CHAPTER 10: MAN’S DEATH

A courier, female, in bike togs and helmet, stood by the ticket counter and as the tall black woman in African robes swept up, the helmeted girl asked, “Valentine?”

“Yes.” Polly Marie accepted the envelope without a blink and tipped the messenger very well. It was a good exchange. She had now officially become a Ugandan woman, with a Jamaican mother, flying home from Jamaica to be with her dying father. Just like that. The new Eauso Valentine presented her passport and ticket at the counter. Behind her, Sherralyn, dressed in a wildly Jamaican style wrapdress looked like the personal assistant she was supposed to be, pushed a suitcase onto the scale.

“Thank you,” Eauso Valentine haughtily said. “I see you when I return.”

“Yes’m,” responded Sherralyn, playing the part beautifully. She backed away past the waiting passengers and smiling quirkily, glanced toward the potted palms.

Carl-Joran smiled back. So far there was no sign of agents. He slid along the walkway and stood by the entry to the big lounge. Valentine, putting her papers into her large shoulder bag, strode past him. He fell in behind her at a discreet distance. One by one everyone passed through the guard stations with the x-rays and metal detectors. Almost there, thought Carl-Joran, almost done and then he could get on the airplane home, he would be in Sweden, be with Bonnie.

It was at that moment he saw Tidewater striding from the other end of the walkway. Did he know? Did he? Carl-Joran stopped behind a kiosk. The American Indian, Snow, came quickly along after Tidewater waving a photo. They paused to look at the photo and Valentine, calm and deliberate, strode right past them. Russ Snow glanced at her and returned his attention to Tidewater and the photo. Tidewater gazed around the long, long room full of people and shook his head. He pointed in the direction that Valentine had gone, although not at her. They started in that direction, Snow lagging behind.

Carl-Joran, quietly as a cat, pounced on Snow, grabbing him, muffling his cry. The very tall man pulled him into a men’s room, keeping his wrist locked in an ikkyo twist. Snow’s face was a mask of terror as Carl-Joran lifted an open palm hissing at him to be still.

Russ did not fight at all. He smiled all teeth as he managed to squeak, “Are you with EW?”

The broad smile on the tall man’s face said it all. “Like you are with the Agency.”

Russ shook his head emphatically. “No more, I want no more of this. I want out. Let me help you. Please,” he begged, “I believe in what you are doing.”

The expression on Carl-Joran’s face could hardly be more enigmatic. “Help?”

“Yes,” Russ tried to squirm and the wrist hold felt like an electric shock up his arm. He gave a soft moan. Carl-Joran let the hold up just slightly.

“How to help?”

Russ grunted with pain. “I know Tidewater’s contacts in Saudi and Iran. I know he wants to wipe out EW.”

The big man looked very skeptical.

“I have no idea why,” continued Russ, his words hurrying, “and he has at least one agent watching Hermelin’s castle in Norrkoping, Sweden.”

Carl-Joran released Russ’s wrist and Russ shook the blood back into his numb, tingling fingers. Slowly, warily, he stood up straight. “I want to join up with you guys.”

“With EW?”

“Yes.”

“You must prove this,” Carl-Joran looked around the edge of the door toward where Valentine, at the boarding gate, was presenting her ticket. Tidewater was nowhere in sight. “How can you prove this?”

“I can help you rescue the Thai girl, maybe.”

“You know very much!” Carl-Joran snarled.

“Just about everything,” said Russ and again, held up his hands in supplication, “but I haven’t told Tidewater much, not since I found out about Milind, the poor little Thai girl in prison. Look, I do want to help.”

“I must go find Mr. Tidewater,” said Carl-Joran. Towering over Russ, he said down to him, “I will have someone check you out. When he says you are okay, we will tell you.” Carl-Joran turned away and started out.

“You mean when Siddhu Singh Prakash says I’m okay?”

The giant man stopped, glanced back. “Yes.”

“And if I go to Israel or Kuwait before that?”

“You would end up in Haifa, again waiting, until we are sure.” Carl-Joran glared at the man. “You will lose your job here. You will have to pay for your own ticket!’

“Screw the job,” Russ insisted, “I’ve got Indian money out the gazoo. I don’t need a damned job with the Agency.”

“Okay. Get us all the information you can get, first, before you come to us. Prove your intentions and we will welcome you. Siddhu will be very relieved to have a computer expert on the team.”

“You got it.” Russ stood up straighter and suddenly laughed out loud. “So you know about me too?”

Carl-Joran merely snorted as he slipped out the door and down the long hall. The KLM plane bound for Cairo and Kampala was already pulling away from the ramp. Valentine was now safe. It was done. He turned back to see Russ Snow hurrying ahead of him, catching up to Tidewater and Tidewater fussing at him as he shrugged, obviously giving some excuse for not finding Polly Marie. Beyond them were Sherralyn and Tammy anxiously watching for Carl-Joran’s signal. With a grin, he gave them the okay sign. The two women turned around just ahead of the American agents and arm-in-arm walked away with a light skip in their step.

In an hour, Carl-Joran would be on another plane, destination Amsterdam, then Stockholm. He sighed as he walked toward the SAS gate. He did not want to think about how many hours he’d been airborne during the last week.

Russ Snow, oddly relieved and calm, walked casually behind Tidewater as the little man rampaged around the international departure gates, the HS offices, the check-in counters, and finally the security offices. Tidewater was not a happy man. Hours went by. The whole while, Russ’s mind click-clicked over one question, over and over. Who was the giant man with the black hair and beard who could so easily have killed him, or left him incapacitated like the other agents?

Very late, actually early the next morning when he finally stumbled into his apartment, he managed to extend enough energy to pull up the employee list for EW. No one matched. No one. Except, no! He was blonde, and more importantly, he was dead. Baron Carl-Joran Hermelin, the godfather of EW, whose death by car bomb in Cairo was the cause of all the problems now being faced by EW. Six foot six inches tall, forty-eight years old, blonde with bright blue eyes, trained in guerilla warfare in Central America, severely dyslexic, wife deceased, twenty-two-year old son named Sture Nojd Hermelin…

Damn, thought Russ, if this photo had some age lines around the eyes and the hair was dyed black and there was a beard: yes, by the gods, it was Carl-Joran Hermelin, the baron. He was alive. Why the charade? Why pretend to be dead? It seemed a complicated way to get rid of the fatwa that had hung over his head.

Maybe they didn’t expect the financial problems. Maybe the crisis with the Swiss banks was not part of the plan. If so, then the EW really was on the edge of disaster. Their agents were strung out on tightrope wires.

Russ fell into bed. He dreamed wild, escape-filled dreams. He dreamed about a land he had never seen. He dreamed about his mother’s brother racing a pinto horse across the prairie and as the wind whipped his braid, he said to Russ, who seemed to also be riding a horse, galloping alongside, he said, “The creatures know the way.”

Tahireh did the best she could with Zhara, who got frustrated easily. After dropping the third rope when a donkey nibbled at her arm, Zhara went stiff, fists clenched, teeth gritting, stifling a scream.

“Either you behave like a donkey boy or you will die,” Tahireh spoke harshly, “and many of us along with you.”

The donkey boys all nodded and began railing at the princess, slapping their thighs, pointing, and shaking their hands. Zhara’s eyes clouded up with tears.

“No!” said Tahireh and the boys chorused that.

With great effort, the slight girl, shaking with stress and fear, began doing her assigned chore again. Slowly, deliberately, she tied the third donkey’s rope to the second donkey’s tail. One or two tears started down her cheeks, but blew quickly away in the wind. She moved on to the fourth donkey and Tahireh and the boys nodded and smiled and went back to their own chores.

The tribe’s brief market visit had been a good one, profitable, and all the trade goods had to be sorted as to which beast would carry them. The tents had to be struck and personal belongings stowed. Yet, all this work was familiar to the group and it was done in a rhythm that made it go quickly. In less than an hour, the donkeys started out across the sand urged on by the boys, including Zhara. Not far behind, the camels followed.

Jani sat sidesaddle on Habib’s beast, her face wrapped as tightly as possible against the fine sand that, kicked up by the animals, was caught by the night wind and twirled around like small tornadoes.

The hours rolled by. Habib walked steadily on and Jani marveled at the strength in the old man. Well, he wasn’t that old, Jani mused, maybe in his late forties, but one ages faster out here in the desert, one truly does. The dunes, the brush, the stars wavering, shimmering in the wind…her eyes were so heavy. Abruptly, Habib was picking her up from the soft, warm sand, shaking her gently from a dream.

“Oh my God!” she laughed aloud. “I fell asleep. On a camel, I fell sound asleep!”

“If the camel had not jumped a little at that moment, I would not have known you’d left my company.” Habib brushed sand from the rags covering her head. “Will you walk for a while?”

Jani looked at the saddle and laughed again. “Lucky I landed where I did, in a heap of sand. Yes, I’ll walk with you.”

Habib took her hand and, his eyes smiling, said, “It is common to relax profoundly at this stage of the journey, of your journey to freedom. You could have landed on rocks and merely bounced. You must not let your guard down though. You must stay alert. Come along, it is time to hurry and catch up to the group.”

They moved on, falling into place in the long parade of camels and donkeys and Bedouins. Into the night they trekked, following an ancient trail, guided by the icy bright stars, on and on. Jani grew amazed at her own energy. She thought how she would probably be stiff and sore tomorrow. Yet there was no doubt she was now awake and striding along like Habib. What affection she had for this man, this haji. In her whole life, she had never met a truly brave man. She had doubted such men even existed and here one was rescuing her. Her life was in his hands.

A donkey brayed, reminding her that Zhara was somewhere near the front. Jani hoped her daughter was doing as well as she, that Tahireh was watching over her, urging her on, keeping her focused. Out of all this, perhaps her Princess daughter would be transformed. Perhaps this real danger, these real heroes, would give the spoiled child the shock of reality she had always needed. The troop was coming to a heavily graveled path between cliffs. She felt Habib’s gentle, rough-skinned hand slip out of hers. He took the camel rope with both hands to urge the beast along.

“A stream bed millennia ago,” he explained, “sometimes there are sharp stones and the beasts balk.”

She didn’t care. She knew she wouldn’t stumble. “How far?” she asked.

“Until we reach the Land Cruiser at the oasis.”

“Is that what awaits us?”

He nodded, “If we proceed as we are, I would say just after dawn.”

“And then?”

“To the American air base in Kuwait,” said Habib. “By tomorrow night you will be a lieutenant’s wife on her way to Switzerland.”

“Amazing,” whispered the woman covered in rags. “Amazing.”

The blackness outside was absolute. Only ice-bright stars and a pale, timid new moon gave any light and it seemed circumspect and selfish. Bonnie’s glance at the bedside clock told her she had napped for almost an hour and a half and in that time, the sun had slipped behind the world and night had returned. Five p.m. and her stomach was insisting it be fed breakfast. Really insisting.

She put on one of the pair of new wool slacks she’d bought in San Francisco, the brown pair and a soft yellow turtleneck pullover and a knitted vest. Time to search out the kitchen, she thought and wondered if she should wake Trisha. She opened Trish’s door a crack. No sign of her. Knowing her appetite, her stomach had probably already awakened her and sent her in search of food.

Down the big stairs, along the wide corridors, and suddenly delicious smells pointed Bonnie’s nose in the right direction. In a giant dining room, she found Trisha standing next to a long banquet table, looking forlorn and lost.

“Hey, Mom.” Her eyes moved to a big door that, by best guess, led to a kitchen. “I got this far. I don’t know if we’re supposed to knock, or shout or just go in there.”

“My extensive experience with servants says we just go in,” said Bonnie.

“Mom, the only servant you ever had in your life was a Mexican cleaning woman who made you help her move the furniture so she could vacuum.” Trisha leaned toward the big door.

Bonnie shrugged, “Yes. Well. Come on, I’m starving.” Bonnie opened the big door. The wonderful odors of dinner flooded out and Trisha groaned. Bonnie stepped in, followed closely by her daughter who hovered like a basketball guard. The kitchen was huge. The left side of the room was dominated by a fireplace obviously designed for cooking for large crowds. A small cow could have been spitted in there and there would be room left for the soup pot. Modernity was in evidence though with the lovely giant gas chef stove and oven taking up the center of the room. Around it, from a metal strip attached to the high ceiling, hung pots and pans and numerous utensils. On the stove were several pots, bubbling. The two women eased past the refrigerators and walk-in freezer toward the long prep table. Behind it was a nook table with bench seats. Standing at the prep table, lining up plates, was a sturdy woman, aproned, her white-blonde hair braided onto her head in two rings covered by a net.

“Ah, velkommen!” said the woman, “Sie ar den Amerikanishers, jo?” She waved a massive, callused hand at them.

“Ja,” said Bonnie.

“Ja, so.” The woman wiped her hands on her apron and held out the right one. “Jag heter Astrid.”

“Astrid, the cook.” Bonnie confirmed.

“Ja,” the woman pointed a plate at the nook. “Aten sie middag?”

“Ja!” exclaimed Trisha and sat promptly. Bonnie sat next to her and Astrid served up plates of steaming noodles with slices of meatloaf-looking stuff. The vegetable was Brussels sprouts, and to Bonnie’s amazement, Trisha devoured them, cleaning her plate in a flash and asking for seconds.

“Really good, Mom, really good,” she said between bites.

Astrid smiled, pleased and, reaching into the bigger refrigerator, pulled out a bowl of what looked like trifle. Bonnie, inwardly, groaned. She definitely was going to have to take up indoor tennis or cross-country skiing and both in the same day, anything that was very, very energetic.

The maid, Marie, came into the kitchen and told Astrid something, at which the large woman retrieved a serving tray and served up a meal for Marie to take away. Noticing Bonnie’s gaze, Astrid said, “Fur den ung herre.”

Trish looked at her mother. Bonnie translated, “For the young lord.” Trish said, “Ahhh.”

Astrid nodded and said in a level of Swedish meant perhaps for a child, “Han lasa bokker. Han studera den kvall. Han sager er vilyan television bevittna? Eh, television?” With a flourish, she grabbed out another serving tray and put two bowls of the trifle-like dessert onto it, with spoons and napkins. “Kaffee?” She held up a cup.

“Nej fur me, tack,” Bonnie responded. “Coffee, Trish?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Beer?”

“Be-er?” Astrid shook her head, shrugging. Trish went to the refrigerator and looked inside. Not there.

“Look in the pantry,” suggested Bonnie. “No one in Europe drinks cold beer.”

“Warm beer?” said Trish and went to the pantry. She held up a can. “Could this be it? It says ol.”

“Ahh,” nodded Astrid, “Jo! Ol.” She pronounced it like oil. She took the can from Trisha, found a glass beer mug and poured out the can of pale beer and handed it to Trish. “Ol.”

Trish sipped it. “Yep, beer. Not bad tasting either.”

“Television?” Astrid asked again, picking up the tray.

“Sure,” said Trish.

Bonnie said, “I really wanted to talk to Sture tonight, about the papers.” She got up and followed Trish and Astrid down the hall.

Astrid looked around at Sture’s name, “Den herre studera.”

“Studying?” Trish guessed and Bonnie nodded, “Yes, well, he is in medical school.”

They were led to a small room about halfway down the hall. Warm and comfortable, with a big cushy sofa and two reclining chairs, the room was strictly modern. The television was actually a small movie screen and, after setting down the dessert tray, Astrid indicated where the controls were and pointed to a shelf full of videotapes. “Film? Okay?”

“Sure,” Trish agreed, “thank you.”

“Tack so mycket,” said Bonnie and Astrid, bowing a couple times, backed out of the rooms. It took Trisha only moments to figure out how to get the set on and where the channels were.

“Must be satellite,” she said and flipped through the offerings. Every conceivable language came at them. “Oh!” said Trish as the Finnish channel came through, “are they doing what I think they’re doing?”

“Looks like it, kiddo,” laughed Bonnie.

“Right at dinner time, with no warnings on the channel info.”

“The Scandinavian countries have a much more relaxed attitude about sex,” Bonnie explained.

Trisha clicked through a bunch more channels with the same activities. “Guess so. Boy, the moral right in the US would have kitten-conniptions and then some.”

Bonnie ate a few bites of her trifle, then made a decision. “I’m going to see if I can find den herre. You stay and enjoy.”

“Notice something, Mom? Notice that there isn’t one single violent movie on? Not one. It’s like Lassie reigns. Lassie on half the channels and fun and games in saunas on the others.”

“Interestingly enough,” said Bonnie as she headed for the door, “I read an article some months ago that quoted statistics on teenage pregnancy in relation to sexual attitudes and the teens in Scandinavia have, by far, the smallest percentage of teen pregnancy, the fewest abortions per girl, and the healthiest babies of those who are born to teen moms.”

Trish looked up at her, “Really? Early sex education does that?”

“Probably more than mere sex education,” said Bonnie, “the entire society itself has different expectations for their kids, for example, there has been equality for women, and men, insisted upon for over seventy years. Men take paid child-care leave as easily as a woman, for up to two years. Plus, well, a lot of things contribute, and underlying it all, an excellent health care system which insists on preventive medicine first.”

“If I even hinted to my high school health class that we were going to show porno, my butt would be fried and fired so fast! The powers-that-be wouldn’t give me time to clean my desk!” Trisha went back to channel surfing. “You’re off to find Sture?”

Bonnie nodded. Her original intention of getting Trisha and Sture together would not happen this evening, she was certain, and it was for the best. They should have an opportunity to at least get to know each other better, to come to more familiar terms. So, barring that goal being reached in one evening, the first evening, Bonnie thought it likely she could get into the den and use some of her expertise in information research. She was completely intrigued over Sture’s use of English verb tenses.

“Actually, I’m going to look into the family history if I can.” She smiled, thinking, that was one way to put it, and closed the door behind her. First she would have to get a sweater. The castle was quite cold. As she ascended the grand stairs, the ancestors in the portraits looked down on her. These were not angry people, nor overly proud and arrogant people. The Hermelins had expressions, for the most part, of contentment and satisfaction. The dates on the plaques on the paintings ran oldest at the bottom of the stairs to most recent at the top. In the alcove on the top landing were two she hadn’t noticed her first time up the stairs, but then she was very jet lagged and wanting only a bath and a nap. The one was of Carl-Joran at about forty-five, tall and blond, with the slightly off-center features of his ancestors. His eyes held a sadness she would not have expected, like the grief of millennia had lodged in them. Next to him, and much younger when she was painted, was, Bonnie read the plaque: Heda Lind Hermelin, nee Bergshem, wife of Carl-Joran, Baron Hermelin, with the dates of birth and death. But Carl-Joran’s gave only the date of birth. Had Sture not got to this yet?

Feeling the chill of the hallway, Bonnie moved on toward her room. The fleeting question of whether or not she should have her portrait put up was only momentary, more as a private joke. She truly felt an outsider. Sture was the natural inheritor here, and she did not want all of this on her conscience.

As for Sture, she heard music coming from the first door on the left after the alcove and was assured that the young man was diligently memorizing medical terms or figuring out how to cut open a patient. She hurried on and retrieved the thick sweater she’d packed in the duffel and headed back down the grand stairway. As she had guessed, the door to the den was not only not locked, it was standing open and one of the soft, indirect lights above the giant bookcases was on. Sture was not a naturally suspicious person, nor was the castle staff accustomed to security needs. Bonnie slipped into the den, let her eyes adjust and set about learning the filing system of the room.

It was what she, being a skilled librarian and researcher, generously called informal. No secretary had ever touched this collection of papers and bills and letters. One out box was labeled bokforare, and from what was stacked high there, she could assume was for an accountant. Another outbox read advokat, and she knew that meant attorney. Next to the telephone was a largish phone-memo-calendar book. In it were scribbled notations in various dates, plus phone numbers. She saw her and Trish’s arrival noted, she saw on previous dates appointments for Sture with advokat Person and with other people—his professors possibly? And her eye caught the notation for tomorrow: one p.m. Krister pa flygplats. Krister had to be at the airport at one p.m.? Why? Who for? She gently rifled through the other papers scattered on the big desk. Sture’s handwriting gave full evidence that he was to be a physician. It was barely legible. Stick-em notes to call Person, notes about Algbakdel, notes about the Ixeys with exclamation points after, notes about things that must be done in the castle and notes regarding the EW and…far. What about far, his father? The little she could interpret had to do with kronor and Swiss accounts. Not surprising, but not illuminating. She sighed. There was nothing that would explain the boy’s English language quirks that she could decipher anyway.

Faintly, along the hallway, came the sound of footsteps. She slipped quickly to the door and peeked out. Her daughter, Trisha, was headed back to the kitchen. Bonnie smiled. She ducked out, leaving the light and the door as she had found them, and went back to watch the night’s offering of Swedish television. Trisha appeared to have settled on a satellite channel of English programs with Swedish subtitles. Hercule Poirot was busy solving a case that she, Bonnie, already had read the ending to years ago. Oh, well, she liked the actor, she enjoyed the British accents, and she decided it wouldn’t hurt to finish her bowl of trifle.

The beautiful yellow owl from Belize had enjoyed its moments of comparative freedom. It had flown well in the cool of the late evening. Everyone had enjoyed the sight, including Vizier Rida. Later as he left his duties behind him and headed for his quarters and his wives, he had only a momentary glitch of conscience about the plight of a tropical owl in the heat of the desert. Rarely did these magnificent birds live longer than three months at most. Air-conditioned and luxuriant cage-mews merely postponed the inevitable.

He paused at the back stairs, wondering if he had forgotten something. Whatever it was nagging at him would have to wait. He was hungry and he wanted to go home and he had had enough of the sultan’s demands and family squabbles.

It was early morning, still dark, when Russ tossed a ring of duplicate keys onto the counter and Freddie, slowly, with deliberation as he did so, picked them up. Next, Russ pushed an addressed messenger delivery envelope across the counter. “At noon tomorrow exactly. That way it’ll be delivered minutes before five p.m.”

“You really doing this? You really flying off to Israel?”

“Yep.” Russ slid onto a seat at the counter, patted his pocket where his official papers and passport were hiding.

Freddie took the ring of keys and put them in his pants pocket. He took the envelope and stuck it in the slot under the cash register. “Okay. I think you burning your bridges. One great conflagration. Whoom! All gone.” He poured Russ a cup of coffee. “The Agency don’t take kindly to guys trying to burn their bridges with them. I doubt you can do it, completely.”

“How about some breakfast before my cab comes?” asked Russ, the butterflies in his stomach more obvious than he’d care to admit. He sipped his coffee.

“Sure thing. What you want?”

“Big bowl of oatmeal, toast.”

Freddie hollered the order back to the lone breakfast cook, then sat across from Russ. “How’d you get onto an El Al flight so quick anyway? My cousin and his church group took them a month just to get reservations.”

“Computer stuff,” smiled Russ. “Besides, I’m not going El Al. I’m taking another route that puts me in Geneva first. It’s okay, don’t worry. Israeli security will let me in. I got a high level passport.”

“Yeah, until your boss reads your letter of resignation this evening.” Freddie reached around and got the bowl of oatmeal and the plate of toast and put it in front of Russ. “There gonna be fireworks in that office like you never saw! You gonna be lucky if the man doesn’t put a hit out on you.”

“The Agency doesn’t do that sort of stuff anymore.” Russ made an effort to eat.

“Yeah, sure.” Freddie poured himself some coffee. “An’ my Aunt Tillie still don’t smoke cigars.”

“They don’t,” Russ insisted.

“You watch, someone’ll catch up to you about when you land in Tel Aviv. More ‘an that, inside a month, the IRS’ll be auditing your Indian money accounts…”

“They can’t. The accounts are in Canada and I got access with British banks as well as Canadian. Hey, my mom knew what she was doing both when the tribe was paid reparations and when they bought their land back with casino profits. Mom put almost every penny in long-term bonds and Canadian investments.”

“Smart move.” Freddie nodded, “Maybe you’ll do all right, Injun. Maybe you’ll rescue the girl and do all right.”

Russ pulled the picture of Tahireh out of his coat pocket. “Think she’s worth all this?” He slid the computer printout across the counter.

The older man put the fingers of one hand delicately on the edge of the printout. “You going halfway round the world to rescue this lady? You either nuts or some crazed warrior on his vision quest. That’s what I say.”

“Didn’t think of it that way before,” said Russ, his stomach suddenly calming down. “Yeah, this is like a vision quest. Never been on one, really, maybe this is what it is.”

“Seems like it to me,” said Freddie.

A taxi horn beep-beeped out in front of the cafe and Freddie pointed with his jaw, “You gotta go.”

“Yes,” Russ Snow-from-Night-Sky agreed, “I gotta go. Take care of my place and my jeep, okay?”

“Sure, ‘course I will. You be careful. Send me a postcard. Or two.” The tall Cheyenne clasped Russ’s arm in a mutual farewell. “I envy you. I know inside here,” he clapped the palm of his right hand onto his left breast, “you’re doin’ the right thing.”

“Thank you, Fred. You’re a good friend.” Russ pulled away and grabbing up his big suitcase and shoulder bag, dashed out the door to the waiting taxi.

The night flight from Miami to Frankfurt passed uneventfully for the baron. He awoke as the tires screeched on the tarmac. He had only a two-hour wait until the connecting flight left for Stockholm, enough time for some breakfast and a good cup of German coffee. Before the seat belt sign turned off, he had his gear from the overhead and was ready to disembark. The attendants were too busy with some small children at the back of the plane to notice the big man who was leading the passengers to the airlock.

As the gate extension clunked into place and the airlock opened, Carl-Joran wondered if he needed to call his son again and he decided it wasn’t necessary. The boy would be anxious enough and Krister certainly would not dream of being late arriving at the airport. Unless the car broke down or the snow closed the roads or…No, he thought, everything will go fine. Then he would be at the castle and he would face Bonnie.

About the time Bonnie and Trisha were peeking out from under their snuggly duvets and facing an icy cold morning, and Russ’s first leg of his journey was landing him in Geneva, and Carl-Joran was pacing back and forth in the waiting area for the SAS flight out of Frankfurt, the vizier of Sheikh Sultan i-Shibl’s compound was adjusting his gold turban as he hurriedly strode toward the women’s dining area. He had been rudely awakened not twenty minutes before by a guard who had been told by the women’s matron that the first wife and oldest daughter had not appeared for breakfast and neither responded to knocks on their doors.

Rida had brushed off the guard with a they-probably-went-riding-very-early.

“Yessir,” the guard replied, not caring one way or another, and ambled back to his patrol duties. But deep inside, Rida knew he had slipped up. He had not looked in on those two last night. He felt that awful sinking feeling in his gut that prefaced something bad, very, very bad. He brushed some lint off his coat, the simple white one as he did not want to bother with all the buttons on the purple one, and composing himself into the strong ogre his role called on him to be, he went into the women’s dining area.

The babble of women’s voices stilled instantly. Second wife held her breath and looked at the pillows where Jani and Zhara should be sitting at the long table, and weren’t. Rida did not say a word. As he turned to leave, he heard a couple of the women giggle. They had no pity, those women. It was as cruel in there as out on a battlefield, as cutthroat as politics. The women showed no gratitude at all for their luxury and protection. He shook his head in censure. What further proof could there be of the inferior personality of women? He hurried down the hall, past the many bedrooms, and to Jani’s room.

He called out her name, as he was supposed to do, and when no answer came, he knocked and waited. Nothing. He pushed open the door. The bed had not been slept in, the room was a disaster—clothes and shoes pulled from the closet, tossed on chairs and the bed. At Zhara’s room, he didn’t bother to call out her name or even knock. He went directly in. Neither had her bed had been slept in. Most telling was the astounding chaos of clothes and tipped over potted plants and ripped rags and piles of shoes. For one fraction of a second, he had hopes that the women had been taken against their will. That idea was squashed quickly. They had been taken all right, but they had gone in disguise and they had gone most willingly. This would cost him his job, perhaps his life. He was doomed.

Thinking on his feet, he decided that before awaking the sheikh, he would mobilize the guards to canvas the merchants and travelers outside the compound wall. Some mitigation in his punishment could come from obtaining every bit of information possible before laying his neck on the block. At the top of his lungs, he shouted for the guards, then he pulled the cell phone from his pocket and called his lieutenant of security.

Within an hour, he knew who had come and gone from the compound yesterday and last night. No motor vehicles, except for the grocery transport, had entered and left the compound. Three caravans—two merchant groups with both jeeps and camels and one nomadic Bedouin group with a camel and donkey caravan had departed. None of the merchants and no Bedouin had entered the compound, or so yesterday’s gate guards reported. The last caravan to depart, as night was falling, was the nomadic Bedouin and they had struck out across the roughest terrain toward the northeast. He very much doubted that two very spoiled and pampered women would be riding camels into that territory with wild Bedouin. Thus it had to be one of the two merchant groups with jeeps.

Back in the compound, he went to his office. For almost fifteen minutes he debated whether to tell the sheikh first or call Commander Yusef. Finally, the worried man raised his voice to Allah and begging forgiveness, he also cried, “Allah u abha!” (God the magnificent!) hoping such praise would save his butt. Then he called Commander Gurgin Yusef.

Tidewater struggled out of a very intense dream that included powerful strobe lights, hovering helicopters whose rotors buffeted him in the backwash…

“Wake up, Marion!” Arletta, his wife ordered in her most demanding tone of voice. “You have a call coming in.”

“What the hell time is?” he mumbled, sitting up, running his hands across the bald top of his head. “Uhhhh.”

“Quarter after midnight.” She pulled her old terry cloth robe around her with one hand while she pushed the phone into his face with the other. “Your secretary?”

“Fuck. Why did she get a long distance call meant for me? At midnight?” Tidewater grabbed the phone, clicking the talk button as he walked into the bathroom. He took a long piss while Lily frantically explained that Commander Gurgin Yusef in Saudi Arabia was insisting on satellite surveillance now! “Wait, wait,” said Tidewater, stumbling back to sit on the edge of the bed.

Lily did not wait, she went on, “Yusef connected to us by cell phone and radio transmission that always gets shunted to me. Yusef has mobilized an elite search team and they’re headed for the i-Shibl compound. He’s calling from his Humvee.”

“i-Shibl. The sheikh with the daughter who was taken out of that school in Paris and brought back to Saudi. Okay. I’m with you. And?” Tidewater shook the recumbent form of his wife and, covering the mouthpiece of his phone, barked at her, “Get me a cup of coffee. Strong.”

“Get your own damned coffee, I have to be at a Republican Women’s breakfast meeting at six a.m.” Arletta turned further away from her husband.

“Damn it,” the man snarled and finding he was awake enough to walk without stumbling, he headed toward the kitchen as Lily continued, “Both the mother and daughter have disappeared. The vizier, the sultan’s vizier, believes they were taken away last night by a merchant caravan. Yusef is certain Emigrant Women had something to do with their kidnapping.”

Uncovering the mouthpiece, calming his voice as he fumbled for a cup and the instant coffee, Tidewater interrupted her monologue and declared firmly, “Patch me through to the commander, Lily.”

“Yessir. Shall I put it onto this phone or your cell phone, sir?”

“My cell phone. As soon as I have clothes on, I’m headed for the office.”

“What should I tell Commander Yusef, sir? About using satellite surveillance?” Lily inquired.

Tidewater punched minutes into the microwave control and pushed the start button. “Should be able to get a linkup. Tell him I’ll know more once I’m in the office. I’ll need the exact latitude and longitudinal coordinates. Oh, and call Snow. I want that Injun on the computers. He may be a heathen, but he’s damned smart. Right? Anything else?”

Lily yawned over the phone, “No sir, ‘cept, do I get overtime for all this?”

“Yes, Lily, yes.” He clicked off the phone and dropped it into its cradle. The microwave buzzer went off and Tidewater grabbed up the coffee and headed back to the bedroom to put on clothes. Jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and his black SWAT team jacket would be best. Without compunction, he flicked on the bedroom overhead light.

“You pig,” muttered Arletta and pulled the covers over her head.

Tidewater’s only consideration as he rummaged for his jeans was: should he call the Darughih of Iran yet? Or savor for a while longer the powerful man’s ignorance of what was transpiring there on the Saudi desert, almost under his nose? Nothing would make Marion Tidewater happier than to dangle some EW people in front of Sadiq-Fath and out of his reach. Why not? Tidewater put on deodorant, scrubbed his teeth, and brushed the friar’s ring of remaining hair. He pulled on a pair of thick socks. He found the SWAT jacket in the hallway, slipped it on, zipped it up. Found his tennis shoes by the back door, pulled them onto his feet and velcroed them shut. Leaving the coffee untouched on the bureau and the bedroom light on to deliberately provoke Arletta, Tidewater hastened out the front door to the Agency car parked in his driveway.

Dr. Legesse had her hands full. Devi sat across from her desk griping the arms of the chair tightly. “It’s the same, Doc, we get them in here and then they freak out and want to go home. Fumilao is going nutso. She thinks her husband’s brothers are on their way here to kill her and take her daughters.”

“She could be right, Devi,” said Halima, “you know that, you know we never underestimate the potential of these men for violence.” Halima leaned forward, “I thought though, that Fumilao and her daughters were doing okay, that they were ready to go with Rachel to the drug treatment center today.”

“They are,” said Devi, “Dr. Bar-Fischer will be here around noon. I mean, these girls can’t be any safer than they will be up there on the hill. That treatment center was designed to keep in even the meanest Israeli Defense Force vets with posttraumatic stress and high on speed. It’s very tight security.”

“Then let’s take a look at what’s going on with Fumilao. Is it just her,” asked Halima, “or are the girls upset too?”

“The girls are upset ‘cause the mom’s upset, but only Mom wants to go home.”

Dr. Legesse nodded and rose, “Come on, we’ll talk with them.”

Esie and Jo, the two Makwaia girls, sat, legs dangling, on the high serving counter in the nearly empty dining room. Another mom, with three kids, was cleaning lunch dishes from her table and getting ready to take the kids to the playroom. She glanced now and then at Mrs. Makwaia, and smiled. She knew that nothing she could say or do would help, although she had been in that exact same emotional crisis herself, back at the beginning of her stay. The doctor would help, that she did know. She gathered up her children and left as Dr. Legesse and Devi entered.

Esie, Fumilao’s younger daughter, was crying, sobbing, her tiny pixie face wracked with tremulous shivers. “Don’t go back, Mom, don’t go back. Jo will be cut, Jo will be cut! You can’t do that, Mom!”

Jo’s face was of stone, her entire body seemed in rigor mortis, perhaps preparing herself for the ordeal of circumcision that she had, ever so briefly, thought she’d escaped. No words came from her. Her lips were stretched taut in fear.

Fumilao Makwaia, her stout form quaking, paced back and forth, back and forth, brushing aside chairs. “What can I do? Your father’s brothers will kill me. They could kill you, kill you both. They will be so angry because I take you away. You will not marry properly, you have been taken from the family, you will be…”

“Gone!” exclaimed Esie, “Gone far away! We wanted that, Mom, Jo wants that. She doesn’t want her private parts cut off. She wants to be a real woman. Don’t you, Jo?” The young girl screeched, “Not like you, Mom, she wants to be a whole woman!”

Jo frozen mute nodded and at Esie’s words, Fumilao shuddered, hugging herself in pain.

Dr. Legesse stepped in front of the pacing Fumilao. “Stop.”

The Ugandan woman stopped, clenched her fists.

“Sit,” ordered Dr. Legesse.

Slowly, in profound emotional turmoil, Fumilao sat on a chair. Both Halima Legesse and Devi pulled up chairs and sat next to her. Halima looked at her watch, then looked at the clock on the wall. Both read ten minutes to one. Firmly, but with utmost kindness, the very tall black doctor took Fumilao’s black hands, “When you were back in the village, what happened at noon?”

Gasping for a breath, Fumilao shrugged, “Oh, it is noon in Uganda. I…I…we…go to the mine, we take the men lunch.”

“So,” continued the doctor, “about fifteen minutes ago, you suddenly panicked. The habit of going to the mines is strong, your body and mind were telling you it was time for the women to take lunch to the men. Is that right?”

Comprehension seeped into the terrified woman’s soul. “Oh, oh, oh! Yes. Yes. Is that it? I feel I must go to the men, if I don’t go, I will be beaten.”

“How many years has this happened?” asked Devi quietly.

“Since I was a small child, for my father, now for my husband and his brothers. Thirty years.” Fumilao shivered. “Thirty years I have walked that path to the mine, taking lunches. Here I am, I cannot go. They will be furious and they will come after me and they will beat us.”

“If you were there, that is what would happen,” Halima said softly. “But you are here and you are safe.”

“Yes, I am here. Esie and Jo are here. The men do not know where we are. They cannot know. We were so careful to escape undetected. Judge Moabi disguised us.” She breathed. Long sighs of breath began to relax her.

Devi scooted her chair closer and put an arm over the woman’s shoulders, “You must realize that this can happen for a long time, that you can have reactions like this. It’s called a flashback, okay?”

“Fumilao,” said Halima, “sometimes these sensations can be so strong you can actually imagine your husband right here in the room. We will show you a technique tonight to help you through these moments. As soon as you get into the treatment center, Dr. Bar-Fischer will teach you. It’s called a desensitization procedure.”

“Anything,” wailed Fumilao, “anything to make this fear go away. I cannot believe I considered going back. Oh, God!”

Esie climbed off the serving shelf and threw her arms around her mom. “Mom, don’t scare us like that again. You gotta know, we wouldn’t have gone with you. Right, Jo?” She glanced at her sister who mutely nodded. “But we’ll stay with you here, we’ll be by your side.”

Fumilao broke into sobs, hugging Esie. “I’m okay now. We’re okay.” Between sobs, she asked Dr. Legesse, “When do we go to the treatment center?”

“In about an hour. Then, as soon as you learn how to do that desensitization technique, probably in a couple days, maybe as long as a week, you’ll be sent to Sweden.”

“That will be a big shock!” laughed Devi.

“Why?” the mother stopped crying. “The weather? It is much colder, I know.”

Dr. Legesse grinned, “Nah. Because in Sweden women are equal to men. It will take some getting used to.”

Jo timidly spoke up, “You mean I can continue with school? Both Esie and I?”

“All the way through college if you want,” replied Devi.

“Wow,” said Jo, the rigid face melting into a smile. “I want to be wildlife biologist. That’s what I’m gonna be.”

“I’m gonna be an actress,” said Esie proudly. “I really am!”

The tall black doctor got to her feet, “And so you shall.” She turned to Devi, “I must return to my office. Baron Hermelin should be calling in and I’m becoming worried about Mansur. He should check in with us soon to make arrangements for later this afternoon when they reach the American air force base in Kuwait.”

“Nothing from him or Tahireh yet?” asked Devi.

“No,” Halima shook her head. “Nothing.”

At first she wasn’t sure whether the wind or the stillness was worse. Above, on the dunes, the wind screamed. The spitting sand tore at everything making it impossible to see the front camel of the caravan or the donkey at the end behind them. For hours, Jani had walked step-by-step in the haji’s wake, so close to him, she could smell the sandalwood fragrance of his robes. All around them the dunes moved, shifting like giant snakes. What little of her skin was exposed had been scraped raw. Entering the wadi was a shock. A silence as solid as the forty-meter high walls on each side of them descended like a thick golden-brown theatre curtain. The camels had to pass one by one through the narrow gorge and the walls grew higher and higher. The front camels began to scramble faster and their camel tugged on the rope in Habib’s hands.

“Can you feel the moisture?” he asked Jani.

She let the scarf and hood fall from her face. The water in the air was like perfume. “Ahhh, yes. It’s heavenly!”

“Get ready, our camel knows its there. We may have to trot to keep up.” He smiled at her.

Five minutes ago, she would have collapsed if he’d told her that. “I’m ready. Can we all jump in the water?”

Habib’s laughter echoed along the canyon, “I wouldn’t recommend it. The camels all go in first.”

“I might have known,” said Jani and skipped along faster.

They came out of the narrow passageway as suddenly as they entered. The walls soared to the sky in glorious shades of red and gold and ochre and yellow and covering nearly the entire lowest part of the great chasm was a vast pool of sheer green water. Sounds bounced from one wall to the other in a symphony of noisy camels yowling, donkeys braying, men shouting, women singing. Another group of Bedouins was at the far end of the canyon, settled, camels and donkeys lazing in the water, tents and cooking fires all organized. Women washing clothes in the higher streams. The greetings were joyous and uncomplicated. Before long the newly arrived group was comfortably arranged. It was all Jani could do to not look around for her daughter. She knew she mustn’t. She knew she must look exactly like the haji’s wife. She kept her head down and began unloading their camel.

“Do we put up our tent?” she asked in a whisper.

Habib shook his head. “You and I, in a couple minutes, take the duffels, here,” he handed her a heavy canvas bag, “and start walking toward that clump of palm trees. See them? Far up at the other opening to the wadi?”

She nodded.

“As we pass the donkey boys, Tahireh and Zhara will make their way along the same path. You three will go get the Land Cruiser started. I must make ritual farewells to the chief of the tribe. It is required to show our gratitude.”

“I should imagine so,” said Jani. “They risked their lives.”

“It all comes round. One day they will need the EW’s services and we will be obligated to help, which we will do gladly. The Bedouin are resilient people, but their culture is under a lot of pressure to change from nomadic to urban. Those tribespeople who have given up and gone into the cities usually perish quickly.” Habib carefully finished unloading the camel and covered the tent and equipment for retrieval by the tribespeople he’d borrowed them from. He grabbed up the second duffel, looked casually around, and began walking. Jani, staggering with her smaller canvas bag, did her best to keep up.

Habib was taking one of the many grooved paths leading along the edge of the water. Since her head was down, properly down, Jani did not realize they’d come to the donkey troupe until a sudden movement and Jani felt the weight of the bag lifted. Tahireh had taken it. Glancing furtively behind her, Jani saw the two dirty, waifish creatures and marveled at the calmness of her daughter. Not a hint of girlishness escaped from that little urchin with the matted hair and sand-bitten face. Her walk had become the splayfooted sandal stride of the donkey boys and on her belt were a knife, tin cup and bowl, a leather quirt, and a small bag. She had a long, woven tie-down rope neatly coiled and slung over her shoulder. If challenged to pick her daughter from other donkey boys, Jani would have failed. This is good, Jani thought.

Habib led them onto higher ground along the north wall. So many millennia of footsteps had gone along these paths that the grooves in the sandstone were often as much as a foot deep. They moved through the first Bedouin camp quite rapidly. Habib stopped only momentarily to ask the whereabouts of the chief and being told the man was in the second camp, the foursome moved on. Few Bedouins noticed them pass. Here and there, a woman looked up from cooking and raised a hand in acknowledgement. The rich smells of saffron rice, stew, and warm homemade beer made Jani’s stomach growl with hunger.

They were almost to the end of the second encampment before Habib motioned Tahireh to his side and nodded, without a word, toward the grove of palm trees. He handed his duffel to Jani and Zhara reached out and grabbed it, smiling. The three women set off single file along one of the many sandstone grooves with Tahireh in the lead and Jani and Zhara doing their best to carry the heavier duffel. As they reached the sand along the shore of the water, they dropped the long duffel to the ground and dragged it. Their long journey was beginning to tell on soft muscles and untrained bodies.

Jani once looked over her shoulder. A glimpse was all she had of him there high up against the cliff edge. She felt a sudden chill and a giant rift as Habib, his dark brown abba billowing about him, hiked steadily toward the second camp and the chieftain’s tent. More than anything, she wanted to clasp onto him, hold him with her, keep him from going up there. That’s silly, she thought, we are within a mere kilometer of reaching the Land Cruiser. We’ll be trundling across the desert toward Kuwait and headed for the air force base in another few moments.

On this end of the canyon, the cliffs were not so high, perhaps twenty meters, but the shade of the north wall already covered the palm trees in shadow so deep it seemed invisible when viewed from the bright sunlight. Not until they were inside the brushy perimeter and within arm’s length of the Cruiser was a vehicle barely recognizable under the camouflage netting and layers of palm leaves and brush. It was almost chilly in the darkness of the grove. Birds squawked and scattered as the women beat through the tall brush. The green leaves closed behind them leaving not a trace of their passage. Here and there a stray goat scampered away. Insects hummed and an occasional lizard skittered into the leafy groundcover.

“Come help me,” ordered Tahireh, sighing as she set the duffel down near one corner of the netting. Zhara and Jani dropped the larger duffel. Tahireh undid the thick rope holding the netting in place and motioned for the two women to start rolling the netting back. It took considerable effort as the netting had been intertwined with brush and palm fronds. “Pull the fronds out, put the brush to one side,” Tahireh instructed, “we want to be able to fold up the net and take it with us.”

Zhara did not hesitate, standing next to her mother, she jerked on the palm fronds as Jani held the net taut. Jani smiled at Zhara and with a gleam of fierce pride in her eyes, Zhara smiled back. Jani’s heart soared. Her daughter had been transformed. In the space of twenty-four hours, Zhara had cast off her princess’s arrogance. If the worst happens at this very moment, thought Jani, all the fear and terror will have been worth it. My daughter has grown up.

Meanwhile, Tahireh lay down in the sand and slid under the chassis. When she wriggled out, she had a magnetic key box in her hands. “We’ve got a go,” she laughed, holding up the tiny box before opening it. “The Cruiser looks to be in good shape and the keys were right where we left them. Here,” she said, grabbing the middle of the heavy roll of netting, “throw it onto the floor in back.” She held the roll on one knee as she unlocked the back hatch door. They wrestled the netting into the Cruiser and then put the duffels on the jump seats. “There,” said Tahireh, slamming the hatch door shut, “this way we have access to the net on a moment’s notice. Now, deep breath everyone,” she went to the driver side door and unlocked it, which unlatched the other doors, “while I get the engine started. You two, sit in back so I can sit up front with Haji Mansur. He’ll want to drive.”

She switched on the key. The engine coughed and sputtered in agonizing complaints. She tried again. And again.

“Damn,” Tahireh swore loudly, shocking Jani. Zhara giggled. Tahireh tried again. And again. “God, I hope the battery is all right.” She looked at the meters. “It seems to be fine. Water is fine. Damn, I hope we don’t have a bad starter motor, I hope it didn’t get sand in it!” She reached down and unlatched the hood and stepped out.

Jani grabbed her daughter’s hand. Zhara looked up at her mom and said, “I’ve forgotten most of the words to most of the prayers we were supposed to learn.”

“Me too,” admitted Jani, “the thought better be what counts!”

As Tahireh tinkered under the hood, Jani peered out the side window. The smallest of holes in the brush allowed her to have a pinpoint, telescopic view and she was amazed at how far away the second encampment was, at least a kilometer away, perhaps closer to one and a half kilometers. She couldn’t believe they’d walked so far in the last hour.

Just barely she could see, near the big tent on the edge of the encampment, three brown-robed men like little ants, tiny against the vast canyon wall. They were exiting the camp and starting toward the palm trees. She thought the middle figure was Habib, but the resemblance of one man to another was striking. All had brown abbas, all had gray beards and white turbans with white face scarves, and all walked with the slow deliberate gate of experienced desert dwellers. She thought the middle one was Habib because of the way he raised his head to glance toward where she and Zhara and Tahireh were hidden.

Abruptly, all three men jerked their heads upward to stare into the narrow slit of visible sky. Jani couldn’t see anything because of their cover of heavy brush and palm trees, but she suddenly felt the powerful thumping of helicopter blades reverberating and echoing throughout the canyon. The three men turned and hurried back toward the camp.

“Tahireh!” Jani screamed out the window, “A helicopter!”

“Shhh,” said Tahireh as Zhara clutched her mother’s arm. Slowly, cautiously, Tahireh went to where the brush met the water and looked up. Jani, from her pinhole view saw a giant black shadow swoop over the camp. Tahireh rushed back and lowered the hood carefully, pushing it to latch it. She leaned into Cruiser and hissed, “Now! Get out, pull the camouflage back over and throw as much brush and palm fronds onto it as you can. Keep your heads down. Do it now!”

Without hesitation, both Jani and Zhara slid from the back seat and opening the hatch door only enough to pull the netting out, quickly doing as Tahireh ordered.

“Who is it,” asked Zhara, “in the helicopter?”

Tahireh shouted loudly enough for both women to hear, “Saudi military, probably an elite search team!” She ferociously jabbed the discarded pieces of brush and the palm fronds into the netting as fast as Jani and Zhara tied down the net ropes. No more than three minutes had passed before the Cruiser was invisible again.

“Inside,” Tahireh said, motioning and the three women squirmed under the netting and into the Cruiser. “If we’re very, very lucky, they won’t know we’re here.” She twitched around in her seat, “Tracks…did we leave tracks?”

Jani put one hand to her mouth, “Oh! Oh! I don’t believe so. We came down that sandstone gully and that little stretch of sand…? It was wet from the camels and donkeys…”

“…and we dragged the duffel, see?” Zhara blurted out, pointing to Habib’s sandy-bottomed duffel.

Tahireh nodded and sighed. “Here’s hoping. Jani,” she noticed Jani looking out the window, “you can see the camp from there?”

“Only a little bit,” she answered.

“Tell us what happens,” said Tahireh and Jani, teeth clenched, nodded. Zhara bent down to get a view. What they saw was the black helicopter shadow swoop down again and this time point its nose toward the retreating figures of the three men. The staccato of gunfire filled the canyon, echoing endlessly. All three men were blasted to the ground. All three lay still.