02_Coyote in Provence Page 12

  ”Papa, don’t talk like that. I know you and Maman have health problems, but you’re a long way from leaving this property. It’s been in the family for generations before us. And it will probably be here for generations after us.”

  “But who would live here? There is only you and some of our nieces and nephews.” He brightened for a moment, “Maybe one of them would want it.”

  “Maybe they would, but it’s not something we need to worry about today. Another time,” he said as the car stopped in front of the rusty gate leading to the house.

  “I’ll stay in the car, Pierre,” Darya said. You see your parents in. Madame, Monsieur, I am very happy that I had this chance to spend time with you. Your son is a wonderful chef and a fine man. You should be very proud of him.”

  “We are, Mademoiselle, we are,” the old rheumy-eyed man said as he shuffled off towards the front door of the house.

  A few minutes later, Pierre returned and breathed a sigh of relief. “I know it’s silly, but I always dread what I’m going to find when I come here. They would not trouble me for anything and I worry about their health.”

  “I gather from what I heard that you have some relatives here. Are they nearby?”

  “Yes. They check on my parents from time to time and there are some village people they have known their whole lives who do as well. But it’s my responsibility and I’m so far away. It’s a burden. They are both used to working hard. That gave them a reason for living. Now they feel useless, as if they were a drain on me and everyone else. I wish there was something I could do.”

  And well you might, thought Darya. And well you might.

  SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA APRIL, 2007

  CHAPTER 25

  Darya and her staff flew to Paris, then on to Bangor, Maine for refueling and to clear immigration and customs as they entered the United States. During the flight, she feverishly made notes and tried to figure out how she was going to pay for all of the expenses related to the Afghan girls. Her aunt’s inheritance would help in Kabul, but there would be costs for getting the girls into Marseille as well as the United States, plus additional living costs for them in both places. At some point in time, her aunt’s inheritance would run out and if and when there was a downturn in the economy, it would mean cash flow problems for her business.

  She tried to get some sleep, but it was fitful at best. It wasn’t just the money; it was trying to figure out what to do with the girls once they got to the United States. If they were discovered by the authorities, would they be handed over to Child Protective Services, and then what, returned to Afghanistan? This was completely new territory.

  All she had now was a person who would allow the little girls to leave Kabul and a person who would let them in and out of France. From the way her aunt looked and spoke, she knew she didn’t have much time to come up with a workable plan. She had to figure out a way to get them cared for in France, transferred to the United States, and then housed in the United States until they were adopted.

  As the sleek jet touched down at the Santa Monica airport, Darya said, “Thanks, Mike, as usual you’ve made another perfect landing. It feels good to be back in the United States. I don’t think I’ll need you for a few days. I need to take care of some business here. Get some rest. I’ll let you know when our next trip is.”

  The bright sun had burned off the early morning fog and as usual, traffic was a nightmare in the west part of Los Angeles. Even though she only lived a couple of miles from the airport, she knew it would take well over an hour to get home.

  “Pierre, why don’t you go get some sleep and then I’d like to talk to you. Let’s meet tomorrow morning at ten in my office. I won’t need you tonight. There’s plenty of leftovers in my condo frig. Tesla, you too. Go home and get some rest. The office doesn’t expect us back until tomorrow anyway. The rest of today is a bonus for all of us. See you both tomorrow.” She stepped into her waiting limousine as Lou held the door open.

  Darya lived in a large condominium in Malibu. When she was a young girl she’d spent many a summer at her grandparents’ vacation home in Pakistan on the Arabian Sea. She loved the ocean and at an early age she’d vowed to live near it permanently. The first thing she did when her company became a success was to buy the condominium.

  At the time it had been an outrageous expense, but as the years went by, it had turned out to be one of the best investments she’d ever made. Evening walks along the beach with the sand clinging to her feet and the sharp scent of salt air filling her lungs made the pressure and stress of her job worthwhile.

  She took a long nap and late in the afternoon, put on a Versace T-shirt, a pair of Robert Cavelli jeans, flip-flops, Gucci sunglasses, and headed for the beach, Lou’s replacement a discreet distance behind her. At the end of two hours, a plan began to form in her mind. Pierre would be an integral part of it and she was glad she’d scheduled the meeting with him. The stress of the last few days finally caught up with her. She walked up the steps to her condo, entered the glass enclosed indoor/outdoor kitchen and turned to look at the sunset. The last rays of the sun were bleeding into the ocean as the sun seemed to drop over the edge of the ocean. The sight never failed to fill her with awe.

  Turning away from the sunset, she opened the refrigerator and saw the bottle of Cristal champagne she kept for special guests at the back of the refrigerator.

  Looks good, but I’m too tired and it would just go to waste. Another time. Think I’ll opt for the New Zealand Sauvignon blanc which is already opened. That and a couple of crackers with cheese and I’m through for the night.

  She mouthed good night to her bodyguard and walked down the hall to her bedroom. The next thing she knew, the shrill ring of her alarm clock thankfully woke her from a nightmare she was having about little girls trying to escape from a house of horrors. Monsters, zombies, blood, gore, and body parts surrounded them.

  Drenched in sweat and with her heart beating so fast she was tempted to call 911, she made her way to the shower. A few minutes later her heart rate had returned to normal and the pulsating water from the shower had washed away the remnants of the nightmare.

  This was all new to her. She was used to being in control of everything in her life and generally one step ahead of it. She was very intelligent and had formed a vast network of resources, so she was never caught off guard by shifts in public buying habits, the economy, or anything else which might affect her life or her business.

  Darya’s parents had brought her to the United States when she was sixteen. Even though she’d avoided the worst years of the war in Afghanistan, she was no stranger to the pain caused when loved ones were violently separated by untimely deaths. Her extended family in Afghanistan had seen its share of its members die.

  She had few friends. Darya was from a culture where the females of one’s family were a woman’s main support group and when she left Afghanistan, she left her support group. She’d never tried to replace it with female friends in the United States. Intimate female relationships were of little interest to her.

  Darya enjoyed men and their company on her terms, usually for very short periods and for very specific reasons. She was a woman with strong desires, but intimate relationships held no interest for her.

  The only people she was really close to were her parents, but they lived on the East Coast, on the other side of the continent. Her father was a professor of history at Harvard and her mother spent most of her time drawing attention to the unfair treatment of women in Afghanistan. She saw them several times a year for a couple of days and talked to them, particularly her mother, almost daily.

  In addition to being a very astute and successful businesswoman, Darya was well known to a number of people for a book she had published several years earlier on the inhumanity of female genital mutilation, entitled “Female Genital Mutilation Victims – A Lifelong Hell.” She particularly liked the Arabic word for hell, Jahannam, but decided people wouldn’t know what its meaning was when they rea
d the title of her book. Although female genital mutilation was practiced by some cultures in Africa, the book was primarily aimed at Muslims.

  Darya remembered the only time she heard her mother raise her voice in anger. It was directed at Darya’s great-aunt who told Darya’s mother that Darya would become a “sharmuta,” a “whore,” because Darya’s mother refused to allow Darya to undergo the ancient rite. It was shortly after that incident that her parents and Darya moved to the United States to begin a new life.

  She’d studied at Columbia University and received a Master’s Degree in Cultural Studies. Her thesis became the basis for the book. From the time it was published, she became a target of hatred by devout Muslims, particularly those living in the Middle East where the practice was common. She’d been fascinated with cosmetics since she was a little girl and decided to get a Ph.D in chemistry. She knew she’d need it she was to fulfill her dream of having her own cosmetics company.

  On one of her earlier trips to Kabul, she received a phone call about a problem at her manufacturing plant. Although it was late at night, she immediately left her hotel to see what she could do to resolve the problem. It was probably a life-saving decision. When she returned, the manager greeted her.

  “Madmozel,” he said, wringing his hands. “I am so sorry. I don’t know how these people got into your room. Thanks be to Allah you were gone.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Someone broke into your room and went through everything, slashing your clothing and destroyed your personal effects. They pulled the drawers open and threw your clothes all over the room. Even your make-up and perfume bottles were poured out. The Afghan National Police are in your room now, getting fingerprints and looking for clues as to who did this horrible thing.

  “The intruders, whoever they were, spray painted the walls of your room with the words ‘Death To All Non-Believers.’ Again, I apologize. Oh, there are the officers now. They must have finished.”

  She wheeled around and faced two policemen wearing the drab green uniforms of the Afghan National Police. “What have you found? Anything?”

  “Nothing. No one saw them and no one heard them. Based on what they did to your room and the death threat spray painted on the wall, it looks like you have become a target of their hatred. Do you have any idea what this is about?”

  Yes, but I won’t be telling you. The first thing I’m going to do when I return to the United States is get a bodyguard. I am so lucky that just by chance I happened to be out of my room.

  “No, I can’t imagine what this is about.” She turned to the manager, who was standing nearby, still wringing his hands. “I assume that I will be reimbursed for the cost of replacing everything, since this happened when I entrusted the hotel to protect my belongings.”

  “Of course, Madmozel, just tell me how much we owe you and I will have our bookkeeper give you a check before you leave.”

  “Thank you. I don’t want to stay here tonight. It’s almost dawn. Please have your concierge make a reservation for me on the first flight back to the United States. I would like you or one of these policemen to accompany me to my room to see the extent of the damage.”

  ”Madmozel, a thought. Did you leave your passport in your room?”

  “No. I carry it and all my valuables with me. I will be able to leave the country with no problem.”

  “Ahh, I am so glad. I will go to your room with you,” he said, nodding to the two policemen as they left.

  Darya didn’t feel safe until she was back in her condominium in California. She vaguely remembered attending a business luncheon at the Beverly Hilton Hotel when a woman at her table was talking about a private detective she’d used when she suspected her husband of having an affair.

  She remembered writing the private detective’s name down on one of the hotel’s business cards, but couldn’t remember what she’d done with it. She went into her office and opened the lower drawer in her desk. Darya pulled it all the way out and there, jammed against the back was the Beverly Hilton Hotel business card, the words “Slade Kelly” written on it.

  Although it was already five-fifteen in the evening, she decided to call and leave a message to have him call her first thing in the morning.

  The phone was picked up after it rang once. “Slade Kelly here.”

  “Mr. Kelly, my name is Darya Rahimi. You don’t know me, but your name was given to me several months ago. For some reason I kept the card with your name on it, never thinking I’d need a private detective, but I think I do. I’m concerned for my personal safety. When are you free to come to my home and talk to me about this situation?”

  “Right now’s good. Where are you?”

  “I’m in Malibu, just off the Coast Highway on the ocean side.”

  “Gimme your address and I’ll be there in a few.”

  Thirty minutes later there was a knock on her door. “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Slade here and lady, you need a peephole in this door if you’re concerned about your personal safety.”

  She opened the door and stared at the seedy looking skinny man in front of her. He wore a fedora hat that had clearly seen better days. His blue suit had shine on the elbows that told of one too many times at the cleaners and there was a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  “Mr. Kelly, please come in.”

  “First off, Doll, the name’s Slade, like in blade, you know, knife blade. Har, har, har.”

  What have I done? Anyone who looks like this can’t be any good, can he? Well, he’s here and I need some help.

  She told him what had happened in Kabul and why she thought she was targeted. When she spoke about female genital mutilation, she noticed him shiver.

  “You done a good thing, Doll, writin’ that book. I need to know a cupla other things. You got a business?”

  ”Yes, I’m the owner of Darya Cosmetics. My company ships all over the world and has manufacturing plants in Marseilles, London, New York, Hong Kong and Kabul. I’ll be expanding to several more cities in the near future.”

  “So, ya travel a lot, right? Got your own plane or fly commercial?”

  “I have a company plane for domestic flights, but I fly commercial for international flights. I’m thinking of buying a larger plane.”

  “Anyone travel with you?”

  “Occasionally my secretary goes with me. If I had a larger plane, I’d probably be able to take more people with me.”

  “Who hires your people and are their references checked out?”

  “Well, I have a Human Relations Department that does all of our hiring. I assume they check out everyone.”

  “Here’s what I’m gonna do. You need a bodyguard, like right now, and at all times in the future. I’m thinkin’ round the clock, 24/7, here at your home, at work, and ‘specially when you travel. I guarantee sumpin’ like what happened in Kabul’s gonna happen here. Surprised it hasn’t already. Count on it. I’m gonna have one of my bodyguards come over right now. I’ll get two more tomorrow. They’ll work in shifts. If you got more than one with you, you get too many eyeballs lookin’ atcha. Keep it low key. You got an extra bedroom in here?”

  “Well, yes, but…”

  “No buts. Guards gotta sleep, but they’ll be wired. All you need to do is push a button and you got a gun there in two or three seconds. My guys are discreet, so if you wanna do whatever, ain’t no problem.”

  “Thank you, but there’s very little ‘whatever.”

  “That’s a damn shame with a body like yours. Better find some more ‘whatever.’ No use wastin it.”

  Darya could feel her face begin to turn red.

  Slade continued, “Coupla things more. I want to talk to them people in HR who’s doin’ the hirin’. Needs some names. Also, you got a car? Drive yourself to work?”

  “I’ll get you the names of the HR people and yes, I drive myself to work. I have a Mercedes.”

  “Sell it. Put it on Craig’s List or whatever. I don’t w
ant you drivin’ ever again. Easiest thing in the world to fake somethin’ going wrong with the car and you and the car sail over one of them cliffs on Pacific Coast Highway. From now on you’re taking a limo. From what I’m hearin’ and seein’ you can afford to hire one. I deal with a good limo service. The bad guys can’t get to their cars to plant a bomb or play around with the brakes. They’re locked up and it’s a lot safer for you. What about a cleanin’ service here?”

  “I have a housekeeper who comes in twice a week. She’ll be here tomorrow. Her name’s Molly.”

  ”One last thing, Doll. Who fixes your food and where do you get it?”

  “Uh, often I just order in or have some cheese and crackers or something like that.”

  “Oh, that’s rich. Like no one could poison the food being brought in. Not real smart, Doll, not real smart. What about lunch? Somebody at the company fix it for you or do you go out to eat?”

  “Both. I’ve never thought about this.”“Doll, from what I know of some of these extremists, you’ve been livin’ on borrowed time. Actshully, I’m staying here until my guy gets here. I’ll text him. Gotta beer?”

  “No, I have a chilled Sauvignon blanc or Cristal champagne.”

  “Got any whiskey? Could use a cupla fingers. Been a long day.”

  “No. What would you like?”

  “Well, damn. Ain’t gonna pass this way ‘gin. Might as well pop that Cristal. Ain’t never had none of that.”

  Darya poured them both a glass of Cristal and before she could put it back in the refrigerator, Slade thrust his empty glass back in front of her. “That’s good shit. Want another one, Slade? Yup, don’t mind if I do. Why, thank you,” he said.

  As he slurped another large drink from the glass there were four knocks on the door. Slade answered it. Standing at the door was the most average looking man in the world. Brown hair cut short, medium build, T-shirt, jeans, jacket, and tennis shoes. No one would ever take him for a bodyguard.