CHAPTER 12: THE VALUE OF WOMEN

The blindfold meant Russ lost track of time. It had been put on him as they entered the outskirts of Haifa. He’d sensed sharp twists in the road, felt the Mercedes slow, and heard the traffic get heavier. Before too long, there came the heavy, rich smell of an outgoing tide, of wharfing, oiled timbers, the hoooot of a big ship entering a harbor. Then the Mercedes parked and he was led into a building. As they walked along what seemed to be a hallway, he could hear children’s voices, some women—most likely their moms—talking in several different languages and finally the whoosh of big doors opening and closing and silence.

His blindfold came off. In front of him, filling the room, was a giant black and white table, at the head of which stood an elegant black woman in a prim red suit. Although Russ noticed the dark Israeli woman seated to her right, his eyes were held tight by the black eyes of the woman in the red suit. Siddhu pulled him into a seat and sat next to him.

“Welcome to Emigrant Women. Let me introduce myself. I am Dr. Halima Legesse and this,” she motioned toward the Israeli woman, “is Dr. Rachel Bar-Fischer from the Israeli Drug Treatment Centre.” Dr. Legesse leaned onto her knuckles and with emphasis said, “You are very lucky, Mr. Snow, that we were made aware of your arrival.”

“Mr. Prakash told me that,” Russ nodded.

“He was right. You could be languishing in jail as we speak.” Dr. Legesse sat down. “What to do with you? We have discussed this for most of the day. Baron Hermelin wants us to trust you, but keep a close eye on you. Siddhu, here, wants you locked away for a month or so.”

“As a precaution,” said Siddhu.

Dr. Legesse nodded toward Siddhu, “He could be right. I may be the boss of Emigrant Women, but I’m no dictator.” She chuckled, “This is a group of chiefs without any Indians. Thus I’ve decided that a compromise would be in the best interest of everyone. After all, if you do have the computer skills Carl-Joran says you do, then we want to make use of them. But if you offer a threat, as Siddhu warns, we want to keep you under control. I’ve asked Dr. Bar-Fischer to let you occupy a room in her drug treatment center. Yes, it is a lockup. I will have Siddhu bring you here during the day and he can watch over your shoulder as you learn our computer system. That won’t take much of your time. Our system is about as antiquated as you can find.”

“That could be my first job,” said Russ with enthusiasm, “to update your system. Put some firewalls up. You really need them.”

“I wouldn’t know what a computer firewall was if it popped up and said hello!” Shaking her head, Dr. Legesse stood again, “More likely, your first assignment will be to monitor reports coming in. They are the most important. Mind you, this is all dependent on your excellent behavior and total compliance with all our rules. So, we shall see.” She nodded to Siddhu who rose to his feet and pulled Russ to his. “Make no mistake, Mr. Snow, you are on probation. Understood?”

“Yes ma’am,” he curtly replied.

Dr. Legesse smiled at him. It was not a warm smile, but an obligatory one. “You probably could use a hot meal and a hot shower. Siddhu, you and Rachel get him settled at the treatment center.” She started out the door. Siddhu put the blindfold over Russ’s eyes and they went back the way they’d come.

Russ was aware that only he and Siddhu got into the Mercedes. He heard Taqi talking to Siddhu as they drove through the twisting streets and uphill. Steeply uphill, up and up until Russ’s ears popped. The odors wafting in through the vent changed dramatically from ocean to dry, cold desert. When the car pulled to a stop, Siddhu got out first and, as Russ climbed out, Siddhu pulled off his blindfold.

“You might as well see where you’re going,” he said, “because once you are in this place, there is no way out.”

During the drive, evening had set in. Lights were coming on. They had stopped in a large parking area in front of a two-story stucco building surrounded by high, barbed wire, electrified fencing. Beyond the fence was rocky desert. It occurred to Russ that the place could be a prison and he wondered why a drug treatment center would have such heavy security. Dr. Rachel Bar-Fischer’s little car came zipping through the big gate and parked next to the Mercedes. Taqi opened her door for her.

She immediately walked to what looked like the front door, painted a violently bright blue. The men, except Taqi, followed. She held it open for Siddhu and Russ, and then led them down a long hallway. “Room ten,” she told Siddhu and within moments, Russ was deposited into what would be his space. Dr. Bar-Fischer told him, “You have a toilet in the room, the bath is down the hall, and the cafeteria is all the way along the hall and to your right. I’ve told the cook to set out some supper for you. Just ring when you’re ready to go eat and an orderly will take you along. Okay?”

“Yes,” replied Russ. “And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, we will see,” Siddhu answered him. “If I do not get terribly busy with the Kuwaiti case, I will come get you in the morning.”

“That’s Milind, the Thai girl who’s in prison?” Snow said and Siddhu shook his head, frustrated.

“You know a lot more than we care to have you know.”

Russ shrugged, “Both Tidewater of the Agency and Sadiq-Fath of the Iranian Security Forces are aware you’re interested in saving her. I think it’s a trap.”

“We think so too,” was Siddhu’s reply and he motioned Russ into the tiny room. “Sleep well. Rest.”

The door closed and Russ looked around at his new quarters. Luckily, he’d packed a book because there was no TV, not even a radio, merely a cot, a toilet, and a porthole of a window. The view from the window was stunning. Russ could see the entire city of Haifa below him. They must be very high up on the cliffs. He watched the harbor lights come on. Across the bay, on the opposite cliff side, was an immense wooded area filled with magnificent buildings illuminated by spotlights. The top of one building had a brilliant gold dome. On the top of that cliff were a series of hotels.

He managed to get the window open a crack and in came soft Mediterranean breezes with incredibly exotic odors. Suddenly he felt exhausted to the bone. And hungry, and he needed a shower. He rang for the orderly and while waiting, pulled his toilet kit and a clean set of clothes from the big suitcase. He hoped he could stay awake long enough to both shower and eat.

“I…I really want to go to the toilet,” whispered Zhara, her voice breaking the silence of hours. Her mother ssshhed her. For some reason, at this, Tahireh began to laugh. It was not a funny ha-ha laugh. It was a gut-wrenching, sobbing laugh. Slowly, the tall model sat up. She and Zhara and Jani had lain flat, below the window level in the pitch-black dark for all this time. Tahireh’s choking laughter filled the Cruiser. Zhara sat up, groaning.

“Please,” begged Zhara, “I gotta go!”

“Go,” said Tahireh between laughing sobs.

Jani tried to sit up and felt paralyzed in every muscle in her body. “Oh!” she moaned sharply, “I hurt. Oh, God, do we have any aspirin?”

Zhara pulled at her mother’s shoulders, helping her.

“Look in the smaller duffel,” Tahireh offered. “I packed some. I’m sure.”

Once Jani was in an upright position, Zhara gave her mom a quick hug, then grabbed up a couple tissues and as quietly as possible, pushed the Cruiser door open which switched on the interior light, and slipped out. With effort, Jani turned first to rummage in the duffel for the aspirin. She found it, shook out two, and swallowed them with a swig of water from the canteen under her feet. Painfully, she swung her head around to look through the peephole of brush and trees. Tiny campfire lights could be seen like stars in the otherwise impenetrable darkness. She lowered her window to let the cold night air creep in. With it came muted sounds of bleating goats and keening voices. An occasional grunt of a camel carried across the water. The rustle of bushes signaled Zhara’s duties finished. She climbed back in the Cruiser and took the canteen from her mother. The water tasted really good. It relieved the parched throat. She handed it to Tahireh who took it but put it in her lap.

The shock of what had happened was easing up. Jani, listening to Tahireh’s laughing sobs, began to allow her own tears to flow. Her crying was in whimpers. The pain was too great for anything else. She was numb with fear and grief. He was dead. She’d watched him fall and be carried away. The man who was her savior was gone. Zhara, her face ruddy in the glow of the interior light, hugged her close. Her daughter smelled like donkeys.

A thump-thump-thump of small feet was felt before heard and a sharp rustle of brush against the Cruiser made all three women suck in breath and hold it. They stared to their left. A small, tousled black-haired head poked above the level of the driver’s side window enough so that a pair of eyes, white surrounding black iris, peered curiously into the Cruiser. The little guy was one of the donkey boys. Seeing the women, he hissed and motioned for Tahireh to roll down her window, which she did.

“You must go now,” he said in Arabic. “My mother says it is time. No one will see you. It is between moving stars. Okay?”

Tahireh shook her head. “What do you mean, between moving stars?”

With a big shrug, the youngster replied, “I, myself, I don’t know. My mother tells me the men order me to tell you that the men say it is how the helicopter found the camp. It is the only way, say the men. The caravan tracks from the compound were covered by the wind and sand, so you could not have been followed. The men talk about the moving stars that take pictures. They were warned a year ago about these moving stars. Your haji warned them. It is all fantastical to me, but maybe you understand?”

“Yes,” Tahireh responded. “I understand. Listen, little man, the haji was right. The moving stars do take pictures and they see everything. It is right to be careful when they are flying over. Thank you for being such a brave person and coming to us.”

Jani leaned forward. “Ask him about Habib.”

The boy hefted a bundle tied in roughly woven cloth through Tahireh’s window. “Food for your journey,” he said softly and turned to leave.

“Boy! Boy!” Tahireh shouted after him. He stopped and laid fingers across his mouth in a motion for silence. She whispered loudly, “Our friend, Mansur, was he killed?”

The boy shrugged. “This was not for me to know. I saw the hajis shot down. I saw the men take the bodies to the tents of the old women, but no one has told me of their fates. I cannot believe they lived. The gunfire from the helicopter was terrible. I have heard the women wailing tonight.”

“The person who gave you this food, he didn’t tell you anything?” Jani insisted.

“She. My mother. She said for me to hurry and to be very quiet and invisible. To stay in the grooves of sandstone. And to warn you of moving stars. I did all that.”

“Yes you did, young one,” Tahireh said. “What is your name that we may remember you and thank you with a prayer to Allah.”

“Khalil Mahmoudi, kind sister.”

“Khalil, you had better hurry back to your mother,” Tahireh ordered, “before she worries herself sick.”

“Good journey!” said the boy, “And be careful to cover yourself when the moving stars go over.” Pointing to the heavens, he disappeared into the brush. The faint rustle of his passing could be heard for a moment then was quickly drowned out by the humming of locusts and flutter of a night bird’s wings.

Tahireh put the stopper in the canteen and opened the bundle and the aroma of saffron rice, taboleh, hot pita bread, and chunks of meat, probably goat, wafted through the car. They ate like starving creatures, but only enough to kill the pangs of hunger. They had to take the boy’s warnings seriously. It was time to travel.

Each with a flashlight, they jumped from the Cruiser. As one movement, all three hurried to clean the brush and palm fronds from the netting and drag the netting off the vehicle. It was quickly folded and stuffed into the rear of the Cruiser.

Zhara stood in front of the car with a flashlight lighting the heavily occluded path toward the water’s edge. Two faint rows of broken and crushed underbrush were the only sign of where Habib had driven the Cruiser in. Jani, taking the front passenger seat, held the gearshift in first gear as Tahireh, her foot firmly on the clutch, turned the starter and pulled out the throttle. A few coughs and the engine, cool now in the night air, roared to life. All the women took deep breaths of relief. The motor’s noise scattered creatures all around, birds, insects, lizards. The Cruiser jumped forward as Tahireh released the clutch and Tahireh held it in check only long enough for Zhara to climb aboard. Turning the headlights on, Tahireh put in the clutch again. Jani held it in gear while Tahireh shifted to four-wheel drive. Stuttering at first, slowly, the Cruiser began to plow at a snail’s pace through the brush. It took about ten minutes, ten very long minutes, for them to break into the open at the edge of the water. Wrenching the wheel, Tahireh managed to turn the vehicle so it did not continue forward into the oasis. Instead, at an uncomfortable tilt, they bumped their way past the brush and palm trees and onto the sandy beach area that led toward the opening of the canyon opposite from which they had entered yesterday afternoon.

Careful not to hit any goats or camels, they picked up speed and were soon onto a rocky trail that climbed steeply around the outside edge of the wadi and onto the desert. At the top of the rise, Tahireh stopped the Cruiser, leaving it in idle, and stepped out. Jani and Zhara watched her stare into the night sky. Both of them got out and looked up. The stars were diamonds, brilliant beyond counting.

“What are you doing?” asked Zhara.

“Following directions,” smiled Tahireh, “finding our map.”

“There’s the North Star,” pointed Jani and Tahireh nodded, saying, “Yes, I know the way now.”

She motioned them back into the Cruiser and they headed north by northwest, toward the Saudi-Kuwaiti border, toward the American air base, toward freedom for Jani and Zhara.

***

As athletic as Trisha was, still she was completely exhausted by the two-hour stint of cross-country skiing. Bonnie, lying on the long divan reading a book in front of the fireplace in the small living room, waved at her as she trudged past in the hall.

“Going to go take a nap, Mom,” Trish called out and, pulling off her sweater, headed up the stairs.

Bonnie had been invigorated by her walk to the hot springs. She’d come very close to some small moose, had seen a huge flock of geese at the hot springs, and two small foxes ran briefly down the trail ahead of her as she hiked back. The bitter cold had taken its toll, however, and on arriving at the castle, she’d wanted nothing more than to curl up in a warm place with her book and a cup of hot chocolate. The last of the jet lag also took effect and the urge to nap washed over her. Her conscience nagged her to seek out Sture and move him along toward the promised meeting with Ms. Person, but drowsiness won. By the time Trisha had reached the top of the huge staircase, Bonnie’s eyes closed.

She had a strange dream. Carl Mink was an old man and he and she were in a jet flying somewhere, which was totally ridiculous because Carl was dead and the dream came to an abrupt halt when Sture’s voice gently called to her. “Mrs. Ixey? Mrs. Ixey? Bonnie?”

Her book fell from her hands with a thump onto the floor and she grabbed it up hoping not to lose her place. “Yes, Sture,” she answered. It must be dinnertime. She glanced at the beautiful antique clock on the mantel. Yes, five-fifteen. She sat up.

The gangly young man was shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another, his large hands fluttering nervously. “Will you come with me, please? You are to see someone.”

“I’m going to see Ms. Person now?” was the only thing Bonnie could think to say.

Sture shook his head, “No. Not her.”

Stiffly, Bonnie got to her feet. The wonderful smells of salmon, dill, potatoes, and cheese floated across the room. “Is dinner served?”

“In about an hour,” said the young man and turned on his heel, expecting her to follow. Completely puzzled, Bonnie tagged along behind him, hurrying to keep up with his long strides down the hall to the back stairs, up the cold stairs to the lower end of the hall and past Sture’s room. At the beautiful cherry wood door to the grand master bedroom suite, Sture stopped, knocked firmly and a muffled male voice responded from inside, “Komm in.”

Sture turned the lion head brass doorknob, pushed the door open, and stood back, motioning for Bonnie to go in. Hesitating, she laid one hand on the door. The cherry wood was warm and smooth. The expression on Sture’s face added to the puzzle. He had a cat with canary feathers in its mouth grin. Sture pushed the door open a little further and Bonnie stepped in.

The deep male voice insisted, “Komm nu.”

The door closed behind her and she was standing, seemingly alone, in a massive room one-half of which was filled with beautiful antiques: delicately inlaid bureaus and dressers and nightstands and wardrobes and a massive four-poster bed, all matching. By the fireplace filled with a roaring fire, were, in stark contrast, a modern couch and rollback chair, a panel television, sound equipment, and a large desk topped with computers. The draperies and hangings were dark red and thick. Four giant Persian carpets covered old cherry wood floors. From the tall, narrow windows could be seen the lights along the front drive and, in the distance, the iron gate with the Hermelin shield.

But there was no one except her in the room. Where had the voice come from, she wondered?

Abruptly, a man emerged from the adjoining bathroom suite. A very tall man, in fact, the very tall black-haired, black bearded man who had been at the airport, stepped into the bedroom, only he no longer had a black beard. He was wiping the last of the shaving cream from his face and toweling dry white-blond hair. He had on comfortable sweat pants and a white T-shirt, his feet were bare. He saw her. He stopped moving. She saw him breathe deeply and a wide smile came to his face. An oh! so familiar smile. In almost a whisper, he said, “Bonnie.”

All she could do was shake her head in confusion.

“Yes, it is okay. I am alive,” he assured her.

“Carl?” she queried, knowing full well that it was he. Her knees shook, her hands trembled. “How can this be?”

Before her knees collapsed completely, he had gently put arms around her and helped her into a seat at a small table where a tea service had been laid out and covered with a cloth. “You will be all right in a moment,” he said, “when your mind accepts what is true.” He sat in a chair next to her, pulled the cloth off the tea set to reveal not only teapot and cups, but tiny sandwiches and cakes as well. “Tea? Yes, that will help?” He poured her a cup. “Or something stronger?” He reached for a nearby bottle of fine brandy.

“No! No!” she insisted and put her tiny hand on his arm. “Tell me what is happening!”

“I did not really die,” he said, grinning.

“You.you were at the airport. That was you? You are here!” Tears began to run down her cheeks. “You’re not dead!” This was said with anger, anger and frustration. “You were dead and now you are not dead! You tricked me! You…” She began to cry in earnest.

Carl-Joran took her hands in his. “I am so sorry.”

“Sorry does not even start to make up for all these years,” she exclaimed, “not knowing, thinking maybe you had died in some god-awful crusade in some hideous war, dreading to find out, not wanting to know…”

“I was never sure,” whispered Carl-Joran.

Jumping to her feet, Bonnie grasped his hands, “Sure? Sure of what? What did you need to be sure of?”

He pulled her hands to his face, “Sure you loved me enough for me to contact you. I was terrified that I had compromised your safety. I wanted only to hide away and become invisible so no one would trace me to you. Those were dangerous times and there was much work left to do. When I finally returned to Sweden after my father died, we…you and I, just seemed so far away. Then I was too embarrassed to contact you. You were married. You’d had a baby, in fact two children. You seemed happy with the old man.”

Bonnie’s face flushed with realization. “You kept track of me all these years.”

He nodded. “If, at any time, you had been in danger, you would have had help immediately.”

“Some consolation,” she whimpered.

“You were not happy in your life?” he asked.

She stood looking down into the face exasperatingly familiar yet strange, strange because it had aged, as hers had. “I was happy, what can I say? Yes. I’ve had a good life.”

“Then you did not need a wild, crazy man like me interfering.” He nodded again, confident of being correct.

Slowly her hands let go of his and balled into small fists. “How can you say that? How could you leave me? I was so afraid, so alone.”

“You had your parents,” he tried to say.

“Fool!” she yelled at him and pounded his shoulders with her fists. He took her wrists in his hands and pulled her close. She was sobbing. Gently, he drew her into his lap and hugged her close.

“I do not understand,” he whispered. “I stayed away because I loved you.”

“I was pregnant with your child,” she said into his chest.

He held her face up, “What do you say?”

“Trisha is your daughter.”

“Min Gud!” he exclaimed, hugging her close again. “I did not know. This I did not even guess.” The full impact of it made him ache all the way through his body. Carl-Joran put one big hand on Bonnie’s soft white hair and laid his head on hers. There were no more words, not for some time. They sat huddled together, souls returning to the bond that had been ripped asunder so many years before. It was as if time had stood still and space had warped. The tea grew cold.

Tidewater leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile on his face. He was ready to finish up his day and go home. He glanced at his secretary and noticed she was animatedly talking to someone on the phone. She pushed an extension button, put down the receiver and looked around toward him.

“Commander Gurgin Yusef for you,” Lily said, motioning.

“Ahhh,” said Tidewater jerking up the phone. “Yes, Commander, how’s it going? Must be important ‘cause it’s about three in the morning there.”

“It is two-thirty,” responded Yusef, “and yes, it is important. I am having my computer person send you photos. You will be pleased. I have taken care of Habib Mansur. He is no longer alive.”

“That is wonderful news,” exclaimed Marion Tidewater, “and the photos are of…”

“The body. We could not take it away. But you can see for yourself it is the haji.” Yusef was very proud.

Tidewater leaned out of his office and waved at Lily to get Norm, the new computer geek. “What about the women? Did you get them? Return them?” When Norm stuck his head into Tidewater’s office, Tidewater covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Check the e-mail files for photos coming in from Commander Yusef.” Norm nodded and hurried back to his cubby.

Yusef, a tired note in his voice, explained, “I am afraid not. They leave the caravan before we find it, before it reached the Grand Wadi. I am certain though that they were picked up not far from the i-Shibl residence. I am also certain that Tahireh Ibrahim is the one who disguised the women and got them out of the compound. She is probably still with them.”

“Where would they head for?”

“My guess is Kuwait,” replied Yusef. “Perhaps you have contacts in Kuwait? Better than I have?”

“You betcha. I can get right on it.” Tidewater heard the printer humming and turned as the computer expert handed him three photos. “Yep, that’s Habib Mansur,” Marion Tidewater said. “Looks like you really shot the hell out of him.”

There was a shrug from the other end of the phone. “We used the helicopter machine guns. It was very good luck that the man was right out in the open. So you will take care of finding the women for Sheikh i-Shibl?”

“Right on it, old buddy. I’ll have messages sent out before I leave work tonight.” The grin on Tidewater’s face was ear to ear. “I owe you one.”

“Just find the women,” Yusef insisted, “and send Ibrahim to me. Is that a deal?”

“That’s a deal. Good night, Gurgin.” Tidewater hung up. He stood and did a little two-step dance around the office. “Yessir, yessir!” He finished up the dance near the computer room door, “Norm, write up an e-mail to Darughih Sadiq-Fath’s office. His assistant Ali Muhit will read it first thing in the morning, which will be about six hours from now. Send the photo files you just downloaded and tell the darughih he and I got to talk. I want his agents on the job in Kuwait within the hour he picks up this message. Got that?” Norm nodded, Marion Tidewater went on, “Say this exactly: You’ll find Tahireh Ibrahim and the two women she stole, Princess Zhara i-Shibl and her mother, Jani Felice i-Shibl, in Kuwait. Then say if he needs any more information, call me at eight a.m. my time tomorrow morning. Got that?”

Norm nodded and was already setting up the e-mail. “No problem, Boss.”

As Marion Tidewater passed Lily’s desk, he gave her a little hug and she blushed. “Not tonight, but how about tomorrow, darling?”

“Oh, Marion, you’re sure?” she cooed.

“You can count on it, I want to party, as my teenagers say.” Tidewater laughed.

“I guess we can, okay, after work?”

“After work.” His footsteps were light as he left the room.

Five hours later, Ali Muhit wrote back that his boss, Darughih Sadiq-Fath had set in motion a plan to trap Tahireh Ibrahim in Kuwait. He, Sadiq-Fath, had made sure the little Thai girl, Milind would not be freed, that her trial would go smoothly and her execution swiftly. No more women would be taken by the EW’s agents, he promised and went on with: “Quddus Sadiq-Fath sends his personal congratulations to Commander Yusef via Tidewater on the elimination of their hated enemy, Haji Mansur.” Muhit finished up the e-mail letter, writing, “When my agents pick up the sheikh’s women, either in Kuwait or in Europe, where should they be delivered? This is assuming they’ve not died on the desert.”

Tahireh had to drive. Neither Jani nor Zhara had ever learned to handle a 4X4 vehicle. The guiding stars turned in their vast celestial wheel until yellow-pink tendrils of dawn peeked over the flat rocky terrain in front of them. There was no wadi or cliff or rock shelter to hide them and Tahireh hesitated to stop out here in the open. Finally, as dawn evolved to bright, cold morning, tall date palm trees signaled an oasis on the horizon. A few ramshackle buildings and about a dozen tents huddled under the massive date palms. Further in the distance, lorries and petrol tankers could be seen speeding along a narrow highway. The women had crossed the desert all the way to the corner of northeast Saudi. Right where she had wanted them to arrive. With a sigh of relief, Tahireh pulled up behind the decrepit buildings and gratefully parked in the shadow of a broad, red and blue striped awning where tables and chairs awaited lunch customers.

“Wake up,” she hollered at her two companions. “Breakfast! Who wants breakfast?”

Zhara held up her hand as she groggily opened her eyes. “Where are we?” She shook her mother who moaned and turned over in the back seat. “Come alive, Mom. Open your eyes.”

Stretching, Jani sat up. “Oh,” she said, looking out the window, “civilization!”

“Now we must face some problems,” Tahireh began, “we have not had baths and Zhara and I look and smell like donkey boys.”

“I don’t,” said Jani, grinning.

“You do smell,” retorted her daughter holding her nose, “you stink like a camel.”

“That can’t be helped,” Jani answered back. “Besides, I don’t think my odor will keep me from doing business in there.”

“Probably not,” agreed Tahireh. “Why don’t you go in and buy us some food and drink and Zhara and I will sneak into the restroom back here and become women again. We are to become wives of American air force men.”

“Really?” asked Zhara.

“Yes,” responded Tahireh, “and all because we were able to bring those duffels with us.”

“How about me?” Jani queried.

Tahireh shook her head. “You will stay as an Arab woman. The identification Habib and I used to rent the Cruiser will have to do for you. We can only pray.”

Jani opened the door of the Land Cruiser, then halted. “Damn, Tahireh! What do I use for money? I came…we came away with nothing. Not even jewelry.”

Reaching into the glove compartment, Tahireh pulled out a billfold. “Habib’s,” she whispered. Inside was a wad of bills. “This came from EW. It is for our expenses, but we must be very cautious in how much we spend this because if anything goes wrong, if we can’t reach the air force base as planned, we’ll need to use a lot of it for bribes.” She handed Jani several bills.

“I understand,” said the older woman and dusting off her Bedouin style burqa; she pulled the scarf over her face and got out, disappearing quickly around the corner of the building.

Zhara and Tahireh locked the car doors after they pulled the smaller duffel from the back. No one saw them duck into the doorway marked WC. It was definitely a unisex toilet stinking of urine from the Turkish style hole in the floor. Each woman squatted to do her business. There was no hot water, but there was soap. Evil smelling stuff that had more grit than cleansing oil. It did the job though and in fifteen minutes, both Tahireh and Zhara exited the WC looking very different from when they had entered. Zhara was dressed in jeans and an embroidered white overshirt blouse that went to her knees. Around her hair and face she arranged a scarf. Tahireh had put on a woman’s linen suit of knee-length skirt, long-sleeved gold blouse, and jacket. She’d even managed to get a necklace and earrings on. Every inch the Parisian model, except her hair had to be stuffed under a beret and scarf just in case she had to cover her face. Washing their hair in that restroom was out of the question so it was just as well they had to keep their tresses covered. There was even makeup in the duffel. Both women put it on to the hilt.

Jani was waiting by the Cruiser holding a large tray stacked with pita bread, hummus, yogurt, dates, and best of all, thick white porcelain cups of steaming Arabic black sweet coffee. They sat in the Cruiser and wolfed down the food. The coffee was so good it brought tears to their eyes. When Jani had finished, she took the small duffel and went back to the WC to change into Tahireh’s black abba and scarf. She too applied makeup, but lightly. As per Tahireh’s orders, she stuffed the Bedouin costume into the trash receptacle where the donkey boy outfits had gone.

“You look much better, Mom,” said Zhara as she climbed back into the Cruiser. “Tahireh, how much further do we have to drive?”

“Only about an hour. We’re nearly at the Kuwaiti border.” Tahireh put her bowls into the stack, finished her coffee, and handed the whole mess to Jani. “It would be best if you take all this back in. I should be seen as little as possible. Also, tell the gentleman inside,” Tahireh handed Jani more bills and Jani laughed sharply at the term gentleman, “that we wish to fill the petrol tank.”

“Right,” said Jani gathering up the plates and cups and trash and headed for the front of the store.

Zhara brushed crumbs from her lap. “Do you think we’ll get over the border without any problems?”

“It would be wise to pray,” remarked Tahireh harshly, driving the Cruiser to the front of the store where a boy filled the tank. “They will be expecting a man to be driving us, of that I am certain. They will not be able to believe that three women, all by themselves, crossed the desert by jeep. We have that advantage, but it is a slim advantage.”

“I understand,” said Zhara. “Should I practice my American accent?”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” laughed Tahireh, trying hers out.

When Jani had climbed back in, they set off. The moment the Cruiser pulled up onto the narrow highway, Zhara began talking. It was as if all the tension came pouring out of her. She kept it in English and as much of it in American slang as she could remember.

“I can’t wait to see Emil again. He has Charlotte. Mom, did you know that Emil has been keeping Charlotte for me?”

“No, I didn’t realize your puppy was still alive.”

Zhara nodded and faced Tahireh. This was to be a story, a long story and Zhara was determined to tell it all. “You know how I got my dog, Tahireh?” Zhara didn’t wait for an answer. “This was years ago, at least eight years ago. I was riding in the limousine and it slowed, it slowed enough for me to look out and someone had just hit a dog. A stray. She, a she dog and she was in heat. Oh, it was so terrible. All the male dogs were fucking her as injured as she was. Those males kept mounting her, and she was screaming. The chauffeur drove by and I begged him to stop. He just waved his hand at me as if I were nobody. Finally I pounded on the window between him and me and I demanded he do something. ‘Don’t worry, he said, she will die soon. Another car will hit her.’

“But she could live, I said, she could live and be pregnant and crippled and have to care for puppies and…

“‘She is a bitch dog,’ said the chauffeur, ‘forget her, she is worth nothing.’ He drove on home.”

“What did you do?” asked Tahireh, amazed at what was coming from the princess. Jani sat silent and stunned at this flood of words from her normally haughty daughter.

Zhara continued, “I sent one of my personal servants out. He found the dog. He took her to a vet, and she lived. She was crippled, but she has done well. I have loved her for many years. And she, me. I truly believe she is grateful. Her name is Charlotte—after the spider?” There was a deep silence for several moments and Zhara went on, “She reminds me constantly that we human females are like bitches in heat to most men. These men, who cannot see beyond their arrogance, go blind and senseless. And take pleasure from it. They care not a bit. When my father told me I had to marry that old sheikh, I knew I would be hurt and become crippled like Charlotte and be attacked like the dogs that attacked her. I knew almost all human males were no different from those dogs. That’s when I decided I had to escape. Thank you, Tahireh. Thank you. Thank you for getting my mother out too.”

Jani said nothing. She leaned forward and put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and Zhara grabbed the hand and clutched it for a moment. Jani sat back. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

There was a long silence. The border crossing was coming up. The whole thing was rather ludicrous as the gate had no fence attached, only miles and miles of flat desert stretching out for kilometers. The guard on both the Saudi side and the Kuwaiti side scrutinized the women carefully giving them very sexually explicit stares. The Kuwaiti guard muttered something about American husbands letting women, their wives even! run around on their own and how they should be ashamed of themselves. The papers Tahireh presented were not really read, and they were waved all the way through. In another few kilometers, Tahireh turned north onto a large highway and the Cruiser mixed in with heavy traffic. The women relaxed a little more.

On the outskirts of the air base, Tahireh glanced at Zhara and said, “I’m glad I was able to save you, both of you. Now you must help others. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes,” they both answered.

The MPs guarding the American military gate were far more cautious. All three women were told to get out of the Cruiser and stand aside while contact was made with Captain Lonnie Maxwell, the agent in charge of domestic personnel issues. Fifteen minutes passed before a thin blonde woman in an air force captain’s uniform drove a jeep up to the gate and screeched to a halt before jumping out. She looked tough as nails, all bone and taut, tan skin. “I was told there would be one man and two women,” she declared firmly.

Tahireh stepped forward. “I’m Tahireh Ibrahim. The haji is not with us. But here are the Princess Zhara i-Shibl and her mother, Jani Felice i-Shibl. We were able to get both of them out.”

“Good work, Ibrahim. I’m your contact. Captain Lonnie Maxwell. Now come along.”

Captain Maxwell motioned the women back into the Cruiser and ordered, “Follow me.” They drove several kilometers passing landing strips and hangers and bunkers. Finally, in front of an old barracks painted a hideous puke-brown, Captain Maxwell pulled to a stop. Tahireh parked beside her.

“You can come with me,” the Captain said and the four women entered the door marked Counselor. It was a small room filled with standard-issue-ugly military office furniture. Its only redeeming feature was a well-stocked kitchen toward the back. “Thirsty? Want some tea or coffee? Sit down, you must have had a hell of a trip. Can’t believe you drove all the way from the Grand Wadi.”

Zhara dropped into a chair and leaned back. “I’d die for a Seven-Up.”

“A strong cup of tea for me,” said Tahireh and went to the kitchen to help herself. The Captain fetched a soda from the fridge. “Mrs. i-Shibl? What would you like?”

“Tea also.”

“I’ll fix her some,” offered Tahireh.

The captain sat on the edge of a desk near Zhara. Her face had deep lines in it perhaps from years of living in the desert. Her eyes were an icy blue. “Forgive me for asking, but there was supposed to be a man with you? A haji?”

Tahireh was just setting the tea, cream, and sugar on a desk near Jani. With a thump, the tall Parisian model dropped into a chair, her face going pale. Suddenly tears flowed down her cheeks. “They gunned him down,” she said in a whisper.

“Who?”

“The head of Arab military security, Commander Yusef and his men,” answered Jani. “We’d reached the Cruiser that Tahireh and Habib had hidden in a bushy grove. The security men didn’t see us, thank God. But we could see them. The helicopter passed over first.”

“No! That’s terrible!” exclaimed Captain Maxwell. “We’ll file a complaint!”

“Won’t do any good,” said Zhara, shrugging her shoulders. “No one will talk.”

“So much of this goes on and no one says a thing,” Lonnie Maxwell sighed.

Jani laughed sharply, “It’s done in the Arab countries all the time. You’re tried, hung, and convicted before sunrise.”

“But a holy man!”

“They shot down two other holy men who were with him.” Jani went on, “We were awfully lucky to have been well hidden. Thanks to Tahireh.”

“I should say,” said the Captain. “Oh, I’ve been getting frantic calls from our contact, Siddhu Prakash? You should call him. Then you’ll all want to get a bath and sleep for a while? We’ve made arrangements for Princess Zhara here to fly out this evening. Obviously, we’ll tell the pilot he’s taking you too, Mrs. i-Shibl.”

“Are there passports for us?” asked Jani.

“We’ll have to come up with something for you, Mrs. i-Shibl, but Zhara has a new name all done up for her. Zoë. How’s that? Mrs. Zoë Feldenstein, a new bride who’s been visiting her husband.”

“I’ve become a Jew?” Zhara grinned. “What next?”

“American Jew at that,” Maxwell laughed, “from West Hollywood, California. I think we can have something ready for you, Mrs. i-Shibl. I hate to make you Zoë’s mother, but you two look so obviously related.”

“Jani, please.”

Captain Maxwell stood, “Until tonight. Got a preference for a new first name?”

“Might as well use Felice, that’s my Irish name,” said Jani.

“Nah. They’d know that. We’ll come up with something. Go get a bath, get some sleep. Then we take some passport photos. The third door on the right, the room’s all yours and the bathroom’s at the end of the hall.”

The two women, feeling their exhaustion, took their drinks and left the office. Captain Maxwell handed Tahireh the telephone.

Within moments, Siddhu was on the other end of the line, jabbering. “Are you all right? Is the princess with you?”

“Shhh,” said Tahireh. “Both the princess and her mother are with me, completely safe.” She went on to relate the death of Habib. Siddhu began shouting at Dr. Legesse, who came on the phone. “So he’s dead?” was her dejected comment.

“Yes, I saw him fall.” Tahireh took a deep breath. “What should I do next?”

“Get some rest,” said Dr. Legesse. “Then come back to Israel.”

“What about the Thai girl that Habib was going to help rescue here in Kuwait?” Tahireh inquired.

Siddhu spoke up, “Too dangerous. We are certain it is a trap. We have made efforts to convince Habib’s friend, Shamsi Granfa to back away from it. He laughs at us.”

“They will execute her,” insisted Tahireh, “you know they will.”

Halima Legesse said, “Yes. We want very much to save her. Our information tells us plans are underway to prevent anyone from stepping in on her behalf.”

“Who told you?”

“There is a man who has just come to Haifa,” Dr. Legesse explained, “a defector from the Agency named Russ Snow. The baron allowed him to find us. He thinks Snow may be valuable to us. Anyway, this man, Snow, used to be the computer expert in charge of making all the contacts between Tidewater and Yusef and Sadiq-Fath. He insists these men are all poised, waiting to strike.”

“They’ve already struck. It was an Arab Security Force helicopter that fired on the hajis,” responded Tahireh sadly. “Could I at least call Shamsi from the base? I could talk to him safely from here.”

Grudgingly, Dr. Legesse agreed. “You may call him. Nothing more, understand? We have lost one of our great heroes this week, we don’t want to lose another one.”

“I understand.” Tahireh sat back, “Now tell me about the baron. Has he found his ladylove?”

Siddhu laughed loudly, “He has. As of right now, as we speak, they are meeting.”

“God, I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that,” smiled the model. “One can only imagine. Which I will do as I take my bath and sleep. You send the baron my sincere apologies that we could not bring Habib with us. Oui?”

“Yes, Tahireh, you go rest. Thank the lord you made it.” Dr. Legesse hung up.

“You only talk to Shamsi Granfa,” Siddhu ordered kindly, “then come to Haifa. See you soon.” He too hung up.

Tahireh handed the phone back to Captain Maxwell. “I’ll go see if there’s any hot water left. Are there clothes in my room?”

“Just about any costume you need, Miss Ibrahim.” The captain walked with her to the office door. “You’re doing a great service and anything I can do to help, anything at all that’s in my power, you let me know.” She extended a bony hand and Tahireh shook it firmly.

“Thank you, Captain.”

Halima Legesse sat slumped in her chair with her head thrown back and eyes staring at the ceiling. It was a very uncommon pose for her and Siddhu did not know what to do. She had gone totally silent, unresponsive to his queries as to whom to call first. It would not have occurred to him to touch her or comfort her. That was not his place. Finally, at last, he decided the best thing to do was to call Dr. Legesse’s best and only friend, Rachel Bar-Fischer.

Russell was eating lunch in the communal dining room when Dr. Bar-Fischer entered the large room. She stopped to speak to a black, matronly woman whose daughters were digging into lunch as if starved. The woman was smiling with pleasure and grabbed Dr. Bar-Fischer’s hand like someone saved from drowning. It took a bit of pressure for the Israeli woman to pull away and when she had managed to do so, she did not speak to or respond to any of the other numerous greetings from staff or clients. With direct speed, she threaded her way through the tables and delicately sat down next to the Native American. Leaning close to him, she whispered, “Habib Mansur is dead.”

Russ slowly laid down his fork. After a moment, he asked, “And Tahireh Ibrahim?”

“She and the two women she rescued are alive and safe.”

He looked hard at the handsome Israeli doctor. “What do you want of me? I am sure you wouldn’t have told me this news if you didn’t want me to do something to help.”

Rachel Bar-Fischer nodded. “Siddhu thinks maybe…perhaps Commander Yusef will send an official notification to the Agency and perhaps to Darughih Sadiq-Fath by computer. He wants to know if that assumption is correct and if so…”

“…can I retrieve it?” Russ finished her question.

She nodded.

“Yes. In addition,” Russ went on, “the chances are very good that Yusef will send photos of the body, maybe even of the autopsy. He likes to do that sort of thing, sort of as proof he actually accomplished what he said.” Russ pushed his tomato, onion, and olive salad away. There was an herb in the dressing that was too mysterious for his palate. He turned to face the doctor. “He’d contact Agent Tidewater at the Agency first, as Siddhu guessed, and then Tidewater will notify Sadiq-Fath. Yusef never contacts Sadiq-Fath directly, or vice versa. Those two guys have never spoken or written each other directly. Ever. Not in the cards. Too risky. They use agents or better, they talk through Tidewater.”

“Can you retrieve anything for us?” Bar-Fischer appealed to him. She had turned away from Russ’s eyes and put both her hands palm down on the table.

He gently laid one large hand on top of one of her small ones. “Yes. Get me on a computer right now. We don’t want the files to be too deep. That would take me hours to search out. I gotta get on now.”

She nodded. “Come with me.”

A half an hour later, Russ stood in front of a computer. He waved his hands dismissively, “I can’t work with this piece of crap.”

Siddhu cringed.

Devi, the receptionist-secretary chortled softly, “Told you, Siddhu. I’ve told you that for months. This machine is garbage.”

The American Indian looked at the East Indian and said, “Right now, we go to a computer store and we get what I need.”

In the palms up, hands out gesture Siddhu Prakash used to show hopelessness, he responded, “We don’t have that kind of money!”

“How expensive will it be?” asked Rachel Bar-Fischer, “I might be able to get it through the drug treatment funds. We’d have to submit a purchase order.”

Russ laughed sharply. “No time for that nonsense. I’ll buy it. There’s an account I can use that Tidewater won’t have traces on.”

Siddhu shuffled his feet.

“Now!” demanded Russ. “Those files will get submarined and we won’t get access.”

“Wait here a minute,” Rachel told Siddhu and ducked out the door.

Devi lifted the phone and pushed in the numbers to summon Taqi on his pager. When it went through, she smiled and set the phone down. To Siddhu’s horror and Devi’s glee, Russ began clearing the table of the old computer system. Devi motioned toward a small table in the corner and Russ smiled. The two quickly pulled that table into a U-shaped configuration with the desk and long table already there and Devi was instantly on her hands and knees pulling plugs and phone wires.

“Is that the only surge protection you have?” Russ asked her as she held up a multiple set plug.

“Yep. It’s a wonder we haven’t fried everything in the office.” Devi motioned toward the printer, “Can we get a real color printer too?”

Russ grinned, “Yes. But you will want to keep that old clunker to do files and long print jobs. The ink is much less expensive.”

“Gotcha,” Devi acknowledged and patted the big machine.

“You can buy us a good computer outfit?” Dr. Legesse strode into the office, Rachel beside her.

“No problem. I’ll have the trust fund investment managers write it off as a donation, which it is.”

“You would do this for us?” Dr. Legesse seemed nonplussed.

“Not a big deal. We have to give away a percentage of that money every year or we don’t meet the trust requirements. Quit worrying about it.” Russ zipped up the front of his jacket and waved at Devi to come with him. “Let’s do it. No more pussy-footing around.”

The front door opened at that precise moment and Taqi, hair mussed, looked in. “We go somewhere?”

“Yes,” said Bar-Fischer grabbing Halima’s hand to silence her. “Yes. Go buy the computer.”

“I will go with you,” insisted Siddhu.

“You don’t know a modem from a monkey,” laughed Devi.

“I want to come,” insisted the little man.

“Don’t argue,” said Russ and led the way out the door.

Gently, firmly, Rachel pulled Halima into Halima’s office and impelled her into a chair at the desk. Rachel sat down beside her, leaned toward her, and put a hand on the telephone. “My friend, it is time to call Carl-Joran.” Halima looked at her with so much pain in her eyes that Rachel began to cry.

***

They were sitting down to lunch when the call came. Gustav, on his creaky old legs, hurried to Carl-Joran’s side and in a whisper told him that Dr. Legesse was on the phone. Carl-Joran glanced at the assembled family, Bonnie, Trisha, Sture, and said, “Be right back.”

Trish was sitting across from Sture and they glanced at each other with another of those inquiring dart-like looks that indicated their complete puzzlement over their new status. Bonnie and Carl-Joran had told them last night. Trisha had taken the news with high amusement and, with a loud braying laugh, promptly slapped Sture on the shoulder. He had turned beet-red and croaked, “Far, hur kann det ga?”

His father had smiled sadly and responded, “So war det.”

Reluctantly, Sture hugged Trisha, released her quickly saying, “Mina nya syster.” To his father he said, shaking his head, “I wondered that she acted so much like a Swedish woman.”

“Ja so,” his dad agreed sagely and broke out the konjak, a particularly good five-star brand from Armenia. The toasts went on until they were all tipsy.

The next morning had been met with good cheer. Sture announced at breakfast that he was finished with being on a forced vacation and would return to the Karolinska Institute that evening. Trisha decreed her intention to go back to California within the week. She had already put too much of a burden on the substitute teacher and besides, there was a very important basketball game coming up the end of the month. Trisha loved all this adventure, true, but her true role in life was to coach. So she announced.

Bonnie and Carl-Joran just grinned with that look satisfied lovers have the morning after and held hands.

That the newly conjoined family had all gathered for lunch was an accident of timing. Astrid had fixed her split pea soup, the thick kind that almost had to be cut with a knife to eat, and Sture had returned from skiing with Katarina early. He told them that the Arab contingent of agents had followed him and he had felt very uncomfortable putting Katarina in harm’s way.

Wanting exercise but not wanting to go skiing again, Trisha had found a basketball in the stables. After only a few minutes outside in the bitter cold, she had discovered to her consternation that the basketball froze and cracked and her eyelids and nose hairs were frosted. Krister had come out and shaken his head at her, indicating that she was crazy. He had laughed at the basketball’s plight.

Bonnie and Carl-Joran spent the morning talking with Inge Person. No words could describe the look on the advokat’s face when she walked into the baron’s office to discover him alive. When power of speech finally returned to her, she shook Bonnie Ixey’s hand with appreciation saying, “It is good to put a face to the voice.” Signing the accounts into Bonnie’s name, with an addendum that the will had not yet been probated, therefore such action was only temporary to release funds, took merely a little over an hour. Inge Person promised to deal with the hated Algbak herself. “It would be a pleasure,” said the advokat, “to straighten out that woman. Of course I will not tell her about your being alive, my dear Baron, but I will be more than happy to install Bonnie as heir apparent…fur narvarande…a little while.”

Now, Carl-Joran rose from the lunch table and strode ahead of Gustav leaving the retainer to make his halting way down the long hall. Sitting at his desk in his big office, he gingerly picked up the receiver. Halima told him immediately, without preamble.

Carl-Joran was only able to say, “I want to see any photos Snow is able to retrieve.”

“I will tell him that,” Dr. Legesse agreed, “He can e-mail them, I am sure.”

“That should be no problem,” said Carl-Joran softly. “And Tahireh said Yusef couldn’t take the body? They say it’s still with the Bedouin?”

“That’s what she told us.”

“Okay. Maybe we can find that tribe. Now you tell Miss Tahireh Ibrahim that I insist she come back to Haifa and not go to help Shamsi. She is not to try to rescue that Thai girl. We cannot lose another fine operative.”

“I have told her and I will tell her you have ordered it,” Halima Legesse sighed, “but you know as well as I how headstrong that girl is.”

“Ah, yes, that is why she is one of our best people. Okay. One question more. May I come alive? Enough of this being dead. I will take Bonnie to Switzerland and we will see the bankers. We will meet Freda Englich and the women. I want to hear the mother’s story for myself.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. The doctor had been struck when she was too weak to retaliate with strength against this very powerful man. Slowly she managed to say, “No.”

He swore in Swedish, “Fy fan!”

“Don’t you swear!” Halima Legesse came to, shaken awake by the words. “Listen to what I say: not yet. We are very close, Carl-Joran, but not yet. We want to have Sadiq-Fath out in the open and if you move too soon, all our work, Habib’s sacrifice will have been in vain.”

“That’s a low blow,” growled Carl-Joran.

“The truth though, it is the truth.” She was regaining her determination. “Still, if you can go to Switzerland incognito, you and Bonnie, you could meet the princess and her mother. Then you could come here. Can you do that and not be caught? Or recognized?”

“Certainly.” He sounded insulted by her doubt.

The sigh of resignation that came over the phone was almost palpable. “I will agree to your doing that, Baron. Nothing more. Straight to Geneva. Straight here.”

“I promise,” said the big man.

“Until we see each other,” the doctor said and hung up.

Bonnie was standing in the doorway. The look in her eyes told Carl-Joran that she had been there some time. He motioned to her to come to him, which she did. “A very good friend of mine has been murdered,” he whispered, “doing work for Emigrant Women.”

Bonnie threw her arms around his neck. “It wasn’t me, was it? It wasn’t because I didn’t arrive sooner and get money to him?”

“No, no, no.” He pulled her close. “Money would have made no difference. The Arab commander simply shot him down. That is all. He shot down two other holy men who were with Habib, just like that. No compunction.”

“How horrible!” said Bonnie in shock.

“We are leaving for Geneva.”

“We?”

“You and I, tonight. Rather, we will take the four a.m. shuttle from Vasteras to Oslo and the SwissAir from there to Geneva. You must pack.” Carl-Joran stood up. He had also decided that the time had come to clean up the local environment. His son’s medical studies were important and his new daughter should not be bothered by those pesky agents following them around. He rang for Krister and started for the door. He paused to hug Bonnie. “Don’t take much and don’t pack anything you would miss if we cannot retrieve the baggage or if we get picked up. All right?”

“I understand,” said Bonnie, hugging him in return. She laughed sharply. “Two weeks ago I would have been outraged at being told such a thing. I guess it takes only once to learn the reality of being stalked, of having someone hate you enough to kill you. An enlightenment I owe all to you, my dear…husband.”

He shrugged. “It is the Iranian Darughih Sadiq-Fath who has the more murderous operatives tracking us. He does not hate us. He does not have that kind of emotion. It is business for him. Strictly business. His pride has been hurt because we in EW, especially I, have been able to elude him for so long. No, not hatred.”

“I don’t understand,” said Bonnie as they walked down the long hallway.

Carl-Joran’s face became somber, “Don’t try. This kind of hell and deceit does not become you.”

“Lies do not become you either,” she said up to him.

A crooked smile spread across his face, “All of my life is true.”

“Even the lies?”

“Especially the lies.”

Darughih Quddus Sadiq-Fath gloated. “Are the agents in place?” he asked Muhit, stepping into the bulletproof Mercedes. The car still dripped steaming water from its morning wash. The driver closed the door behind the darughih.

As the car pulled away from the heavily guarded residence, Muhit, bundled in a thick bomber jacket, turned in his seat to look at his boss. “We have reached an understanding with the judges who are to try the Milind Pandharpurkar case. The verdict, and the punishment, should be swift.”

“That was a given regardless of our interference,” said Sadiq-Fath, wishing he had put on his warm overcoat. “Driver, turn on some heat back here.” Around them, covering the higher suburbs of Tehran, a thin layer of snow frosted the lovely gardens and trees. House servants were busily sweeping steps and patios. A few maids were slipping and sliding their way to market. Here and there, the big black Mercedes had to circumvent cars and trucks that had not made it up, or down, an incline.

Almost immediately, warm air filled the back of the Mercedes and Sadiq-Fath relaxed. He hated to be cold. “We have information from the prison guards that there is a man who is trying to rescue the Pandharpurkar girl, he’s been dealt with?”

“Shamsi Granfa is his name. He is under constant surveillance and his phone is tapped.” Ali Muhit watched the road.

“Is this man connected to EW? That isn’t clear to me,” Sadiq-Fath commented.

The old soldier pushed his chin down onto his chest. “It isn’t clear to us either.” His hand lay, out of long habit, on the butt of the 9mm pistol in the holster on his belt. “We don’t believe he is one of their regular operatives. He’s new on the scene and his calls to them just began with this case. In fact, his calls went first to Lori Dubbayaway in Bangkok, whom we are certain is EW. We do believe he will be contacted by the EW administrator, Prakash, about the Pandharpurkar girl and that EW money will be put in Granfa’s hands sometime this afternoon. Of course, that will be too late for Milind.” Muhit leaned onto his hand on the gun butt at this waist. “There is another servant girl in prison. One EW will feel compelled to try and rescue. We’re hoping this Granfa bloke will also want her.”

“Why?”

“She is pregnant by a Kuwaiti dignitary who has asked that she disappear.”

“This dignitary can’t send the girl home?” The question was mere curiosity. Certainly Sadiq-Fath did not care one way or another.

“Too dangerous. Her father is a low-wage clerk in the Thai government, Bureau of Parks, I believe, and the mother is a teacher. He and his wife might come after the baby’s father for money, not that they would be able to collect. Still, it would get to Amnesty and the other humanitarian organizations and cause unpleasantness for the dignitary.” The car was pulling into the courtyard of the security agency office building. Muhit unlocked his seat belt and put on his hat.

The driver parked and jumped out to open the darughih’s door. Together, Sadiq-Fath and the aged assistant walked into the tightly guarded building. It was cold in here also and Sadiq-Fath grumbled, “Why must I be chilled everywhere I go?” He shouted at a nearby secretary, “Have the heat turned up.”

Eyes averted, the man replied, “The furnace is not working, sir, we have been freezing all morning.”

“Has a repair man not been called?” asked Sadiq-Fath in astonishment.

“I believe so, sir, yessir,” said the secretary, cringing, “I can check to see what is happening if you want?”

“Find the building manager. You aren’t responsible for heat, he is. Have him report to me.”

“Immediately, sir,” the man responded and scurried away.

As they entered the darughih’s office, two other male secretaries were plugging in space heaters. It was a couple degrees warmer in this room already. “Thank you,” Sadiq-Fath acknowledged as the two men left. Turning his rear end to a heater, Quddus Sadiq-Fath looked at his assistant. “So it is all in place?”

“We will plan to pick up Granfa, and whoever else we can catch, interrogate them, and hold them until the people at EW give us the location of the women they have taken from Iran.”

The darughih nodded. “And then we execute Granfa and this whomever person, perhaps after a trial of some sort?”

“That’s the plan, sir,” smiled Muhit. “I personally will bring Granfa and any associate here to Iran and we will execute them.”

Jani’s hair had been cut and bleached and dyed a charcoal salt and pepper. Tahireh had expertly applied makeup and Captain Maxwell had chosen an ostentatious pantsuit that screamed Rodeo Drive. The addition of oversized earrings and a clunky necklace finished the job. When Jani stepped in front of the full-length mirror, she gasped.

Zhara covered her mouth to keep from exploding in laughter.

“But look at you!” exclaimed Jani. The two stood side by side. Zhara’s long dark hair was sun-bleached blonde with a streak of flashy silver and perfectly straight, her exposed skin a creamy tan. She looked like a teenage model right off Malibu beach. Her attire consisted of tights and an open-knit, baby doll top over a turtleneck jersey and high-heeled sandals. There was an engagement ring and a wedding ring on her finger. She hugged her mom with one arm and peered into her passport with the other hand. “Mrs. Zoë Feldenstein. Eighteen…no, just turned nineteen. Born in Hollywood, California on Christmas day. What a blast!”

Lonnie Maxwell handed Jani her passport. “You are Mrs. Myrna Feldenstein. A widow from West Hollywood, you and your daughter-in-law are going home after a visit to your son Paul, who’s a pilot serving in the air force. Memorize everything. Your birthday, birthplace, all the countries you’ve visited. Do those rings fit?”

Jani…a.k.a. Mrs. Feldenstein Sr. twisted the diamond ring on her ring finger and then flicked through the stamped pages of her new passport. “My goodness, I have certainly traveled a lot!”

“You’ll notice that most of them are takeoff points for cruises. You’re husband hunting.” Lonnie grinned. “Think you can manage that?”

“No more husbands, thank you,” Jani laughed in return and picked up the large handbag to sort through the rest of her stuff. There were also two entire carryon backpacks for Jani and Zhara to explore.

Zhara had shaken out her small fanny pack purse and was going through her new possessions. “When do we leave?”

“In an hour. You’ll be flying out on a military transport to Frankfurt, Germany. There you’ll go by taxi to the civilian Frankfurt airport and get onto a Lufthansa flight to Geneva. Mrs. Englich will meet you in Geneva. She’ll take you to her private school and there you’ll stay.”

Tahireh, who had gone to the commissary after finishing Jani’s makeup, came back. She dropped a couple newspapers onto the table. “The Saudi newspaper has an article about the death of the hajis. Only two paragraphs and it says they were murdered by Bedouin discontents. Sort of a silly thing to say since two of the hajis are known to be Bedouins.” She pointed down at the women’s photos on the front page of the paper. Jani was in full mufti standing next to her husband and the one of Zhara showed her in school uniform. Tahireh smiled with satisfaction. “You turned out well. No one could possibly recognize you. Come on, we better get you to the plane.”

“I can take them,” Lonnie Maxwell said and gathered up her uniform jacket and jeep keys. “Do up those packs, put the passports in your purses, let’s go!”

“God, I have butterflies in my stomach again,” exclaimed Zhara-Zoë.

Jani-Myrna had no time to grieve any more. A flash of emotional pain went through her and that was all she allowed herself. Quickly, she zipped up the packs and loaded them onto the wheeled carryall. “Ready to go!”

Captain Maxwell turned to Tahireh Ibrahim. “You need sleep. You need rest. I expect to find you doing both when I get back.”

Tahireh smiled and nodded. The moment the jeep engine started, Tahireh picked up the phone and dialed Granfa’s cell phone number.

Shamsi Granfa sweated. In his late thirties, he looked years older. Overweight, flushed, he came away from the small grocery store that was his secret currency exchange depot. Anyone who did business in Arab countries had their source for receiving and sending foreign currency. It was a necessity. He had thought about running a money exchange from his own business location, but exchanges were often raided by the security forces. His business affairs had to be kept absolutely free of government interference, and so far, because of the clientele who sought him out, he had been left strictly to his own devices. This was good for what he called his extracurricular activity of rescuing victims of the Kuwaiti purges.

His familiarity with the word extracurricular came from a long career as a student at the University of Washington. Of all things, he had a doctor of science in nursing and pathology. Years he’d spent in Seattle attending university—years! to keep himself from being thrown out by the American HS, back to Iraq and certain death as a Kurd. When he did get his final degree, he also picked up American citizenship, which allowed him to come to Kuwait as an investor three years ago. He still felt like a foreigner in Kuwait and he probably always would.

Sometimes memories assailed him. He would watch his mother dying in the gas attack on that lonely mountain pass in north Iraq while he and his younger sister hid in a tiny hole in the cliff. Everyone in the group perished. He and his mother and his older sister, Rané, were trying to join up with his father and his two brothers in Turkey. But his two brothers never made it out of Turkey; they were shot as spies. Shamsi and Rané nearly starved on that cold pass. Only by the grace of some higher power did a herdsman find them and feed them. That amazing man managed to slip them over the Turkish border disguised as sheep. Allah be blessed, that herdsman had wrapped sheepskins over them and had them crawl, in the dark, past distant border guards and into a border village to the man’s cousin’s house. To this day, Shamsi retched at the smell of raw lanolin.

They had not got off free though. The cousin had raped Rané. They’d run again. A missionary family from Seattle had gathered them in and sent them to America. Sounds simple in retrospect. Simple, except for the recurring bouts of terror.

Rané, actually, was all he had left of his family after his father died last year. She had managed to get into University of California at Fresno six months ago and was supremely happy in her college studies. One of the reasons he did the work he did was to have money to send to her. Thus, in every way that counted, he was alone and he hated being alone in the world. He wanted family, he wanted to belong to something, to someone. Maybe he’d take better care of himself when that something or someone became genuine.

Shamsi hurried along the busy sidewalks. It was noon and offices and stores had closed for midday prayers. Allah u abha! came the first call from the muezzin tower and many of the people around him knelt, facing Mecca. Religion was another thing he’d cast off when he cast off Iraqi citizenship.

His cell phone vibrated. He looked at the caller ID. Not one he knew…wait, it was a prefix for the American air base. He answered, confirmed who it was and said in careful measured instructions, “Yes. The alley behind the courthouse, south side. Dress as we agreed.”

This too was good. He’d long wanted to tie in with the EW’s cause, and now it was doubly official. He not only had money committed to him, he had an operative.