When they got to Ginette et Marcel it was nearly 1:00 p.m. and packed with a hungry lunch crowd.
“Mademoiselle,” Jordan said to the hostess, “We are trying to locate the man in this photograph and we were referred to this restaurant. His name is Pierre Yount. We were told that Chef Bernard might know him. May we speak with him for a moment?”
Looking out at the patio, they could see that every table was taken, and from the number of people standing around, it looked like there would be a long wait. The pretty dark-haired hostess was extremely gracious. “Chef Bernard is taking a break behind the restaurant in the garden area. He does like his cigarettes and finds time to sneak one every hour or so. Come with me.”
They followed her through the kitchen and out the back door. Someone with a very green thumb had been carefully tending the raised planters, which were bursting with ripe vegetables and herbs.
“Chef, I’m sorry to bother you, but these people are looking for a man they have been told might be a friend of yours, Monsieur Pierre Yount.” She turned to Elena and Jordan, “Excuse me. I must get back to the front desk.” She walked back through the kitchen door.
Standing in front of Jordan with a cigarette hanging from his lips was one of the largest men Jordan had ever seen. Jordan was 6’2,” but Chef Bernard towered over him. He wore a splotchy apron over his large belly, which clearly showed the remnants of the day’s breakfasts and lunches.
Jordan introduced himself and Elena to the chef. “Madamoiselle Johnson and I are looking for Pierre Yount. He promised to help her find a job in California. Do you know where his parents live? We hope to find them and maybe they can tell Mademoiselle how she might get in touch with him.”
Chef Bernard paused thoughtfully as he looked them over, and then began to speak. “I have not seen Pierre for several months. His parents live in Travaillan, a small village on the outskirts of Orange. His father was a hunting guide before he had a bad accident and had to stop guiding. They are very poor, and I know Pierre helps them out whenever he can. If you’re going there, let me pack some food for them. I’m told they often have a large number of people staying at their home.”
He stubbed his cigarette out in a large ashtray set on an old tree stump. “Sit down. I’ll be back shortly.” Several minutes later he returned with two large bags filled with food.
“They know me. Tell them I’ll visit soon. When you get to the village of Travaillan, drive through it and then at the third stop sign, turn right. The road winds and up about a half mile, you’ll see a run-down house with chickens in the yard. There will also probably be a pig or two and some old rusted appliances. They’re good people.” He turned around and went back into the kitchen.
Jordan and Elena let themselves out the back gate, each carrying a heavy bag loaded with food. Elena briefly regretted that she hadn’t ordered the chevre miel tartine, the open-faced goat cheese and honey sandwich that she’d seen on the serving counter in the kitchen. She decided to make it herself within the next couple of days.
“Elena, did you hear him mention something about several people living or staying with the Younts? I wonder what that’s all about.”
“I have no idea. Maybe we’ll find out when we get there.”
PART TWO
KABUL, AFGHANISTAN APRIL, 2007
CHAPTER 15
“Mike, I’ll take it in from here. I’ve landed in Kabul so many times, I know this air strip like the back of my hand,” Darya said. She knew a lot of pilots didn’t like landing there because the city was located in a narrow valley, wedged between the Hinju Kush Mountains along the Kabul River.
He stood up, took off his headset and handed it to Darya. She slipped into the pilot’s seat and prepared to land the Gulfstream G550. Every time she sat down in the soft leather pilot’s seat, she knew she’d made the right decision when she bought it. It was the Cadillac of private business jets, expensive but well worth it. She traveled constantly and often with several members of her staff, so its ability to seat 15 passengers had made it very desirable. Since most of her travels now involved international flights, the plane’s range of 6,750 miles was perfect for her needs.
Darya became interested in flying when she was in college and had joined a flying club. She started out learning how to fly small planes and eventually bought a Cessna 172S Skyhawk SP which she used on domestic business flights. She knew one day she wanted to own a plane she could use for international meetings and had spent over a year learning how to fly the Gulfstream.
Mike had flown the plane to Afghanistan while she worked at her desk. It was just before sunset and she knew the muezzin would be calling the faithful to evening prayers through the outdoor loudspeakers mounted on the tallest minarets of the mosques. The sounds of the loudspeakers overlapped one another and the descending jet went unnoticed. This was the time of day that she preferred to land. As she began the plane’s descent, she could see the brightly colored minarets rising from the mosques forming a skyline of their own as the sky shifted from fading pinks to the light blues of sunset.
The large plane taxied up to the Afghan Immigration and Customs Office outbuilding located near the end of the runway. Private jet passengers were routinely afforded quick entry into the country. She put on her burkha, walked down the plane’s stairs, and entered the building. She was followed by Lou, her principal bodyguard, Tela, her secretary, and Pierre, her chef. They traveled with her wherever she went.
Mike would follow after he secured the plane. A few minutes later, the group, having quickly passed through immigration and customs, got into a waiting limousine. They eased into the flow of traffic, preparing for the inevitable checkpoints.
It was only twenty minutes to the Kabul Serena Hotel. She hated the ride through the city. The streets were littered with refuse and in complete disrepair. It used to be that just the homeless were beggars; now small children were everywhere, pleading for food or money. In every direction, there were signs of unrest.
When they arrived at the hotel, they sat down on luxurious couches in the reservation area and waited while Tela took care of the details of getting them registered as guests at the hotel. Darya, Lou, and Tela would stay in the presidential suite and the adjoining executive suite. Mike and Pierre had their own rooms.
“I’m sure you’re all tired. Tela, let Mike know he’s free for two days. Pierre, I’ll see you in the morning at breakfast. Tela has set up a number of appointments for me over the next two days, so I’m going to be quite busy. Enjoy your evening.”
“Tela,” she said as the bell captain opened the door to the presidential suite, “I’m going to have dinner with some members of my family. Please arrange for a limousine to pick me up in about thirty minutes. Lou,” she said to her bodyguard, “You’ll come with me to my aunt’s home.”
She got her cell phone out of her purse and called her aunt, telling her she’d arrived and that she’d be at the family compound in about an hour.
CHAPTER 16
Darya and Lou stepped into the waiting limousine in front of the hotel. The limousine service catered to the wealthy and those who were in need of the latest in protective gear. Tinted bulletproof glass and expert drivers armed with automatic weapons were only a few of the things the prestigious limousine service provided. Security in Afghanistan was always tricky, but at least the passengers felt as safe as was possible.
The driver expertly wove his way through pedestrians, animals, and traffic on his way to the compound in the wealthy Share Naw district of Kabul. Even though she’d left Kabul in 1986, every time Darya returned to Afghanistan, she gave thanks to Allah that her parents had been able to move to the United States.
The sleek black Mercedes pulled up to the gate of the kala. The guard remembered Darya from previous visits and waved the limo into the compound where several large homes surrounded a central parking area. It still unsettled her to see men with automatic weapons patrolling the compound, both within and outside the walls. The door to
the largest house opened and Darya’s aunt, Husna, came out the door to greet her.
Darya quickly opened the car door before the driver or Lou had a chance to assist her and greeted her aunt in a shared hug, both saying Salaam at the same time.
“Come, you must be tired,” Husna said. “We will have tea.”
The younger sister of her father had always been considered a beauty, but Darya thought she look tired and much older than she remembered. A devout Muslim, she wore a burka even in her home. Although some Afghans made their own wine and drank it before and during dinner as Westerners did, Darya knew no wine would ever be served in this home. She also knew pork would not be on the menu in accordance with the Koran.
Even though Husna was fluent in English, they spoke to each other in Pashto, the national language of Afghanistan, while they drank tea and helped themselves to the grapes and figs that were in a dish that had been placed on a large brass table by servants. After a while, a servant announced that the evening meal was served.
They walked into a room which was large enough to accommodate the extended family while they ate their meals. In keeping with tradition, Darya knew they’d be sitting on the floor to eat. A plastic tablecloth had been placed on the rug with brightly colored cushions surrounding it. The large family soon filled the room.
Salaam, salaam, her cousins said in greeting as they and their children piled onto the cushions that had been placed on the floor. Husna and Haji’s children and their grandchildren partially made up the large family. There were also some parents of their children’s spouses, bringing the total to over forty people residing in the compound.
The last to enter the room was Haji, Darya’s uncle and Husna’s husband. He was the head male of the family and his word was law. One of the children carried a copper basin and an elaborately decorated pot filled with water for each member to use to wash their hands. In this compound, nothing had changed for centuries.
Haji greeted Darya in the traditional manner. “Salaam” he said, shaking her hand. He sat down on the cushion reserved for him, looking around to make sure that all of the family was present. It was unnecessary as everyone from the smallest baby to Husna would always be where they were expected to be and do what they were expected to do. No one did anything to offend Haji. His autocratic rule of his family was legendary and yet was typical of most Afghan families.
Servants brought in one dish after another: grilled lamb kebabs; Afghanistan’s national dish, quabili palao with meat and stock topped with fried raisins, slivered carrots and pistachios; rice with meatballs; dumplings; tandoori chicken; salad; naan and lavash breads; an onion based stew with beef, yogurt and spices; and stuffed grape leaves. Chutney and pickled fruits accompanied the dishes with dessert consisting of gosh e feel, thin fried pastries covered with powdered sugar and ground pistachios. They ate communal style, passing the food and eating with the fingers of their right hand. Each time a platter was empty another dish quickly replaced it. Darya knew this was one place she didn’t need to have her food tested for poisonous substances.
After dinner everyone left for their respective homes located within the compound and Haji went into his office. Husna and Darya sat and talked. Soon all of the dishes had been cleared and they were the only ones in the room. Darya’s aunt began to speak.
“Darya, there are things I must tell you. I have cancer and not long to live.”
“No, that can’t be!” Darya exclaimed, her hand unconsciously rising to her chest as if to ward off the thought. “You look so good. Surely there’s a mistake. What makes you think that?”
“Three doctors have told me I have a type of cancer that is incurable. No, don’t cry,” she said as she leaned over and brushed a tear from Darya’s cheek. “I have made my peace with Allah. Haji knows but refuses to accept it. He even had me flown to Paris in hopes a doctor there could help. That specialist told me the same thing. It is inoperable and incurable. Haji prays to Allah for me to be cured, but it’s no use. I need you to do something for me, but no one must know about it. It is really important to me. Will you?”
“Of course, Husna, whatever you need. Would you like to come to the United States and see doctors there? Father still teaches at Harvard and knows many doctors.”
“No, Darya, this has nothing to do with my health. Just listen to me and don’t interrupt. When I was married my mother gave me a great deal of jewelry that had been in our family for many generations. I was her only daughter. She told she knew I was marrying a wealthy man, but there may come a time when I would need it. That time has arrived.”
“Husna, I’m sorry to interrupt, but does my father know about your health? He has said nothing to me.”
“No. Please, just listen to me. You know that Haji is a very wealthy businessman. Do you know where that wealth comes from?”
Darya took a deep breath and looked fully at her aunt before she answered. “I am sorry to say this, but I have heard rumors that although he has many legitimate businesses, most of his wealth comes from the opium trade.”
“Yes, the rumors are true. In fact, the opium production is at a record high level this year. I didn’t know about it when I married him and when I found out about it, it was too late for me to do anything, not that I could have anyway. I love Haji very much and he loves me. Our marriage was arranged and I was only fifteen years old when I married him. He treats me well. He has never laid a hand on me, which, is very rare in our country. Haji had college professors come to the house to teach me.
“And something else. My mother would not allow my clitoris to be removed when I was born, even though it was traditional among the Muslim faithful in this country. Haji accepted that and even supported me when I refused to allow our daughters be victims of female genital mutilation.”
“I am very much aware of the practice of female genital mutilation in the Afghan society,” Darya responded. In fact, I did my master’s thesis on it and even wrote a book about it, which by the way, was not well received in this country. It’s a barbaric practice that must be stopped.”
“Yes,” Husna said. “But it’s still done in almost all of the traditional Muslim homes. Our country, as well as our religion, is ruled by men and for centuries, it has been associated with female sexual purity. But that’s not the reason I wanted to talk to you, although I hope it shows you that your uncle is a good man. I have seen what opium does to people and while I can’t do anything about his involvement, I have been doing something that makes me feel a little better about my life.”
“What is that? It sounds very intriguing, whatever it is.”
Husna looked around to see if anyone had entered the room while they had been talking. The servants were in the kitchen, cleaning up from the meal. She leaned forward, getting closer to Darya.
“For the last year I have been paying to support an orphanage on the outskirts of town. My driver’s family finds young girls, usually on the streets of Kabul, and takes them there. He sells my jewelry to pay for their care at the orphanage. No one knows, not even my daughters. These little girls will break your heart. They have been badly abused and some of them have even been tortured. Their parents put them on the streets because they couldn’t feed them, or because they were girls, or they’re orphans because their parents have been killed in the war. It is so sad. Why Allah allows this, I don’t know.”
“You must have people who live there and take care of the girls. How many of them are there?”
“Right now there are around fifteen, but it varies. Some of them die from the abuse they have suffered. There is a little graveyard behind the building. No one would claim the bodies anyway. Haji is leaving on a business trip tomorrow and will be gone for several days. I would like you to come back here tomorrow and my driver will take us to the orphanage. Because of my failing health, I won’t be able to go out of the house much longer. The pain is getting very bad. Please Darya, I need your help. Can you come tomorrow?”
Yes. I will find a way t
o do this for you, no matter what appointments I have to cancel. What time do you want me here?”
“The little girls take naps in the afternoon. I’d rather you see them when they are active. Come around ten in the morning. It shouldn’t take more than two hours. Now it’s time for you to go. My strength is leaving and I don’t want you to see me like that. Until tomorrow,” she said, grimacing.
She rang a bell and immediately a large woman stepped into the room. “Fahima, I am ready to go to my room. Please help me.” The strong woman supported her as she stood up.
Darya went into the nearby room to get Lou. “I’m ready to go. Please call the driver and tell him we will be waiting for him at the front door.”
The drive back to the hotel from her aunt’s home seemed much longer to Darya. She was still trying to absorb everything her aunt had told her and having a difficult time doing it. She didn’t know how she was going to be able to talk with her parents and not tell them.
When she got back in her hotel suite, she told Tela that she would have to represent her at the morning meetings scheduled for the next day; that she had pressing family business which took priority.
Her mind was whirling as she got in bed. After a sleepless hour, she got out of bed and found the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed for her many months ago. Although she took them with her when she traveled, she’d never needed them before. Given everything that had happened tonight and not knowing what to expect tomorrow, she was glad she’d thought to bring them.
CHAPTER 17
The next morning Darya got into the limousine feeling rested after a good night’s sleep. As was always the case when Darya traveled overseas, Lou accompanied her. He was her senior bodyguard. When they returned to California, one of her other bodyguards would accompany her, giving Lou some time off.
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