Way of Escape by Ann Fillmore

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.”
    â€œWe’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!”
    â€œYou 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!”
    â€œYessir,” 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.
    â€œSure, 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.”
    â€œYessir,” 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.
    â€œThanks,” 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.”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œAh, you look much handsomer now,” said Siddhu, “so are we ready then?”
    â€œYes, 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?”
    â€œIt surely would,” responded Siddhu, parking his bike and following Hermelin into the entry and first security room of the quiet