Sture, “Are there secret agents after us here too?”

“Too?” He finally looked directly at the two women. “You mean, they are after you before?”

“Back at the farm,” said Bonnie slowly so the boy would understand, “we had two agents watching us. In San Francisco, at the airport there was a black man, sometimes a woman, and some Arab guys. At Kennedy Airport several agents, I guess they were agents, came after us and a woman from the UN helped us get past them.”

Sture sat back into his seat, sighed, said something in Swedish to Krister, who shook his head, resignedly it seemed. They carried on a terse conversation in Swedish for several minutes, of which Bonnie only understood the words far, slott, fru, froken, and some liberally used swear words such as fy fan. Funny how she remembered the words her father had told her never to repeat. The chauffeur and the young man became mostly silent as the busy-ness of the airport approach road turned into a long, empty, dark highway. Far off, on the horizon, were sparkling bright city lights. In the sub-zero cold, they looked like crystals glowing. Bonnie assumed that was Stockholm.

Trisha began to squirm in her warm leather seat and turned to her mom, “I gotta go.”

“I will have to in a few minutes too.” Bonnie leaned forward. “Sture, were we going to stop for breakfast?”

Instead of immediately answering, both Sture and Krister glanced in the rearview mirror. Trisha craned her head around also. Sture muttered, “Nu! Tva!”

“Ja!” the chauffeur responded.

“Two?” Trish asked.

“Yes,” said Sture, “two cars are behind us.”

“Shit,” growled Trish, then, “I really gotta go.”

“We are going,” Sture said back to her in a similar growl.

“No! I mean I gotta go.”

Bonnie laid a hand on her daughter’s arm. “That’s slang for having to go to the bathroom, Sture.”

“Bad? You need a bad!” The boy was frantic. “You cannot wait until we get to the castle?”

“Bad, Mom,” whispered Trisha urgently, “what’s a bad!”

“No, Sture,” Bonnie tried to be pleasant, “she meant she has to find a WC.”

“Oh,” Sture sighed and repeated WC to Krister in Swedish. The chauffeur laughed out loud.

“What the hell’s a WC?” insisted Trish.

“Toilet,” Bonnie told her.

“Oh, jeez, why double-u see?” The tall woman squirmed again.

“It means water closet, dear—toilet.” Bonnie was getting anxious herself. “Sture, could we…?”

“Ja so,” he actually turned and smiled at them. “There is good restaurant near. We stop. Eat breakfast? She can use the WC.”

“Jag ocksa,” Krister added, a grin in his voice.

“Him too,” Sture pointed a thumb at the driver. “It is busy restaurant, all times of the day. We will be safe there. And I can call my…I can make a phone call.” He held up a cell phone.

“Can’t you just call from here?” asked Trisha.

“We are not close enough,” the boy pointed toward the lights of Stockholm. “And the police, they not like people to phone in a car.”

Within minutes, they came to a huge complex of lighted buildings, including a gas station, restaurant, and motel. Krister pulled in and up to the restaurant. At seven a.m., it was packed. Krister, Sture, Trish, and then reluctantly, Bonnie turned to look out the back window. The white Mercedes was just coming in the parking lot and behind it, was a strikingly obvious maroon Ford Taurus, with not one, but two very American looking men in the front seat. Their hair was cut in so above-the-ears-proper-style it shouted American agents!

“So, we have company while we eat.” Sture opened his door, “The restaurant, it should give us free food because we bring business.” Yet, despite the humor, he was very nervous. He stuffed the cell phone into his pocket.

Krister asked him something in Swedish and the boy shook his head, replying something. Krister got out and ran around the side of the building toward the WC sign. In moments, he was back and opened the door for Trisha while Sture held Bonnie’s. As the two women and Sture headed for the restaurant entrance, Krister got back into the Saab.

Bonnie was going to ask about that, when Sture, holding open the restaurant door, supplied, “He must protect the car.” They stepped into the warmth of the big room and a waitress immediately approached to lead them to a table. She indicated a spot where three other people took up one side and Trisha opened her mouth to object. Her mother hushed her. “This is Europe, dear, we share.”

They smiled at the other sleepy, weary people and sat as the waitress handed them menus. It took only moments to order plates of pancakes and sausage and boiled eggs. The older man of the three original occupants of the table held up a thermos pot of coffee, offering it to them. All three stuck out their cups and coffee as pale as tea was poured in. Trisha looked at it askance.

“Don’t judge it by the color,” warned Bonnie, who remembered the Swedish coffee at Lena’s. “It’s very strong. I think it comes from Indonesia.”

“The coffee?” asked Sture. “Yes, and Africa.” He nodded to the older man, “Tack so mycket.”

“Garna,” the man replied, stifling a yawn.

Trisha quickly went to the ladies’ WC and came back. Bonnie took her turn.

“I take out food for Krister,” said Sture as Bonnie sat and the waitress brought their breakfast. He looked around, out toward the Saab and Trish and Bonnie followed his gaze. The small dark man from the Mercedes was seated near the door, ordering breakfast and the two Americans were at the counter, just pouring their coffee. “So I say,” muttered Sture, “we bring in much business.” He grabbed up a cup of coffee to go, a package of smorgas, and patted his pocket. Both women smiled in acknowledgement as he stood, walked to the door, then out. The agents all started up, then noticed the women in their seats, and sat back down.

Krister accepted his breakfast sandwiches through an open car window and Sture made his phone call. He paced back and forth, conversing with gestures, his breath making big clouds of steam. It didn’t take long. He snapped the phone shut, said some words to Krister, and reentered to sit back down at the table. “Do you want to see sights in Stockholm?” he asked in a depressed voice with words that came one by one as if rehearsed.

Trisha regarded her mother for a moment. “I have the energy, but I don’t know about Mom.”

“I’m a bit bushed,” she said.

“Eh…tired?” the boy’s voice asked hopefully.

“Yes, quite.”

“Good,” he exclaimed, the delight evident, “then we go directly home, to the castle. You can see Vasaskjept, and other famous things another day.” His whole body relaxed. He dove into the pancakes with fork and knife flying. His mouth full, he stated with assured finality, “We will be much safer in the castle.”

By eight a.m. they were back on the road, their little entourage behind them. The miles, or kilometers rather, flew by. They drove very fast; Bonnie figured around ninety miles an hour in the straightaways. Even with the moments of worrying about the black ice and packed snow, she did sleep, though fitfully, awaking to find them going much slower along a narrow road bordered by broad, flat expanses of sparkling snow. Dawn was breaking. She glanced at Trisha’s wristwatch; it was ten thirty. She’d forgotten that so far north the sun would stay up only a couple hours this time of year. And a bleak sun it was, though the faint light made the entire world around them a fantasy of white: white trees, white fences, white roads and trails. Only the occasional passing car or person on cross-country skis had color, and then not much as the car would have snow on it and the person would be covered with frost from frozen breath. Trisha pointed out the big dogs in harnesses, guarding their sleds in front of a small grocery store.

About fifteen minutes later, the Saab slowed to a crawl to negotiate a turn into a very small lane, through a huge gate that opened by Krister’s electronic command and closed after them. Bonnie noticed on the wrought iron of the gate a large circular coat-of-arms, the same one that had been on the official letter that had brought her here. This was the entrance to the Hermelin castle. Her castle. She owned a whole castle. The jet lag was making her feel lightheaded and silly, and perhaps also, it could be the most unusual circumstances.

Bonnie couldn’t see any cars behind them. No, there they were—far, far behind, holding back, trying to be as invisible as possible. They would have to stop at the gate. Down the tiny lane the Saab went, huge snowdrifts as high as the car on each side, up to where the drifts parted and a small roundabout allowed the car to park at the entrance of an immense mansion. The face of the building was flat, even the twin front doors, exactly in the middle, opened onto the gravel drive with only the smallest of steps between the ground and the jamb. Windows, the same width and height as the doors, paraded outward on both sides, and each window had the exact same curtains, same color, same eighteenth century style. Drear was the only word to describe the shade of the natural yellow-gray stone. The roof, almost free of snow because of its steep peak, was of black slate. Except for the crystal glitter of the original glass in the windows and gaslight fixtures on the entrance, Hermelin Slott was ugly. Far to the right near a small door at the end of one wing, two cars were parked and plugged into heating posts.

“Welcome to the Hermelin Slott,” Sture smiled. “This is where we live and,” he nodded his head toward the right, “that is the birdwatchers’ hostel. Not so busy this time of year.”

Krister jumped from the car to open the doors for the women. Sture, without pausing, slid out and went ahead. The huge front doors opened and an old man in dark wool trousers and white wool shirt, stepped out, coatless. He saluted Sture who said something in Swedish and motioned toward the trunk of the Saab. As if in second thought, Sture turned and said loudly to Bonnie and Trisha, “Here is Gustav. He takes your baggage. Okay?” And the young man dashed into the castle. Krister was pulling out suitcases and Gustav was easily picking them up.

Bonnie and Trisha, freezing, shrugged at each other, grabbed up their jackets and half slid, half walked to the doors where a girl of about eighteen dressed in a dark blue uniform with white apron, met them and smiling, motioned them in. The vestibule was large, chilly, and lined with what looked like wooden pews. A steam heater in the corner burped and grumbled. Sture’s recently worn boots lay next to the heater, along with rows and rows of other boots and shoes.

“Din skon, har, tack?” The girl pointed to a pair of boots which looked like they could be hers, then pointed to the slippers on her feet, then to Bonnie and Trisha’s feet. “Ja?”

“Sure, yes,” said Trisha as the girl took their jackets to hang up on a wooden peg. Trisha slipped off her new boots. Bonnie looked around first, at the well-worn heavy wooden furniture, the exquisitely carved inner doors, the slate floor. An outer door opened and Gustav stepped in with the first load of baggage. Bonnie could hear the Saab drive off, crunching on the icy gravel, going toward the back of the castle. The old man saluted her.

She nodded in return as she set to work taking her new boots off. Of a sudden, the memory of her father religiously putting his shoes and boots by the front door came back, and how her mother would carefully clean them before putting them into the hall closet. It was their unspoken negotiated settlement, like so much else in their lives; unspoken, loving compromises. So now Bonnie was in a real Swedish home and now she saw how shoes and boots were left at the door, not put in a closet. And the shoes and boots were all clean, probably cleaned by the maid, Bonnie guessed and smiled at the girl.

“I am Mrs. Ixey,” said Bonnie slowly.

“Hej,” said the girl, curtseying again and blushing, touched her bosom, “Frida.” Turning, she led them into a huge hallway that immediately opened into a giant entry room. Plush carpets covered the floor and went up the two curving staircases. A vast and delicate chandelier filled the room with soft light. It was now electric but was obviously made for candles. Imagine, thought Bonnie, the time it took to lower the chandelier and light all the candles and raise it back up again.

Large dark paintings of, Bonnie assumed, Hermelin ancestors lined the walls. This room was little warmer than the entryway.

Frida hurried along and guided them around the staircase and down a short hallway to a small room that was a den made into an office. It was warm, toasty in fact. Sture, sitting at the desk, hung up the black dial phone. The maid bowed and was about to back out, when Sture said something to her in Swedish. She stopped, waiting patiently, hands folded on her apron.

To Bonnie and Trish, he said, “You would like food? Astrid makes lunch soon. You want to rest?” He smiled tensely at Trisha, “Now you want a bath?”

“Yep, a bath would be great,” said Trish, “and a nap, ‘cause my body says it’s evening.”

“Yes, a nap,” Bonnie agreed, “and a bath. Could we wait for lunch until your dinner hour? Then our jet lag will be better.”

“Ja so,” Sture nodded and made it clear to the maid that they were to go to their rooms.

Bonnie came closer to the desk, “When can I talk with that attorney, Ms. Person? I would really like to get the paperwork finished as quickly as possible.”

As if he didn’t expect this, Sture slid the big chair back, “My father says to wait for…it is rather, you must wait until tomorrow? That is better.”

Bonnie noted Sture’s use of the present tense again. Internally, she shook her head. Surely, it was just a language problem on the boy’s part; he didn’t know the past tense of English verbs, right? She continued to Sture, “Tomorrow? We couldn’t see Ms. Person later this afternoon?”

“No, no. We will wait,” Sture insisted.

“Wait for what?” Bonnie leaned over the desk making the young man very uncomfortable. He knew future tense, that was for sure, she thought. On the desk, she noticed the stacks of papers addressed to Carl-Joran, the bank statements and sympathy cards. There was a puzzle here, she was certain. “If I insist on seeing Ms. Person today, what would you do?”

The big shoulders shrugged, “It is a long walk to Norrkoping.”

“She can’t come here?” Bonnie picked up some of the papers. They were all in Swedish.

Sture reached forward and not too gently, but carefully, extracted them from her hands.

“If my mom decides she’s gonna do something,” Trisha volunteered, “you can bet she’ll do it quick.”

“Your mother does not know what this is all about,” Sture shot back, “there is much she does not know, much to explain. I do not explain it. You will wait. And we must stay in the castle. It is dangerous to go.”

“You mean the agents out on the road?” Trisha laughed, “They won’t stay out there long in that cold.”

The tall young man shook his head, “But they will wait in Norrkoping. And Krister is tired now. He must drive, he must protect the car.” He held up the phone receiver, “You can call Ms. Person?” His tone was hopeful.

Bonnie nodded, “I will call her. Later, after my nap.” Sture sighed with relief and set the receiver back in its hook as Bonnie went on, “Why must Krister protect the car?”

“This car today, it is a new car.” Sture grimaced, “No, we stay in the castle until, until tomorrow.”

Perhaps it was the jet lag, perhaps her own irritation and anger at being followed and harassed, but Bonnie put her hands on her hips and said, “Tomorrow and no postponing it. Sture, I know you are grieving for your father, but I want to see the attorney and I want to get the paperwork out of the way. That will make things easier for you too, won’t it?”

“Also must you talk with the tik Algbak.” Sture scowled. “Old moose’s behind.”

“What?” Trish interrupted.

“Algbak, the woman at the Pastorkirche. Her name means moose’s behind,” the young man explained, a smirk starting at the corner of his thin lips.

As one, suddenly, they laughed, all three of them, even Frida giggled. It broke the confrontational mood and Sture’s face lightened.

“Okay.” Bonnie stood up straight again, taking her hands off the desk, “Trish and I will try to relax. And wait.”

“Yes, good.” Sture spoke Swedish to the maid, then English to the women, “Frida will take you to your rooms. You must share a badrum. But you have hot water and the rooms have heat.”

“Oh,” said Trisha as she turned with her mom to follow Frida out. “You mean some rooms don’t?”

The young baron said after them, “Most have no heat, only fireplaces. You will see. Later, we will have a tour.”

Up the long stairway to the left they went, into a narrow, long, and chilly hall. About halfway down the hall, Frida opened two doors and indicated that these were their rooms. She pointed to an adjoining door and said, “Bad, toilet, ja?”

“Sure,” Trisha agreed and went into her room. Bonnie, grateful to be where she could strip off her clothes and get comfortable, closed her door behind her. The room was about middling large and it was wonderfully warm. Her luggage was there. The furniture consisted of a high, four-poster, a ceiling-high wardrobe, a nightstand topped in silvery gray slate, a small washstand and intricately carved bureau, a brightly painted hope chest at the foot of the bed and all spoke of centuries of age. Not so the bedcovers, which were fresh and clean. The duvet of goose down had a creamy damask envelope and the sheet was of crisp linen in a brown stripe. A set of towels, as creamy as the duvet, was set on the washstand next to a white porcelain bowl and water jug. She opened the closet section of the wardrobe to find coat hangers. The shelves were empty, lined with scented paper ready for her things.

The steam heater in the corner burped and chugged happily. Her bags sat against the bureau. This would be home for a while, she thought, as she hefted the big bag onto the bed. She was glad she’d packed her bathrobe and slippers right on top. As she turned, she glanced toward the French windows and the scene outside pulled her to them.

This was hers now. Long meadows of snow, surrounded by black-green firs and naked maples. A river, thick with ice and rime, meandered through the moguls and she suddenly noticed three well-bundled hikers trudging through the man-high drifts. They carried bird binoculars. Ahead of them trotted deer. She could see no fence, no walls, just wilderness. A fat, furry bunny hopped away from the deer and hikers. Neither the bunny nor the deer had the least fear of the humans. Far to her right was a long wooden building painted dark red with several wide doors. In front were more deer and a couple of small moose eating hay; underfoot were wild birds, a few geese, and ducks. Was this building once the stable? Yes, there was the Saab they’d arrived in, barely visible through an open door. She watched Krister plug in the engine warmer.

A small knock came at the door. She opened it. Frida had a tray covered with a decorated cotton napkin in her hand. “Varm mjolk? Ja? Bra at somna.”

“Uh, tack.” Bonnie felt any effort at more Swedish would not be in her best interest.

The maid set the tray down and backed out quickly. On the tray was hot milk and rich Swedish cookies composed mostly, she was certain, of real butter and sugar. Well, thought Bonnie, keeping my girlish form will be difficult here. She sighed and started taking off her clothes. A bath would be wonderful.

“Mom!” came Trisha’s voice, “there’s no shower!”

“Yes, dear, I expected as much,” Bonnie replied.

“You go first,” Trisha grouched. “At least I can soak after you’re through. Oh, yummy, snacks!” And in moments, all but one cookie vanished.

Bonnie smiled. Well, she thought, that takes care of those pesky extra calories. In her tired mind, she wondered how Trisha would take the news. Later, perhaps after dinner. And what about the fact that Sture conjugated his English verbs with enough skill to use future tense? She picked up a fluffy towel and her bathroom supplies. So was he just not accepting his father’s death? Was he unable to come to terms with it? Bonnie sighed. Far off in the depths of the castle, she heard a phone ring.

***

Carl-Joran punched off the phone and then on again. Siddhu had finally reached him. The women in the Miami shelter had let him sleep even though Siddhu had called three times wanting to pass on the message that Sture had called him three times. The baron groaned. His phone bill would equal the national debt of a small country. Never before had that sort of thing meant anything to him. His accountant and Inge Person dealt with such mundane affairs. He sighed. The women had awakened him with breakfast. He had slept the entire night and into the day. It would be early afternoon in Sweden. He dialed. Sture answered.

It took some doing to calm the boy down. Yes, Bonnie and Trish were sleeping off their jet lag. So Bonnie wanted to see Inge? Well, no. Because Krister would have to drive to the airport for him. Yes, he would be home tomorrow afternoon and he would get rid of the agents. No more siege on the castle. Tack gud. And Astrid could fix a big dinner tomorrow, a real Swedish dinner, boiled potatoes and codfish and sugared carrots, yes. Wonderful. It would all be better tomorrow, he assured Sture. As he hung up, Carl-Joran wondered if that was so. There was a lot to do.

Tammy, grinning with pride and affection, took the giant Carl-Joran by the hand as he came from the room and pulled him along to the dining area. The women they passed all greeted him with sincere respect. He was inside a women’s shelter and he was okay. It was a very good feeling. The dining room had been turned into a makeshift staging area for Polly Marie’s conversion. The tables had cutout pieces of costume and padding which were being fitted together by a bevy of volunteers. Sherralyn, looking for all the world like a pugnacious black bulldog, hovered around the tall and strikingly beautiful Polly Marie, coaching her in Jamaican.

Hearing him enter, the woman turned to face him, her savior, and smiled all very white teeth. “D’ya like what ya see?” she said, her new Jamaican accent nearly perfect.

“Beautiful!” the baron responded.

“Isn’t she great!” the women around her insisted, “she’s got it so quick! You’d think she was native.”

Sherralyn pointed to the table full of materials. “Next we make her fat.”

“And she must be blacker,” said Carl-Joran, “and squash her nose, make it wider. And her hair?”

Polly Marie groaned, putting one hand to her nose. “To think I paid several thousand dollars for this nose! What a laugh!”

A woman held up a box full of stage makeup. “She will be a real black mama by the time we’re finished!” Another woman shook a large Afro wig loose from its box.

“Okay, back to work,” Sherralyn ordered and Polly Marie, laughing, complied.

“What time is her plane?” asked Carl-Joran of Tammy.

“Ten o’clock tonight. She flies directly to Kampala,” Tammy said,” and she becomes African. But she will have to learn Swahili there. Or whatever language Judge Moabi decides she needs. Luckily, this woman can really learn fast.”

“I was an actress,” came Polly Marie’s voice.

“No, my dear,” the baron told her, “you are one, still. And you will be the best in Africa.”

Breaking away from Sherralyn, the tall woman grabbed Carl-Joran and hugged him. “Do you know how it feels to be free? And safe! Oh, I cannot tell you how good it is. How grateful I am.”

He gave her a fatherly hug back and patted her shoulders. He noted that the bruises on her face were fading fast. “We still must get through the Miami airport. I think we will be fine. You have truly become Eauso Valentine.”

“Dat right, I’m de woman who jes came from de big island,” she said in perfect accent. Everybody clapped.

“I’ll put you on the plane,” the giant man assured her.

Habib sat comfortably on the rocking old camel while Tahireh scurried on foot to keep up with the donkeys. She applied the switch to the little creatures’ behinds with as much energy as any of the boys. When evening set in, they had crested the last sand dune before the rocky plain that surrounded the i-Shibl compound. The high stucco walls of the structure glistened orange from the last of the sunlight. The oasis behind the far corner was surrounded by a busy assortment of traders, nomads, and merchants, some of whom greeted their group as they came to their spot next to the wall. Habib shouted his camel to kneeling. Tahireh did exactly the same as the other donkey boys, getting the beasts to water, unloading, helping to set up camp.

Habib noticed only out of the corner of his eye when she scooped up a large bundle and trotted along with a half-dozen of the boys as they headed for the servants’ entrance. It was expected that once a week, the boys were allowed into the compound to get baths and medical care, if needed, and hand-me-down clothes. They’d counted on this. Tahireh disappeared behind the gates and the armed guards. Habib’s heart skipped a beat. Now came the real danger.

On the other side of the wall, Princess Zhara, her heart dancing with excitement, looked across the bunch of raggedy donkey boys streaming through the gate. Sweeping majestically along, Zhara came down the courtyard stairs and past the fountain. As she had done for the last six months, she stood beside the nurse and passed out vitamins, checked little heads for lice, pushed clothing into grubby hands and took old clothes from the kids for disposal.

A handsome boy, tall for his age, handed her a bundle. Zhara knew, even before the boy said, “I am from the haji,” that this was her rescuer.

“Nurse,” Zhara said loudly, “this one has lice. I will take him into the bath and make sure the men scrub him.”

The nurse nodded and handed her more lice killer. She was completely uninterested in another urchin. There were so many and she had given up caring.

The princess grabbed the tall boy’s shirt and dragged him along until they were out of sight in the hallway. “Come on,” urged Zhara, “my rooms are upstairs. I can change there.”

Tahireh nodded.

“Did you bring two sets of clothes?” the princess whispered as they entered her room.

“Two sets?” Tahireh asked.

Zhara shook out the bundle of raggedy, dirty clothes. The grimace on her face said it all. “Yes, one for my mother?”

Tahireh put her fingers in front of her mouth, signaling to be quiet and cautious. With extreme diligence, she searched around the large suite of rooms, examining under tables, tapping lights. She could see no obvious microphones, but that meant nothing. She went up to the princess and helped her get the fancy clothes off. “Here,” Tahireh found the makeup hidden in the pockets of the scruffy pants. “Every inch of exposed skin must be dark and look dirty. Did you get something with mud in it like we told you?”

“Yes, there are several potted plants. I made their soil from mud,” the princess pointed to them over by the window.

Tahireh went to the one whose soil looked the muddiest and smashed the plant onto the floor. She motioned to the princess. It took only moments to cut off most of the girl’s long hair and rub the dirt into what was left.

Suddenly the inside door to the suite opened and Tahireh jumped up, pulling her small knife from its scabbard. But it was Jani, the mother, who, upon seeing her daughter now garbed like a boy and as dirty as any other nomad urchin, sucked in her breath and cried, “Oh, oh! What if you are caught! Oh, my precious child.”

“You must come with us,” said Zhara, who turned accusingly to Tahireh, “she must. Father will have her killed. He will. As soon as he finds out I am gone my mother will have a fatal accident.” Zhara grabbed Tahireh’s hands and pleading, kneeled before her. “Please, please!”

Tahireh threw back her head. “We have no more clothing. Only so much makeup. And could she…” Tahireh glared at Jani, “can you run alongside the donkeys? Or will you have to ride on a camel?” Tahireh looked directly at the mother who had collapsed onto the bed in sobs.

“Mama!” Zhara shifted her attention to her. “Mama!”

“I could not run very far. I have not been able to be so rebellious as to exercise like my daughter. I am in no condition to be a donkey boy.” The woman whimpered.

“Then we’ll put you on a camel. We will. I won’t have my mother murdered!” Zhara’s voice was rising.

“Shhhh,” said Jani. “You go. You live. Emil is waiting for you. I will be okay.”

“We both know you will be dead in a month,” the princess insisted and shook her head at Tahireh, who could only shrug in agreement.

“Your daughter is right.” Tahireh knelt down near the princess and finished rubbing dirt into the girl’s now bare feet, then into the old, torn tennis shoes before they were put on the little feet. “Do you have any money? Any coins, any jewelry stashed away that you can use to pay the nomads? We simply don’t have anything more we can pay them.”

Jani was shaking her head. “The vizier cleaned my rooms of anything valuable two days ago. I am sure he suspects we will try to leave. Did he clean your suite, Zhara?”

“Yes.” She sighed, “But I have something hidden. It…it was to be a present for Emil. No matter. It will be enough for the tribesmen and it cannot be traced.” Zhara went to another, very large potted plant and ripped the entire tree out. From deep inside the dirt, she extracted a leather pouch and handed it to Tahireh who carefully unwrapped it. About four inches across, it was a magnificent American Indian silver belt buckle and it surely was worth more than enough to bribe the Bedouin chief.

“Where…?” Tahireh started to ask.

“In Berlin, before I came home. There are very fine Native American shops there. It was to be an anniversary present for Emil but, well, the school was raided and there I was.”

“How did you get to keep it?” her mother asked.

“It was on a belt that was on a crummy pair of jeans in my suitcase. I guess the vizier didn’t know what it was, so he left it in the suitcase. I thought I’d better hide it.”

A buzzer sounded twice, three times and Jani jumped. “Fifteen minutes to dinner.”

“You must go to dinner,” said Tahireh, “you must say your daughter is being stubborn and rebellious and that…”

“Tell them I’m on my period,” Zhara laughed, “that’ll shock them silent.”

“Zhara!” Jani did smile though.

“Then come right back here to her rooms.” Tahireh grabbed the princess by a shoulder. “Can you take my place with the donkey boys that are leaving right now?”

“Yes, I can.” The princess did not hesitate and she smiled, “You have a plan for my mother?”

Tahireh nodded. “As soon as you are outside, find the Haji Mansur. He will be with the Bedouins closest to the fountain. Tell him he will have a wife on the way back. Give him the belt buckle so he can pay the chief. Okay?”

“How do I get the buckle out? The guards often search the boys.” Zhara was beginning to think like the rebel she was.

“Do you have tape?” Tahireh asked.

Jani jumped up, “There, on her desk.”

“You better go to dinner, Mama,” said Zhara, pulling down her pants. Tahireh immediately taped the buckle into the girl’s groin. “Owww!” she winced.

“Wait until you rip it off. That will be painful!” said Tahireh and pulled Zhara’s grubby trousers up over the tape. To Jani, she said urgently, “Go! And come back as soon as you can. I don’t relish staying in this room very long. While you’re gone, I’ll do my best to make a costume for you. Go, hurry.”

The woman sucked in her breath, and trembling with anxiety, pulled her veil completely around her face and dashed out.

“Okay, Princess. Your new name is Kahman Ferook. Here is an ID card.” Tahireh pulled out a battered little piece of cardboard. It was a costly imitation of the Saudi equivalent of an identi-card. “Remember that you cannot read, so you only know what the haji of your tribe has told you about it. Don’t elaborate if you’re stopped and questioned, don’t say any more than you need to and keep your grammar poor. Okay? Ready?”

“Yes.”

They went to the door. Tahireh made her slouch and gave her a heavy slap to both cheeks, turning her face a beet red. “There, that will make you look sunburned under the dirt. Whatever you do, don’t mouth off to the guards like the other boys sometimes do. Don’t run. You can hurry, but don’t be obvious. Blend in and get out.”

“I will.” Zhara rubbed the back of her now ugly fingernails deeper into the grimy pants. “I’m ready. I can do this.” She slipped away down the hallway.

Tahireh, trying very hard to maintain the cool, unperturbed demeanor of the model she was, stepped back into the princess’s suite and quickly opened one wardrobe after another. There were many. She chose the oldest robes and the worst T-shirts, some old scarves and long black socks. All of these she rubbed in the dirt of the tipped-over potted plants. Shoes would be a problem. She hoped Zhara would have some old tennis shoes that could be ripped and muddied.

Meanwhile, Zhara slouched past two sets of guards who glanced at her just enough to see that she was headed from the baths with the other boys who had been deloused, and that she was sticking to the path. As she went out the gate, she had a very frightening moment when one ugly guard patted her down. Luckily these old clothes were thick enough to cover her small breasts. She was waved on. She trotted clumsily after the urchins.

Although it seemed to take forever to run the distance around the outside of the compound, it was probably no more than five minutes before she was asking for the haji. A sunburned old Bedouin camel driver pointed to the man in the black abba who sat tending a little campfire of dried dung and roasting his own pot of food. She approached the venerable man and shyly said, “I am Kahman.”

“Good,” he said, “and where is my donkey boy?”

She shook her head. “Still in my room. He said to tell you that you will have a wife going home with you.”

“Ahhh, I will?” the haji nodded with just a hint of surprise in his soft smile. “How will we pay for this wife?”

“I have something.” Zhara looked around, saw a tent nearby. “Can I go in there?”

“Of course. And when you come back, you must join the boys over there and eat with them.”

She hurried into the tent. The “boy” who’d rescued her was right. It hurt far worse coming off.

Jani i-Shibl ate very little. She simply could not overcome her nervousness. The other women had no such anxiety. They had so much to gossip about no one even asked about Zhara. A casual glance from one of the matrons was all Jani noticed of any merit and as soon as was proper, she slipped away. When she reentered her daughter’s rooms, the tall boy, who had jumped into a wardrobe as she entered, came out. He held up a bundle of Zhara’s old clothes, now ripped and dirty.

“I was able to find some well-used sandals in here, can you fit in them?” asked the boy, holding up a pair of Zhara’s. “We can cut them if you can’t.”

It took not more than half an hour for Jani to change from a rich Arab woman to a Bedouin hag. Even her teeth got colored. Her posture slumped, she practiced limping. Her entire body and face were covered with rags. Finally she nodded. “I’m ready.”

“Yes,” agreed Tahireh. “You will be my mother, you will drag me out past the guards. My name is Hussein Amir, you can be Mariah Amir. Let’s go. I don’t have a card for you. I have one for me, so say you lost yours if the guards stop you. I think if you act it up well enough, that you’re angry enough at me for running away from you and hiding here in the compound, you won’t be bothered.”

“Don’t worry, I know what it is to be angry with a stubborn child,” she laughed ruefully.

Lights were coming on throughout the compound making the shadows deeper than the darkness filling the bitterly cold sky. Jani really did take Tahireh’s arm and really did drag her along, fussing at her in vulgar camp language. A guard at the servants’ gate motioned the hag-woman to stop and she bravely cussed him out, cussed all men in general and her son and husband especially. The guard, snorting in derision, let the old woman through.

Tahireh took the lead, filing between the nomads’ small campfires. Zhara, sitting with the donkey boys, jumped to her feet, then pretended she’d made a mistake and sat back down.

“Here is your wife, Habib,” muttered Tahireh, as they arrived at the haji’s little area. “Meet Mariah Amir.”

“Delighted,” said Habib, “I hope you know how to cook over a campfire and pitch a tent, wife.”

“Not since I went camping with the Girl Guides as a child,” said Jani, “in the wilds of Wales! I’ll do my best though.”

“And how are you, Tahireh, my dear?” asked Habib with great concern. Jani looked up at the boy in stunned surprise. She had not suspected for one moment that this urchin was a young woman.

“I’m fine,” responded Tahireh in her own voice. “It’s time to be a donkey boy again. I’d best go. Happy camel ride!” she said to Jani and walked away.

“Do you want to meet our camel?” Habib asked with a grin.

“Must I, at this moment?”

“No, you will have ample time to be acquainted with the big fellow,” laughed Habib and poured them both a cup of campfire chai that steamed in the gusts of sand-filled wind. “And it would be wise if we started to pack him right away. Our group will be leaving in an hour or so. The chief accepted the silver buckle.” Habib laughed sharply, “In fact, he knew its exact value. So much for international trade. Your daughter found a bargain, it is quite valuable. Anyway, we will be heading into the desert quickly now.”

“We, Zhara and I, won’t be missed until morning when we don’t show up for breakfast.” Jani eyed the tent with wishful eyes. Her soft skin was crinkling already under the brutal desert wind.

“Perhaps, I hope so, and if so, that is good. We will have plenty of time to become one with the sand dunes. Enjoy your hot tea while you can.” Habib glanced around and motioned to the chief standing near the camel herd. The ferocious looking man walked up and down the ranks of his tribe, cursing them, pushing some of them and they, in turn, urged the boys to pack the beasts and line up the donkeys.

Inside the compound, Vizier Radi had just gotten around to taking the matron’s daily report on the women. He stroked his pointy beard and thought about the fact that the princess had not come to dinner. Was that important? Or merely her usual ploy to upset the status quo? He debated stopping by her rooms. It would be a wise thing to do. At that very moment, the falconer knocked on the office door and announced that his majesty wanted to see how the new owl from Belize would perform. Could the vizier come to the courtyard?

Radi decided that watching a beautiful yellow owl fly would be much more enjoyable than facing down a rebellious girl.

Russ came into the office late. It was not intended, but a multi-car pileup on the icy interchange kept traffic blocked for almost an hour. Most of the secretaries hardly glanced at him. One though, an older woman who sat near the back of the room, waved at him. He had noticed the imitation dreamcatcher on her wall some time ago. One of those Native American wannabes, he sighed. That’s all he needed was a woman who wanted to run with the wolves but couldn’t or wouldn’t lose enough weight to walk to the corner grocer. It just never made sense to Russ. If you knew that by changing some particular behavior you could improve who you were, why would you not do it? Yet, so few made any attempt to do that one thing.

The inner offices were buzzing. Lily held up a sheaf of interoffice memos for him and then leaned over her intercom and said, “Agent Tidewater, Mr. Snow is here.”

“Where have you been?” the ugly man’s throaty voice preceded his appearance. He stormed out of his office.

“Caught on an overpass, sir, with a lot of other vehicles…”

Shaking his head in frustration, Tidewater pointed to Russ’s cubbyhole, “Get in there and get us more information. Los Angeles office just called me. They picked up a police report on a missing or kidnapped woman. The husband’s a famous guy and he’s sure a shelter in Malibu has his wife. The private investigator he had tailing her was taken out the other night, just like Claybourne was. And the ISF tail.”

“Yessir,” Russ was very aware that there was no longer any of the proffered camaraderie from his boss, no sign of mentorship, Russ had become merely an employee. “Is there anything further? I mean, how does that missing woman tie into EW or the Ixeys?”

“Nothing on the Ixeys except they’re locked away in the Hermelin castle in Norrkoping, Sweden and the agents are freezing their behinds.” Tidewater pointed to the messages in Russ’s hand. “Look through those. Everything the LA office has dug up is there: a tall black woman being put on a plane from LA to Miami the day after the PI got conked, that Barbara Monday paid for the woman’s ticket and got the airline to fly the woman under Monday’s name.”

“And we know that Monday cancelled her ticket from New York to Miami,” Russ couldn’t help but say. “Right, I’ll go do some digging.”

As he entered his cubbyhole, he groaned. This would take some very fancy footwork. He would have to give Tidewater enough information for it to appear that he was fulfilling his job requirements, yet keep the important stuff safe.

“Search,” he said to his sleeping computer. “Search air line reservations.” By noon, Russ had discovered that although Monday had cancelled her flight to Miami, there existed a flight reservation by the EW from Miami to Stockholm late tonight. While this search was going on, he picked up an instant message that the Agency office in Miami had tracked the black woman’s arrival and that she, under the name Monday, had been met by several women. It was the Miami agent’s contention that these women had probably been connected to a local shelter, which one he hadn’t any idea. There were quite a few shelters in the Miami area alone, not to mention in nearby towns.

So Russ thought and thought. His mind worked furiously. What could he tell Tidewater? He had to tell him what the Miami agent had reported. The reservation to Stockholm? Would the black woman be leaving on that flight? To Sweden? Russ suddenly grinned. No, he told himself. Emigrant Women would not ship a black woman to Stockholm, Sweden. From all indications, the personnel at EW were very, very cunning. If he were they, with their connections, to make sure a tall woman, six feet tall he’d read, was safe from her husband, Russ would have her shipped to Africa. He said aloud, “Search airline reservations to Africa on today’s flights for single female passengers.”

It took only moments before the computer came up with a half-dozen matches. One to South Africa this morning, four to Nairobi as part of a tour group and one to Kampala nonstop via Cairo and who made the original reservations? Yep, it was as he guessed. Siddhu Singh Prakash. The accountant for EW. Smart. Not that many people, even in the Agency would recognize that that name was a man’s name, an Indian man’s name, being used for a single woman.

Okay.

After several minutes of serious consideration, Russ decided what to do and what to tell his boss. Within an hour, he and Tidewater were on a plane to Miami.