02_Coyote in Provence (10 page)

“
Oui
,
c’est
Monsieur
Yount. He always comes here to eat when he returns to Avignon.”

Jordan could feel butterflies in his stomach. He knew they were close to fitting some of the missing puzzle pieces together. “Do you know where his family lives?”

 “No,
Monsieur
. I’ll go ask our chef. He might be able to help. He’s been here a long time. May I take the photograph with me?” he asked.

He took the photo from Jordan and walked through the doors that led to a large kitchen. A few minutes later a large man wearing a tall, white chef’s hat with a spattered half-apron tied around his waist, walked over to their table. His grey-hair was neatly tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

“May I help you?” he asked. “Antoine told me that you asked about Pierre. He is a friend of mine. Why do you want to find him or his family?”Although the chef was not belligerent, it was very clear from his tone that Jordan better have a very good answer, or there would be no information coming from him.

“He told
Mademoiselle
that he would help her get a job as a chef at a restaurant in California. He said he would return to the restaurant where she works in St. Victor la Coste the following day, but he never came back. He mentioned that his parents lived in the Avignon area, and she thought maybe someone here would know how she could get in touch with him or his family,” Jordan lied.

They both looked at the chef who was shifting his weight from one foot to the other while he stared at the photograph. He appeared to be having a hard time deciding whether or not to tell them anything about Pierre. He looked up from the photograph and looked at each of them for what seemed like minutes.

Finally, he said, “I’ve been to his family’s home, but it was many years ago. You might ask Chef Bernard at the restaurant
Ginette et Marcel,
which is located just down the street. It’s also
un épicier,
and I know Pierre always frequents it when he comes back. You can easily walk to it.”

“
Merci beaucoup, Monsieur
, you’ve been most helpful.  We’ll go there now.” They paid and left. The restaurant was only a short walk away.

Everywhere they looked, the past was evident. Elena had lived in Provence for only six months, but she’d spent a lot of time reading about the area, and particularly about Avignon, one of the largest cities in the region.

“Jordan, I was raised in a very strong Catholic household. I haven’t been to church for some time and now I consider myself to be a lapsed Catholic. I remember learning years ago that Avignon was the seat of the papacy in the 14
^th
century. Pope Clement V, a Frenchman, refused to move to Rome when he became the pope. For sixty-seven years there was a papal community in Avignon, and even today there are numerous minor churches in the town. The two best known ones are the
Palais des Papes
and the
Notre Dame de Doms
. Both of them overlook the city and they’re a ‘must see’ on every tourist’s list.”

As they slowly walked to the restaurant, Elena continued, “Did you know that the Avignon was considered to be the seat of culture in the area?” She made a broad gesture and pointed to the
Palais des Papes. “
That’s where they have the traditional plays, but there’s also a more bohemian “Festival Off…”

He stopped walking and turned to face her. “A Festival Off? What the hell is that?”

“That’s where they showcase undiscovered plays and street performers. Anyway, that’s what it says at the bottom of the city map. Plus, and you’ll love this, Jordan, Avignon is widely known for its art and many fine restaurants. And so ends my travelogue! Don’t you feel enlightened?” she asked, as they resumed walking.

“Not particularly, but just talking about the restaurants makes me hungry again. When I get back to California, I’m going to have to spend some serious time running on the beach to work off all this wine and fabulous food.”

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.