CHAPTER 3: STEALING WOMEN AWAY

We know Baron Hermelin is dead because our Egyptian operatives sent us a copy of his death certificate,” said the lieutenant, dropping the faxes onto his commander’s desk, “so why did Barbara Monday travel to Jerusalem yesterday? Who from EW did she contact now that Hermelin is gone?”

The sun would be setting soon over the golden dunes outside his office window. Commander Gurgin Ali Yusef, chief of the Saudi Security Forces, reluctantly moved his gaze from the beautiful desert world outside to his lieutenant standing in front of his desk. The craggy faced chief tapped his manicured fingernails on his big, expensive oak desk before stirring the faxes around and regarding his underling with intensity. “When did you find out she was in Israel?”

The lieutenant put his hands behind his back. “We didn’t, actually. An operative who happened to be at the Boston airport spotted her in the El Al security enclosure. The only El Al plane leaving that afternoon was to Tel Aviv. He called our operative in Bethlehem who bribed a tour bus operator who found out Monday went to Jerusalem with a tour group specifically to the Christian church on Golgotha.”

“But why?” Commander Yusef pounded a meaty fist on the desk. “Is she arranging to take more women from our country?” His black eyes seethed with possessive anger. “Our women!”

“There was no way to follow her in Jerusalem, sir, it was late evening just before curfew and the Israeli soldiers were patrolling the area heavily,” the troubled lieutenant answered. “All we had was the Boston operative’s assurance that she arrived back in Boston yesterday and immediately caught the train to New York. Our staff at the UN says she is in her office this morning.”

“Why can’t we get someone into Haifa to watch EW?” muttered Commander Yusef. “Damn! It would make things much easier for us!”

Unable to respond, the lieutenant grimaced.

“You may go,” Yusef barked, “and bring me any update on Monday’s movements.”

“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant slid out of the office, relieved to be gone from the hard old man’s presence.

The reddish gold light of the late afternoon shadowed Commander Yusef’s sun-dried face making the wrinkles and creases look like saber cuts. He knew his men regarded him as a brutal old warrior. So be it. Discipline was more important than any other quality in his command. The rule of order, the rule of the Koran, the rule of male authority, his authority had to be maintained. Coming to a decision he was reluctant to make, he picked up the telephone. “Faruq,” he growled at his personal aide on the other end, “get me Tidewater.”

“Yessir,” the meek man in the outer office responded and immediately punched the code for Virginia, USA and obtaining a satellite connect, put in Agent Marion Tidewater’s private number.

The secretaries were busily fussing with coffeepots and plates of doughnuts as the unlikely looking Tidewater came along the hallway. Unlikely because, with his closely trimmed black beard and moustache, balding head, chunky nose and stout body, he would have appeared more likely to be wearing a yarmulke and heading into a synagogue for a bet midrash. His ancestry, though, was not member of the tribe; his ancestry was linked to one of the multitude of the original Youngs of Utah. That is, his guiding light was Moroni, not Moses. There was a strong likelihood that this had helped him acquire one of the top positions in the Agency, one that specially dealt with Arab intelligence as the requirements for clean living plus the attitude toward women were quite similar and acknowledged by the powers-that-be higher up.

Standing with one foot out of Tidewater’s office, phone to ear, his newly assigned personal assistant and computer geek, Russ Snow, waved frantically at him to hurry. Tidewater picked up his pace, smiled only briefly at his secretary as she put a cup of coffee in his hand. The dancing Snow, covering the mouthpiece, held out the phone as his boss entered the office.

“Yusef,” whispered the young man, pointing at the phone.

“Ahhh,” said Tidewater, seating himself. Then with a cold smile, he said into the phone, “Commander, good morning, or rather afternoon to you.” He listened for several minutes and, pursing his thin, grayish-pale pink lips, responded, “No, I don’t think they’re after Saudi women this time. Monday deals mostly with our women, with American women. Remember how she and the baron got the senator’s wife out, got her into Costa Rica as a butterfly collector before we could even send an agent to the Miami airport? Monday’s sneaky as a coyote.”

He listened for a moment before saying, “Uh, coyotes are varmints, sorta like wild dogs. We got ‘em all over the West. They kill sheep. Really sneaky critters.” He listened again. “Right. I thank you very much for letting me know. And I especially thank you for that update on the Hermelin’s death. He was a real pain in the butt.” With deliberateness almost of intention, Tidewater said sympathetically into the phone, “Too bad we can’t get rid of the whole Emigrant Women outfit.”

He paused, listened. “Right. I’ll see what my sources come up with. Yeah, I’d like to know more about the hit, like who did it. I’ll send him a thank you card.” Tidewater laughed. “Okay, Commander Yusef, talk at ya later.”

Snow, who had been making himself unobtrusive next to the filing cabinet, turned around. “What’s Emigrant Women? And who’s this baron person?”

Marion Tidewater twiddled his pencil and regarded the tall, dark-haired young man with envy. Tidewater was short and he had never had much hair and he certainly was losing his youth. Time did that to a man. To women too, the thought of his wife and twenty-five years of marriage flashed through his mind. And Snow? Although deeply tanned, Russell Snow was most probably one of the Arizona Snows, once looked at askance by the Mormon Church as renegades because of their avowed determination to maintain polygamous marriages. About ten years ago, negotiations about the situation, and the polygamous men’s agreement to at least be quiet about the marriages, allowed the church to take them back in good standing. Still it wasn’t wise to give away too much information to an underling…just tell him what he could already read in the reports.

“Baron Carl-Joran Hermelin.” Tidewater pronounced each name as close to how he imagined a Swede would say it, thus making them sound like something off the Muppet show. “He’s one of those do-gooders who wrecks everybody else’s way of life. Close as we can tell, about five years ago he lost his wife to cancer. Instead of just getting married again, he set out to help…to help women,” Tidewater related in an almost puzzled tone. “Guess he thought of himself as some sort of Schweitzer or Wallenberg or something. Anyway, he has, or had, a vast fortune, even a castle in Sweden. Maybe it was Legesse who talked him into helping. Dr. Halima Legesse is the brains of Emigrant Women. She’s a black doctor, a gyn-ob who was exiled from Ethiopia ‘cause of her stand against the government’s war over there. She settled in Haifa, Israel, and started giving aid to women on the run. Emigrant Women or EW. It’s a society, an organization for taking women out of a country’s borders illegally. At first it was sorta like a battered women’s shelter. Now it’s a damned international underground railroad. They pull families apart, take a woman right away from her husband. Just like that.” Tidewater snapped his fingers and shook his head in disbelief. “What gall to take a wife right out of the family!”

“Maybe if the woman’s really in danger…?” Snow offered tentatively.

“She should get the hell out and call the police, let them handle it,” said Tidewater with certainty.

“I’ve heard sometimes it can be pretty bad,” the young man said, thinking of what his sister’s friend on the reservation had gone through. “Some men go nutso.”

“Guess there are a few crazy fellows out there,” Tidewater looked over his desk for his phone list, “but overall if a woman’s a good wife, a man’s gonna be happy.” He picked up a couple files. No list.

Snow decided not to pursue his side of the question. Obviously his new boss wasn’t hearing what Snow wanted to get across and Snow had learned well from his elders. Listen well. Listen until the man wants to talk no more. So Russ Snow asked in a helpful manner, “What are you searching for? It may be something I put in a drawer.”

“My phone list.”

“Top drawer on the right.”

Marion Tidewater pulled open the drawer, “Ahhh.” He flipped to S and found Sadiq-Fath, Quddus Sadiq-Fath, the darughih of the Iranian secret police. Sadiq-Fath had once translated darughih as high constable, which was a leftover from the British rule of years ago. Of course, the weasely, vicious man was also a graduate of the Agency’s best training schools and by providential circumstance, in the same graduating class as Tidewater. Perhaps Quddus was a friend, if that relationship could be said to exist among these ruthless men. Such is the way of international security forces. Tidewater waved the open book at Snow. “Get me this guy. It’s past work hours in Iran but he can be found. He’ll talk to me.”

Snow took the proffered address book and nodded. “Will do, sir.” As he stepped from the room, the briefest of speculations went through his head about why his boss was hotly against an organization that helped women emigrate, how such an organization could be considered subversive. It was merely an intellectual kind of questioning though. Russ would know when he had a need to know or when he decided he needed to know he’d set some forces moving through his Internet connections.

He punched up a satellite link to Tehran, Iran, and didn’t even look in his boss’s book. Russ had been hired because of his expertise with computers and as far as he was concerned, any idiot could find any of the phone numbers or e-mail addresses to contact the darughih of Iran without the use of paper.

With long, loping strides, Carl-Joran jogged downhill, cutting across the tightly curved road back and forth, past the little markets busy on this Monday afternoon. He stopped, puffing lightly, at his favorite hole-in-the-wall cafe and was quickly served Turkish coffee and a huge plate of bagels with assorted fillings. This coffee was the real stuff, as an American might say. The cup was not more than two inches across and it truly would keep one of the small sugar spoons upright if stuck into the grounds at the bottom. The rich taste was due to the raw honey-sugar that had been brewed into the blend. Carl-Joran stood against the high table with all the other customers getting their after-lunch caffeine fix, and sipped slowly, savoring the tiny helping. He felt the crinch across his forehead as the caffeine went to his brain.

A horn, deep and sonorous, booppped outside, and turning, Carl-Joran saw the familiar cream-white Mercedes-Benz. Taqi had found him. He grabbed up the last bagel, stuffed it with vinegar soaked cucumbers, wrapped a paper towel napkin around it, and dashed to the car. Pulling open the back door, he bent way down to crawl in, one long leg at a time.

“Good day, Baron,” a richly masculine voice said from within.

Carl-Joran, his bagel dripping vinegar, squeezed onto the seat. “How are you, Haji Mansur?”

The solid, powerfully centered man taking up the rest of back seat was the baron’s age, though his full beard and curly hair already had gray streaks. His long abba, a soft black wool full-length robe, was pulled around him for warmth and on his head was a low, hat-like dark red turban, with checked scarf about his neck. This was the proper, conservative clothing for a haji; that is, a Muslim holy man of the Sunni tradition who had made the pilgrimage to Mecca.

Carl-Joran breathed in the smell of the man, much like a horse lover or a farmer relishes the enveloping odors of a familiar environment. Habib Mansur always filled his space with the gentle aroma of sandalwood. The sable brown eyes held the quality of an old wolf, wise, unyielding, and fearless. Such a man would have looked not the least out of place riding beside the Prophet, sword in hand, galloping across the plains of Arabia centuries ago.

“I am in fine health this day,” he exclaimed, slapping his knee. “We will have a good meeting.”

“Yes, undoubtedly,” agreed Carl-Joran and how could he not agree? Habib had been personally responsible for the rescue of a half-dozen women from the harems of the Saudi and Kuwaiti sheikhs. His being along today meant they were ready to go into one of those countries again. And why would a conservative Sunni rescue women from the very practices his religion embraced?

Carl-Joran knew of the sister Habib had lost to a violent husband years ago. Despite his influence, Habib had been unable to break the codes which kept the girl of sixteen in the clutches of the older man until she died in childbirth of…officially the diagnosis had been miscarriage. But Halima had told Carl-Joran it was massive internal bleeding from being beaten so badly. And the reason for that final beating?

Halima had looked away when she related to Carl-Joran that the doctor, after an ultrasound ordered by the husband to determine the sex of the child at six months, had told the husband, not the girl, that she was carrying a girl child. In a rage, the husband had decided to force her to abort. How ironic that the modern technical device should give the husband the power to kill for such an ancient reason, Halima had murmured.

As the big Mercedes whirred down the steep hill, Carl-Joran leaned forward. “Taqi, you okay this morning?”

“Very good, Baron,” responded the little Palestinian. He didn’t turn around as they were approaching the thoroughfare at the bottom of the hill where they would turn to go to the harbor. Traffic was heavy along here and Taqi concentrated on changing lanes so they could scoot in behind a lorry that was also heading toward the docks. It took only moments to reach the big brick building that housed the EW’s headquarters. On the outside, this building looked exactly like other warehouses along the water. No sign announced it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you do?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

The men promptly sat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Haji…” Carl-Joran began to protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So how…?” Carl-Joran began.

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

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

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

“Mr. Shamsi Granfa,” interjected Habib.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded in agreement.

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

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

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

“It is better than Friday,” Siddhu commented with his Indian accent, “because everyone would say, Thank goodness it is Friday!”

The group laughed as if humor would help ease the load each had just taken on, the burden of life and death, the seriousness of their missions.

“Who chose the name Valentine,” asked Habib Mansur, standing, “for Monday’s lady?”

“Probably Monday chose it,” said Carl-Joran, getting to his feet.

“So it is Monday’s Valentine!” Siddhu giggled. “We must go out this Monday and send money to Monday for her Valentine.”

Everyone laughed and the Swede responded, “We’ll do that, Siddhu. I’ll meet you at the Swiss bank after I have a haircut.” Carl-Joran waved at the two women, “See you soon.”

“You stay out of trouble, Baron!” Halima insisted loudly.

“Of course!” he responded lightly.

“Goodbye,” said Habib and bowed formally to the women.

“Good luck,” said both women simultaneously and they watched the two men exit and listened to their footsteps go down the hall. “I wish,” said Rachel Bar-Fischer, “I could have found a man like the baron when I was younger.”

“Wouldn’t any woman!” whispered Halima Legesse rising to her full height.

Siddhu Singh Prakash spread out his printouts and prepared to brief Halima on the further intricacies of their present funding status.

Darughih Quddus Sadiq-Fath slid one hairy leg off the plush sleeping mat and was about to push the satin cover aside when a timid knock came at the big door. That should be dinner arriving. He leaned back and patted the slender leg of the boy on the bed next to him. “Put on a robe and set our table.”

“Yes, master,” said the beautiful lad, hopping from the other side of the bed and wrapped a kaftan, as flowing and white as the sand outside, around himself.

A more confident knock came, the door opened a crack and a gravely old voice announced, “Sadiq-Fath, sir, you have a phone call.”

That would be his second in command, Ali Fur Muhit. The boy, poised near the knee-high, expensively carved serving table, glanced inquiringly at the man. With a firm signal, Sadiq-Fath waved the boy out of the room. The boy hurried into the bath area and closed the door behind him. Sadiq-Fath pulled a silk shirt over his head and a half robe around his waist.

He said to the door, “Come in.”

Two people entered, the servant girl with dinner and Muhit, the crusty warrior who’d been Sadiq-Fath’s assistant for so many years he was a virtual institution. Ali’s eyes were clouded. Cataracts. Years of being out on the desert, one war after another, fighting his commander’s battles. There would come a day when he’d have to go in for surgery and Sadiq-Fath knew the man would have to be ordered to go.

Muhit had a cell phone in his hand. “Call coming in from Tidewater in Virginia. He’s got news about EW.”

Sadiq-Fath’s whole face screwed up. “I’ll take it.” He reached out his hand.

Ali Muhit said in rough English into the phone, “Mr. Snow, you have Mr. Tidewater on the phone, yes?” He then handed it to his commander. “One minute, sir.”

The servant girl, a pretty one from the Philippines, was standing patiently by the serving table, tray in hand. Sadiq-Fath motioned her to put it down and leave. She did. Ali Muhit bent over and lifted the lids of the plates letting the wonderful aromas of cumin, nutmeg, and saffron escape.

“Help yourself,” said Sadiq-Fath, sitting again on the edge of the bed as he put the phone to his ear. Ali immediately dug into the big bowls of steaming food. The phone clicked on the other end and there was the familiar voice.

“Hello? Is this Quddus?”

“Yes, Marion. And how is Mr. Tidewater tonight?” Sadiq-Fath’s English was not only American, but with a Los Angeles accent that demonstrated his years spent at California State University in San Jose as a student of criminology.

“Hey there old buddy! It’s darned near lunch time here,” came Marion Tidewater’s voice enthusiastically. “How ya doing?”

“I’m fine, Marion. How’s it going with you?” Sadiq-Fath had a smile drawn tightly across his teeth. He had let this man consider him a friend since their Agency training together. He was useful. It cost Quddus a lot in tolerance. He would much rather have dispensed with the overbearing, crass, ugly little American.

“I’m just fine, but I wanted to share some hot news with you. Get your input.”

“My assistant says it is about Emigrant Women. You know I am always interested in that organization.” Quddus moved to the table, unable to resist the food that Ali was consuming.

“Well, first,” came Tidewater’s words, “we gotta discuss Barbara Monday.”

“Monday!” Quddus growled, and then winked at Ali as he lowered himself to a cross-legged sitting position across from him, “That American whore. I will have her in jail one fine day, my private jail…”

“She went to Jerusalem.”

“Hmmm.” The Persian commander made his tone more neutral, and the food, which had halted halfway to his mouth, continued.

Tidewater said, “She met with someone from EW, what else? But since our good ol’ buddy Hermelin’s taken care of, who would she have contacted?”

Quddus swallowed the excellent dahl and hummus along with a piece of pita and pursed his lips, “Maybe their accountant, that Sikh Prakash.”

“Nah, the Indian wouldn’t leave Haifa, I was considering Halima Legesse herself.”

“Dr. Legesse does not do errands.” This was said with a touch of respect, and then Quddus Sadiq-Fath sighed dramatically, “I had hoped once the baron was…eliminated, we would not have to worry so much about these people.”

“Yes, and by the way,” Tidewater slyly inquired, “you got any, uh, information on how the baron met his end?”

“Ahhh,” laughed Sadiq-Fath, his powerful jaw muscles loosening from their continual clenching for a brief second, “he had a little accident in his limousine in Cairo a couple weeks ago. Something about a grenade launcher that blew up a large part of the street. Lots of casualties, I am told.”

“Well, well,” Tidewater responded, “those things happen, don’t they?”

“They certainly do. One of those radical Muslim sects which cause so much trouble in Egypt claimed responsibility,” Sadiq-Fath added.

“Yeah, I bet.” Tidewater said.

“So,” the Persian commander folded his legs under the table and leaned an elbow onto it, “let’s talk about Barbara Monday.”

“Yes, she’s up to something.”

“Hmmm, didn’t expect her to go to Israel like that,” said Sadiq-Fath tantalizingly. “We knew Smoland in Stockholm was working with Dubbayaway in Thailand on a case relating to Arab interests. We think it has to do with a Sanjay Pandharpurkar whose daughter is being held in Kuwait for knifing a young Saudi fellow.”

“Didn’t know about Smoland ‘cause we don’t have much interest in Sweden,” said Tidewater.

“In consequence you would not know,” gloated Sadiq-Fath, “about what has happened with Baron Hermelin’s estate?”

“No, should I?” Tidewater responded, curious.

“It has been given, in its entirety, to a woman, a widow named Mrs. Bonnie Ixey. It is a big surprise to everyone.” Sadiq-Fath paused, relishing both the shocked grunt on the other end of the phone and the excellent food. He ate a few bites of the saffron rice dish. “We have an agent on this Mrs. Ixey already. She’s in California, has a couple of grown daughters.”

“How did that happen? Awarding the estate to her, that is.” Tidewater’s incredulous voice came over the line a bit staticky. The satellite was moving along in its orbit and the transmission hadn’t yet shifted to another uplink.

“One of our agents in Sweden got a copy of the government’s records. Bonnie and the baron were married back when she was in college. Ever so briefly, before Hermelin disappeared again and the couple never bothered to divorce. She is and has been for all these years, his official wife.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Marion Tidewater’s chair could be heard squeaking.

“She will have to go to Sweden to the castle to do business and deal with the baron’s son, Sture.”

“Bet the boy is madder ‘an hell.”

“I imagine he is furious. No one knew, maybe even they had considered it invalid, the baron and this Ixey woman. But,” the Persian commander laughed cruelly, “How will EW operate without the estate’s money? Sooner or later, the organization must contact Mrs. Ixey and persuade her to join its efforts or go broke. I thought,” Sadiq-Fath said with intense cunning, “if the old woman can be eliminated, the estate will be in total chaos and this nuisance, this EW, will disappear!”

“Sounds like a plan,” Tidewater said with only the briefest of hesitation, quickly realizing he’d just agreed to some poor woman’s assassination. “We’ll put an operative on at this end and keep their movements posted here.”

“No need,” said Quddus Sadiq-Fath, knowing full well Tidewater would assign an operative anyway as soon as they’d hung up, “as I said, we have it covered. Oh, and you might like to know, our Los Angeles agent has heard a rumor through the police there, that your Barbara Monday is helping an American woman escape. I assume they’ll be using the EW’s pipeline. We don’t know who this person is except she is the wife of someone famous, perhaps a movie star. That is probably why Monday flew to Tel Aviv, to avoid the paparazzi.”

“One of our women! In that damned underground railway EW runs!” Tidewater exclaimed, “No way, not again.”

“You know, Monday may be a whore of the Satanists, but she’s damned good at her work,” Sadiq-Fath nodded to himself. He couldn’t resist taunting the hated American, “I believe she could sneak anyone she wanted out of your country.”

“We’ll see about this,” snarled Tidewater. “Okay, Quddus, thanks for everything. Be sure to tell me if I can help you in any way. Talk at ya later, buddy!”

“You too, Marion.” Quddus cut the connection, handed the phone to Ali Muhit who had to wipe the grease off his hands first before laying it on the floor nearby. “Time for you to leave,” said Sadiq-Fath to his assistant, “and take the phone with you.” Sadiq-Fath glanced back at the bath area. “I want privacy, for the entire rest of the night. Understood!”

“Yessir,” Ali Muhit grabbed up the phone and saluting, left.

As soon as the big door had closed tightly, Sadiq-Fath ordered loudly, “Come out, young one,” and the boy emerged, “have some dinner with me.”

The boy bowed, knelt close. “Thank you, sir.”

Russ Snow regarded his boss with perturbation. Tidewater’s chin was crunched onto his chest in what seemed to be immensely serious deliberation. “You okay, Mr. Tidewater?”

The beady brown eyes shot up and focused on the young man.

“Sure, son. Couldn’t be better.” Tidewater stretched and grinned broadly, dissembling. “Got more information out of that old bastard Quddus than I could ever have hoped. You pay attention, Snow. All you have to do with these Arab guys is start them bragging on themselves and bingo! they blab their heads off.” As he stood, he pushed his shirttail back into his pants. “I’m going to lunch. You,” he pointed at the young man, “find out where a Mrs. Bonnie Ixey lives. She’s in California somewhere. I want all the particulars on that woman by the time I get back. Family, kids, hobbies, everything. And look up who the operative closest to her is. I want to talk to him. Okay? See if we can have her under observation by dinner time.”

Marion Tidewater went to the office door and opening it, regarded his secretary with appreciation. Maybe she’d like lunch at the Top Hat, he thought. Bet she never gets to eat such a fancy lunch. To Russ, he said, “Be back in a couple hours.”

“Yessir,” said Russ Snow, deliberately not watching his boss walk over to the secretary’s desk.

The barber brushed the trimmings of white-blond hair from Carl-Joran’s shoulders and onto the floor. Even with the chair at the lowest rung, the barber still had to stand on a stool for this tall fellow. With the kind of gratuity the baron gave though, the barber would have brought in a stepladder if he’d had to. He swung the Swedish man around and handed him a mirror.

“Thanks,” said Carl-Joran, noting only that more of the blond had turned white.

The barber took off the plastic cloak and pulled the tissue away from the big man’s neck. “I’m glad you’re satisfied so easily.”

“You always do a good job,” the big man stood, pulled some bills from his wallet, and paid. “See you in a month or so.” As Carl-Joran stepped through the door, onto the busy street, Siddhu hurried up on his bicycle.

“Ah, you look much handsomer now,” said Siddhu, “so are we ready then?”

“Yes, let’s walk.” They went briskly together along the pavement with Siddhu pushing his bicycle. The breeze from the Mediterranean was warming the late winter’s afternoon, and as they arrived at the Bank of Switzerland, Carl-Joran said, “Wouldn’t it be nice to take a holiday for a couple weeks somewhere warm, like Southern California or Hawaii?”

“It surely would,” responded Siddhu, parking his bike and following Hermelin into the entry and first security room of the quiet bank, “but you know Doctor Legesse would be very upset with you if you tried to leave.”

“I know,” grumbled Carl-Joran, as they passed along the corridor and through the guard station before being allowed to go up to a counter, “that’s one part of this being dead business that I find extremely irritating. She hasn’t told me yet how long I have to be deceased.”

The teller, a penguin-dressed Israeli man who knew the big Swede, hustled over. “What can I do for you today, Baron Hermelin?”

“I need to move some money,” he explained.

“Then we will do that,” said the teller smiling. After making out the correct forms, the teller bowed and walked back into the rear security area.

What usually took only moments began to stretch into a considerable amount of time. Carl-Joran looked down at Siddhu and shrugged. He leaned his tall body around the corner and peered through the thick glass windows. Just barely, he could see the teller’s black-suited form rather animatedly talking to someone not visible to Carl-Joran, and the teller’s back was uncomfortably stiff and his arms intermittently jerked in some sort of pleading motion.

“I don’t like this,” said Carl-Joran to Siddhu, “this is not good.”

“What? What is happening?” Siddhu tried to lean around like his large counterpart, but was unsuccessful.

Three more minutes and the teller and an expensively dressed young man came out of the security area. The young man, younger than the teller, introduced himself as the bank manager. He had probably been sent directly to Haifa from the main bank in Zurich.

“‘Ello, yes,” said the manager, whose accent immediately confirmed Carl-Joran’s suspicions, “there is a very strange problem on your account, Baron.” He laid some computer printouts on the desk. “If you see it says from the main bank that you…that you are tot. I mean, obviously, you are not dead. You are standing right here alive. But, mein baron, we cannot get into your accounts. None of them. You see on the forms, they all say your accounts are all to be put in your inheritor’s name and until that has officially happened, they are frozen. I am very sorry, Baron. I am so sorry.” The young man was beside himself and the teller hovered like a distraught groom.

Carl-Joran’s face had the appearance of a boxer who’s been hit one too many times and is about to go down for the count.

Siddhu Singh Prakash, not much better, stared at the young manager, then at his friend and gently tugged at Carl-Joran’s sweatshirt sleeve. “Baron, is he saying you cannot put money in the EW account here in Israel? Is he?”

“I guess that’s the upshot,” said Carl-Joran.

“What will we do?” Siddhu almost screeched, “Nothing can happen.”

“I’ll call my son,” Carl-Joran said. “Don’t worry. We’ll get this straightened out.” He smiled at the worried bank manager and the dancing penguin and nodded, “It’ll be dealt with. And, you don’t say anything about having seen me alive, here, correct?”

The bank manager bowed again, “Naturally not, no. Of course, Baron, because we are here to help, Herr Hermelin.”

They hurried out of the bank and along the street until Carl-Joran could whistle a taxi, which sped them, along with Siddhu’s bicycle, to the top of the steep hill and to the door of the Nof Hotel. Carl-Joran paid the driver and they were quickly up the elevator and into the big Swede’s room.

The little red light on the phone was blinking madly. Messages—Carl-Joran called the desk. All of them were from Sture, the very person he was about to call, his son and the number was the castle’s. Sture was at home. Carl-Joran got hold of the international operator and was rung through to Sweden and to his castle.

“Far!” Sture almost shouted into the phone when he heard his father’s voice. “Dad! What the hell is going on? I can’t get any money from our bank. I must go to Stockholm, I should have gone today, to the Karolinska Institute and see my professor…and, and…”

“But, min son, the accounts should all have come directly to you, except for the one that goes to Emigrant Women. They weren’t to go into probate, they were in trust accounts.” Carl-Joran dropped heavily onto the bed. Siddhu sat quietly in a chair at the table and waited patiently while the man spoke in Swedish, which he didn’t understand. Carl-Joran went on, “There was to be no probate, none at all. I assure you. Everything was in trust funds and assigned accounts. It was all taken care of.”

“Well, it’s not!” exclaimed Sture Nojd Hermelin. “All I got is what’s in the housekeeping account and in my own savings account. Everything is closed up!”

“Damnation! The lawyer must have gotten confused,” said Carl-Joran. “Can you call Inge Person? Can you see what’s happened and call me right back?”

“I already got a call in to whoever’s in the office,” said Sture. “As soon as they answer, I’ll ring you.”

“Okay, I’ll be waiting right here in my hotel room.” He hung up and Siddhu jumped to his feet and waved his hands. He was about to speak when Carl-Joran said firmly, “It’ll be taken care of. Just…wait. Wait. Sture is getting hold of our attorney.”

“But…but…but…,” Siddhu sputtered.

“Don’t!” insisted Carl-Joran. “Here, I’ll order up some tea.” He grabbed the phone and did just that. Siddhu’s eyes were wide with anxiety and he began to pace, back and forth, back and forth.

Fifteen very long minutes later, after the strong tea had been delivered and was about to be drunk, the phone in the hotel room rang and Carl-Joran grabbed it up.

“It’s me, Far,” said Sture on the other end, “and the news is bad. It’s a terrible shock.”

“What? Tell me,” Carl-Joran sat down again on the edge of the bed.

“The Pastorkirche has found someone they say is your real wife, a woman you did not divorce. She is the person who has been given your accounts.” Sture, a youngster as tall and strong as his father, could be heard near tears. “Everything, except for my small private account has gone to her. Far, she even owns the castle!”

“It can’t be. Your mother, min alskling Heda, was my wife. What do they mean my first wife?” Carl-Joran could see the lights coming on in the harbor and around the shiny dome of the Bab’s temple down in the Baha’i Gardens immediately below the hotel. He was completely unprepared for such a shock as this. “What name was it? Did they give you a name for this woman who is supposed to be a wife of mine?”

“Mrs. Bonnie Ixey,” said Sture. “Now really, Dad, be honest, did you ever know her?”

“Bonnie?” Carl-Joran’s lightly tanned face began to blush pink, “Bonnie…I knew a Bonnie once, long ago, but her name was Seastrand, not Ixey.”

“Okay, then they’re the same,” Sture said with horrible resignation. “Here is what the Pastorkirche papers say, ‘Bonnie Mari Sjostrand Ixey of Morro Bay, California.’“

“Aha…min…gud!” swore the big Swede, “I cannot believe such a thing. That was years and years ago. It is ancient history. Long before you were born, before I came home to Sweden and met your mother, so long ago! The marriage was not even real. It was…it was for…for protection!” and he stopped speaking for a moment. How could he explain all of this to a son who knew nothing of the Contras, of Nicaragua, of guns and drugs in Latin America, of rebellions and refugees, of the exigencies of war and soldiers and terrorists and intrigue? Finally, Carl-Joran took a ragged breath and asked, “You didn’t tell the lawyer I was alive, did you?”

“No, that’s still a secret, Pappa.” Sture sighed on the other end with all the implications of not understanding his father at all or his father’s crazy friends and crazier business, but putting up with it.

“Okay, then we’re safe.” The father shifted on the bed and noticed the very anxious Siddhu now pacing at warp speed back and forth, back and forth. “I’ll deal with it from here, Sture, I’ll take care of things as fast as I can.”

“I hope so, Dad. Call me soon, I’ll want to be at the Karolinska by noon tomorrow. I’ll tell the professors something.” Sture rang off.

Carl-Joran hung up the phone. Agonized, he turned to the Indian accountant and switched to English. “We’re in a whole bunch of trouble.” He said, “We don’t have any money.”

Siddhu screeched, “Do not say such a thing!”