The woman enjoyed the stillness for a moment, lulled by the sibilant rhythms of the children breathing. Until she heard the sound of gravel crunching under car wheels, that is.
She froze up, hoping it wasn’t that government inspector from Bishkek who’d come by last month. She walked back to the curtains and pulled one open a few inches.
A black Volga idled in the driveway. The checkerboard symbol on the car marked it as one of the city’s expensive official taxis, and she could see the silhouette of a single passenger in the backseat. A single passenger, she thought to herself, shaking her head with disapproval at the extravagance of it, especially when there was a bus stop just down the road.
But the old woman’s displeasure abated when she saw who stepped out of the taxi. The foreigner had dark hair and carried a briefcase in her right hand. Her green dress stood out next to the bright blue bench at the end of the driveway.
Every year there were new ones, thought the old woman. She didn’t trust the do-gooders. She didn’t believe in their ability to perform miracles. Still, she remembered liking this one more than the rest. Instead of saying what her organization was prepared to give, this foreigner had first asked what was needed.
What was needed? What was needed were parents! Someone to read a story to a child, to make him a favorite meal, to buy him a favorite toy. No one here had anything of his or her own. It wore on the children. Their minds didn’t grow. They were starved for individual love.
The old woman recalled with some embarrassment how she had opened up to this foreigner, one of the few that actually spoke Kyrgyz. They’d talked just five days ago in the main room, with the children milling all around them.
The foreigner hadn’t promised any miracles, and she’d made it clear that she was visiting many orphanages in the region. But with several children squirming on her lap, she’d asked questions. Would money to hire an assistant help? Legal help to speed the adoption process? Modern medicine wasn’t a substitute for love, but did the children at least have access to adequate health care?
The old woman remembered how pretty the foreigner had been, despite the scarring on her face. Even the two-year-olds had fought to sit on her lap.
Daria, that was her name. The old woman was pleased with herself for remembering.
Just then, another official taxi appeared in the driveway. The old woman peered out with incredulity. Two in one day?
A man with tousled hair and a face peppered with stubble stepped out of the second taxi. He wore an ill-fitting suit. It only took the old woman about half a second to decide that she didn’t like this new visitor. He was older than the woman in the green dress, and the cynical, dispassionate look in his eyes made her think of mean-spirited government inspectors.
So she was disappointed by the outrageous display of intimacy between them. Some women, she thought, turning away in disgust, just had lousy taste when it came to men.
Acknowledgments
I am deeply indebted to my agent, Richard Curtis, and the team at Amazon Publishing — particularly Jacque Ben-Zekry and Andy Bartlett.
Christina Henry de Tessan deserves a special thank-you. The story would be incomplete, and in places incomprehensible, were it not for her efforts. She’s an extraordinary editor.
I’m also grateful to David Mayland, my brother and friend, for pitching in as an editor, promoter, and lawyer; to Marine Corps aviator Captain Gavin Miranda, and other members of the US Armed Forces, for their time and expertise; to the people in Azerbaijan, Iran, and Turkmenistan who helped bring this story to life; to my uncle, Tim Gifford, who helped copy edit this book; and to my wife, Corinne, and my two children, for their support and love.
I would also like to thank the many reporters, scholars, and ex-CIA officers who, through their books, lent insight to this novel. An annotated bibliography can be found at DanMayland.com.
About the Author
Dan Mayland has been detained by soldiers in Soviet Czechoslovakia, lived in France, explored Iran, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, and Kyrgyzstan, and gone mountaineering in Colombia and Bolivia. He is a graduate of Dartmouth College and has written articles for the Iranian.com. Mayland’s first book, The Colonel’s Mistake, was the inaugural novel of the Mark Sava series.