“Why would we be? Just a coupla guys having a drink with one of the locals. Probly think we’d like to get us a coupla coconut honeys. Don’t worry, security’s my job. I don’ know who Arsene works for and I don’ wanna know. He’s just Arsene – the man who can get them little girls to the land of milk and honey.”
“It’s show time,” Slade said after they’d finished eating. He signed the credit card bill the waitress gave him. “Here you go honey. Might be back a little later. Wait for me. It’ll be worth it.”
Pierre and Slade walked through the lobby and took the steps leading to the beach. It was a beautiful night. When they opened the glass door, they were greeted with the smell of the tropics, suntan lotion, salt air and a whisper of island flowers. Well-lit yachts formed a skyline against the dark blue of the Caribbean.
“How far is it?” Pierre asked. “If we’re going to walk in the sand, I think I’ll take off my shoes.”
“Don’t wanna ever take your shoes off in coconut land. Never know when you’re gonna have to run. The Caymans are lookin’ good for the tourists, but you scratch the underbelly and the maggots come out. Keep ‘em on. It ain’t too far. ‘Bout a coupla city blocks. Actually, looks like Roberto’s palapa up ahead.”
In the distance Pierre could see twinkling lights covering a small thatched roof hut. As they got closer, he could make out the word Roberto’s etched on a wooden plank attached to a stick in the ground with an arrow pointing to it.
Roberto’s was just a round open-air bar in the sand with a thatched roof covering it. Candles on the bar provided the light. It was a perfect place to meet someone when you didn’t want to be seen.
Slade walked up to a dark-haired man sitting at the bar. Everything about him said he was a local, from the color of his deeply burnished skin to the surf shorts and flip-flops he wore. He turned around on the bar stool and smiled at Slade.
“Nice to see you, Mon. Grab a beer and we’ll go sit down on the chairs on the beach.”
“Arsene, I want you to meet my friend Pierre. Pierre, this is Arsene.” The two men shook hands. They got their beers from the bartender and followed Arsene.
“Join me,” Arsene said as he sat down in a beach chair. Roberto’s was a little too seedy for the upscale tourists who frequented Seven Mile Beach, but the locals loved it, and Roberto made sure he didn’t miss a drink sale because there was no room at the bar. Near the shoreline, beach chairs had been haphazardly arranged.
“Okay, my friends. You’re the ones who wanted to see me. What do you need?”
Slade had taken notice of every person in the bar and the two women sitting in beach chairs a few yards from them. He didn’t see anything that set off the alarm bells that were always on alert in his head.
“You and some of your people helped me out a few years ago. Got a little problem that’s going to be ongoing. Need to get about fifteen or so little girls outta France from time to time and into the U.S. Pierre, here, will have their passports so they can get into the U.S. They’re from an orphanage in Afghanistan. Here, take a look at these pics,” he said, handing the graphic pictures of the mutilated little girls to Arsene. “Here’s a flashlight so you can see ‘em better.”
Arsene was quiet as he leafed through the photos. It was impossible to look at the pictures of the little girls without wanting to help them. “Okay, Slade. What do you have in mind?”
“I know you got some contacts with people who have planes. Thinkin’ we could bring the girls here and then you could fly them to that little airport in North Carolina where your people got immigration and customs on the take. Know those planes aren’t big enuf for all of ‘em, so thinking we’ll need two planes. Pierre can go with one group and my other man with the second group, say maybe ten minutes or so apart. Got someone with a big plane that will meet ‘em at the North Carolina airport and take ‘em to California,” he said, finishing off his beer and putting the empty bottle in the sand as he lit a cigarette. “Whaddya think?”
“It’s going to cost you. It’ll be $10,000 each plane, each time, half down and the other half when we land, plus $2,500 each plane for immigration.”
“Sweet Jesus, Arsene, you’re twisting my balls.”
He shrugged. “You want to get those girls into the U.S or not? Your choice, Mon. That’s the deal.”
“How safe is it?”
“Never have had a problem. Immigration rarely checks on that airport. Everyone knows illegals are probably coming in to work the tobacco crops, but the owners almost singlehandedly elect the politicians, so everyone’s real quiet about what goes on there. The word’s out to leave it be. Kind of nice for us. Allows for a little drug action as well. So, what do you want to do? I’ve got another meeting in a little while. You’re not the only one who needs something.”
“Ain’t got no choice, do I? Yeah, we’ll take it. How much notice you gonna need?”
“One week will be fine. You have my number,” he said, standing up. “Nice to meet you, Pierre. Good seeing you again, Slade. Always nice to do business with a repeat customer. I’ll wait for your call.” He looked at his watch and hurried off.
Slade dropped his cigarette into his empty beer bottle. “Bingo. Good to go,” he said as he started walking back to their hotel, Pierre following.
“Slade, you left your bottle in the sand.
“Yeah, let some local kid get the cash back on it. He can use it more than Roberto can. You okay with leavin’ tomorrow? I’ll call Mike and tell him. Need to get back and get some place for them little girls to stay once we get ‘em to California.”
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA APRIL, 2007
CHAPTER 29
Pierre, Slade and Darya sat at the conference table in her office the day after the two men returned from the Cayman Islands. Pierre filled her in on what had taken place.
“Nice job, gentlemen. I think everything’s in place with the exception of what we’re going to do with them when they get here. Slade, you talked about a church you thought might be interested. Have you done anything further with them?”
“Doll, they’d like to see me hangin’ from the highest tree. Just say I had a little somepin’ to do with their beloved Reverend havin’ to leave rather sudden-like. Pierre, like I tol’ you before, you’re gonna have to do this one. I’ll give you ‘structions,’ on what to do.”
“Slade, I don’t know a damn thing about kids or adoptions. Are you sure I’m the right person for this?”
“Yeah. You’re a natural. Here’s the deal. I’ve written down the name of the church. It’s evangelical and they don’t cotton much to Muslims. Know it ain’t politically correct to say, but it’s the truth. Call ‘em and make an appointment with the minister. Tell ‘im there’s some little orphan girls who are bein’ smuggled out of Afghanistan and show him the pictures. Tell him they need homes to stay in until they’re ‘dopted. Tell him there’s a humanitarian group that’s doin’ this, but you can’t give him their name.”
“Everyone else has their hand out. Will he?”
“Don’t think so. ‘Member, this is a church. Think they’d be doin’ it for God and for some of their members who are having a hard time ‘doptin. If he talks about money, tell him they could get some from the ‘doptive families. Actshully, they could probably make this into a little business for the church. Total difference from human trafficking. These little ‘uns will be goin’ to lovin’ homes, not sold into sexual slavery.”
“I just hope it works.”
“Well, better get to know this guy cuz you’ll be the one deliverin’ little girls to him in the future as well.”
“Okay. I might as well get started. Let me have that paper and I’ll see what I can do.” As he left the room, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and placed the call.
A few minutes later he returned with a big grin. “I’ve got an appointment this afternoon. If we can put this last piece of the puzzle in place, we’ll be good to go.”
Pierre continued, “Miss R, I
was on the phone with the contractor in France before I got here this morning and since there’s already running water in the barn, he thinks it’s just a matter of putting up some interior walls and installing a bathroom. He doesn’t think it will take more than two weeks. He’s already started. Plus, I hired two women who are old family friends. They’re retired and bored. The thought of a little extra money helped. They’re getting some clothes and bedding. When you first told me about it, I never thought this thing would work, but now I think it’s going to.”
“Great. Please call me after your meeting and keep me up to date with what’s happing at your parents. Slade, anything else?”
“Not for now. Got a little honey I got to check out for hubby. He’s pretty sure the pool guy is hosin’ his wife. One of my men’s over there now, scopin’ it out. Pierre, call me,” he said as he left.
Pierre took a deep breath and sat back in his chair as he said, “Well, Miss R. This has been a good couple of days. You’re doing a very good thing and each one of those little girls owes you her life.”
“Thank you, Pierre, but they owe my aunt their life. Next week when we’re in Kabul we’ll need to figure out how the orphanage can go on when she’s gone. By the way, I’m almost out of food at the house and also here at the office, so please make some meals for me. Oh, and I’m having a dinner party at the house tomorrow night. Some big investors. Would you do something spectacular, like maybe marinated leg of lamb with all the trimmings? They kind of expect lamb, me being from a Muslim country.”
“No problem. I’ll make a meal for them they’ll never forget and they can just open up their checkbooks. How does that sound?”
“Perfect,” she said, smiling.
PART THREE
PROVENCE, FRANCE SEPTEMBER, 2010
CHAPTER 30
Jordan and Elena left Avignon and drove the short distance to Orange, and then on to Travaillan. Chef Bernard’s directions were excellent. Within minutes they were looking at a very small rundown little house with a dilapidated barn barely visible behind it.
“Do you hear children’s voices?” Elena asked as they got out of the car and picked up the two sacks of food. “I swear I hear kids, but I can’t imagine where the sound is coming from.”
Just as Chef Bernard had said, there were several rusted appliances in the yard and chickens roamed freely. Faded tattered clothing gently swayed on a clothesline. Litter and trash were scattered everywhere.
“Elena, be careful and watch where you step. There may be some broken glass.” They gingerly made their way to the glass-paned blue front door which was badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. The glass was too grimy to see through it. Everything cried out to be repaired or cleaned. Jordan knocked on the door.
While they waited for his knock to be answered, Elena looked around. The dilapidated house and the neglected yard reminded Elena of her childhood home where her family still lived. She shuddered, glad to have escaped the barrio and its terrible memories.
A minute or so later, an old man opened the door. Rheumy eyes looked out at them above a body that was so badly misshapen it was hard to imagine it could move on its own. Monsieur Yount wore a black beret and a vest over a heavily patched shirt and dirty black pants. His belt was cracked in so many places, it was impossible to tell whether it had originally been black, brown or white.
“Monsieur Yount, I am Jordan Kramer and this is Mademoiselle Johnson. We have just come from seeing your friend, Chef Bernard, who asked that we bring you these sacks of food. He said he would be coming to visit you soon.” Jordan spoke in a respectful, neutral tone.
“We’re here to talk to you about your son, Pierre. He told Mademoiselle Johnson that he would help her find a job in a restaurant in California, but he didn’t give her his contact information. Do you know how she could get in touch with him? Would you have an address or a telephone number for him?”
The rheumy brown eyes looked out at the two of them for what seemed a very long time. After he’d fully assessed them, he said, “Please, come in. I am Giles. It would be rude of me to leave you outside.”
As soon as they entered the small house, Jordan spotted the Franz Bischoff painting hanging over the couch. It was a jewel and shone against the sooty old walls of the house.
So, six of the seven have been located. And who would ever think one would be in this little dilapidated house? My God, that painting is probably worth $15,000 and to think it’s hanging in this run-down place. The painting is probably worth more than the house and the land together. Amazing!
Giles Yount lowered himself into a chair with a great deal of difficulty, his cane by his side. “Please, have a seat. You may have to clear a space. My wife is going blind and can’t see to clean like she used to. With my injuries, I’m no help to her.”
“Yes, I see that you’re in a great deal of pain. I’m sorry. Is there something we can get you or do for you?” Elena asked.
“No, but thank you. When Pierre comes, he cleans for us, but it has been several months since he was here. He’s such a good boy. I don’t know what we would do without him. He brought us that painting I saw you look at. He said we could get a good price for it, but I like it.”
“It’s truly beautiful, Monsieur,” Jordan said. “I can see why you would want to keep it.”
Holding shakily on the cane as if it was an extension of his hand, he pointed it at Jordan. “I can’t help you. We never know when Pierre’s going to call or visit. I know he is a private chef, but I don’t remember the name of the woman he works for.”
They heard the sound of a car pulling up in front of the cottage, and a car door opening. “Ahh,” said the old man, in a hacking cough reflecting a lifetime of cigarette use. “It must be my wife, Catherine. Monsieur, would you be so kind as to help her bring in the groceries?”
Jordan was out the door in a second. “Madame, I am Jordan Kramer, a friend of Chef Bernard. Please, let me help you with those groceries. Why don’t you hold on to my arm while we go up the walk?”
He took the groceries from her and nodded to the elderly lady who had driven Madame Yount to town. She waved goodbye to Madame Yount and said, “See you next week.”
When they got to the end of the sidewalk, Elena held the door open for them. Once again she thought she heard children’s voices drifting through the early afternoon air.
She smiled warmly. “Madame Yount, I am Elena Johnson. We came to find out how I can get in touch with Pierre. I met him at a restaurant where I work. Please sit down. Here, let me help you. Jordan, take the groceries into the kitchen and I’ll put them away.”
Elena followed Jordan into the tiny kitchen and began to take the food out of the sacks. Everywhere she looked there was grease and dirt. She didn’t want to offend the Younts by offering to clean the kitchen, so she turned on the water to get it as hot as possible while she put the groceries away. When the water was finally hot, she quickly scrubbed the sink and counters. As she was putting food in the refrigerator she noticed that some of the food in it was spoiled. She put it in one of the grocery bags and looking out the window, saw a large empty trash barrel several yards from the kitchen back door.
Walking towards the trash barrel, she was certain she heard children’s voices. There was no mistaking it. After she put the trash in the barrel, she followed the direction of the sounds, which became louder the closer she got to the old dilapidated barn. She took a few more steps to the barn door, opened it, and stood frozen in amazement at the sight before her.
There were fifteen or so young girls in the barn. Some had been badly burned; others were missing a limb or an eye, and a few bore huge black and blue marks, suggesting they had been beaten. They were all emaciated, many with open sores. One of the girls spotted Elena and cried out, pointing at her. An older woman quickly came to the door where Elena was standing, and at the same time, hushed the girls.
From the doorway Elena could see that the barn was divided into three rooms. The large front
room served as a kitchen, and by the looks of the placement of chairs, it also seemed to serve as a classroom. Through an open door, Elena could see a room in the rear portion of the barn with bunk beds pushed up against the walls. Another door next to the bedroom opened, and a young girl came out. Looking over the girl’s shoulder, Elena saw stalls and sinks in what appeared to be a bathroom. It was very stark.
“Mademoiselle, why are you here?”
Elena was speechless. All the young girls seemed to have been badly abused or injured, in one way or another. Two of them appeared to have only one eye. She was having a hard time taking in the sight of the injured girls in front of her and at the same time trying to comprehend how and why they were in a dilapidated barn in Provence. It made no sense.
“Mademoiselle, I must ask again. Why are you here?”
Elena found her voice and responded, “I came here to visit Monsieur and Madame Yount, and to find out if they knew how I could contact their son, Pierre.”
At the mention of Pierre’s name, the Frenchwoman seemed to relax and smiled broadly. “Ahh, yes, what a wonderful man. I don’t know what we would do without him. Please, come in.” She closed the barn door behind her.
“Who are these young girls?” Elena asked with a sweeping motion of her arm.
“They are from Afghanistan, part of the nearly two million orphans in that country. As you can see, all of them have suffered greatly. They had no one to turn to and were found on the streets of Kabul by a friend of Pierre’s employer.”
Elena turned to her, interrupting. “How were they brought here? And what will you do with them? Do the French authorities know about them?”
“Non, mademoiselle. Pierre works for an Afghan woman who lives in the United States and helps girls such as these. Pierre has a friend who is a doctor. He comes once a week to tend to their needs as best he can. After they have healed somewhat, and been fed nourishing food, friends take the girls to the airport, and Pierre’s employer flies them to the United States.”
02_Coyote in Provence Page 15
