Way of Escape by Ann Fillmore Page B

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…”
    â€œBut, 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.”
    â€œWell, 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!”
    â€œDamnation! 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?”
    â€œI already got a call in to whoever’s in the office,” said Sture. “As soon as they answer, I’ll ring you.”
    â€œOkay, 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.”
    â€œBut…but…but…,” Siddhu sputtered.
    â€œDon’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.
    â€œIt’s me, Far,” said Sture on the other end, “and the news is bad. It’s a terrible shock.”
    â€œWhat? Tell me,” Carl-Joran sat down again on the edge of the bed.
    â€œThe 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!”
    â€œIt 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?”
    â€œMrs. Bonnie Ixey,” said Sture. “Now really, Dad, be honest, did you ever know her?”
    â€œBonnie?” 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.”
    â€œOkay, 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.’“
    â€œ 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