“For who?” asked Gorski.
Elyse raised an eyebrow.
“I mean from where. Refugees from where?”
“Anywhere. But right now, mainly Syria. We think.”
“You think?” said Flynn. “You’re a journalist and the best you can say is you think?”
“Oui. Media access is banned.”
“Okay. So what’s your deal? How does this link you Jean Loup.”
“Loup owns this facility.”
“A refugee camp is privately held?” asked Gorski. “I thought they were Red Cross or something.”
“It’s a new thing. A government initiative. Because of the war in Syria. Lots of refugees coming across the Mediterranean, or increasingly through the east. Germany took many, some say too many. But how can it be too many when people are fleeing for their lives? But resources are stretched. And France has taken very few. You know Paris, they do not like to cede the high moral ground to anyone, especially the Germans. And the EU says France can and should do more. So Jean Loup and his friends proposed a solution. One of Loup’s companies build the facilities, and another manages them. There’s government oversight, but essentially it’s a private prison. There’s no independent access, and there’s no timeline on detention. These poor people could be there indefinitely. All the while, France gets to trumpet to the EU how many more refugees it’s taking.”
“Okay, but isn’t it exactly the same if the government runs the camps? I mean, how long it takes to verify that people aren’t terrorists is like a piece of string. In many cases it’s impossible.”
“No, that’s not right—but hold that thought,” said Elyse.
Flynn saw a man in a gray uniform coming out of the refugee facility toward them. The man looked like security, or—Flynn had to concede—a prison guard. Elyse turned the car and around sped away.
“That’s happened before,” said Flynn.
Elyse shrugged.
“Why don’t we find somewhere for lunch and figure out a plan,” said Gorski from the backseat.
“The restaurants must still be open during lunch somewhere nearby, surely?” said Flynn.
“No, I have better idea.”
Elyse got back out on the main road and took off. Five minutes later they slowed into a town that was clearly bigger than the last little village. There was traffic, for a start. There were stores and they were all open. The hedges were uneven and the whitewashed buildings looked aged. In short, the place looked lived-in.
“Ambérieu-en-Bugey,” said Elyse.
There was a small parking lot around which the road spread either side like a river flowing around an island. Elyse found a spot and then got out. The men followed her down the street to a small local grocer, where they bought baguettes and cheese and duck pâté. Gorski took a bottle of Bugey Mondeuse noire, and Flynn a bottle of Vittel.
They ate in a little courtyard behind the store. Gorski poured two plastic cups of wine and Flynn sipped his water from the bottle.
“You don’t drink?” Elyse asked.
“No,” said Flynn.
“You don’t strike me as a teetotaler.”
“I’m not. I just know that there’s always the possibility that one is too many and too many is not enough.”
“You’re an alcoholic?”
“You’re a very direct person.”
“I’m sorry. I mean, does it bother you, us drinking?”
“Not in the slightest. Because I’m not an alcoholic.”
“Too many is not enough sounds like an alcoholic.”
“And if he does it, then yes, he is. I do not.”
Elyse didn’t look convinced but she let it go.
Flynn said, “So before that guard came out you were telling us about the refugee center.”
Elyse popped cheese in her mouth and chewed. “Oui. It’s private, which is not how these things are normally done.”
“Which doesn’t make it bad by definition.”
“You can’t attach a profit margin to human life.”
“But are they really doing that? Aren’t they attaching a profit margin to running the place efficiently? Just like a private hospital.”
“If that were it, maybe.”
“What else is there.”
“Stories.”
“About?”
“About how the refugees come to be here. Most of them come from Greece, where the EU and UN have set up large camps to hold all the people fleeing Aleppo and other parts of Syria.”
“Okay,” said Flynn, eating some bread.
“So they are then designated to another location when there is space. But there are rumors of irregularities.”
“Such as?”
“Cherry picking.”
“What does that mean?” Gorski asked through a mouthful of pâté.
“It means not just taking whichever people are most in need, or next in line. They are choosing which people come here.”
“Why? A refugee is a refugee, aren’t they?”
“You’re not asking the right question.”
Flynn shrugged. “What is the right question?”
“Are all people the same?”
“Of course not.”
“So some people are more valuable, given a certain worldview.”
“I suppose. An athlete is more valuable to a sports team, a person good at physics is more valuable to a college. How does this relate to refugees.”
“I have reason to believe that they are choosing a specific demographic to include in the movement of refugees to this facility.”
“Spit it out, Elyse. What demographic?”
“Young girls.”
Flynn took a deep breath. “You’re saying that the facility we just saw is full of young girls?”
“No. I’m saying if we looked at the passenger manifests for the vehicles that leave Greece we would see an anomaly.”
“What would that be?”
“Young girls that get on the bus in Greece do not arrive in France.”
“Where do they go?”
Elyse raised her eyebrows but Flynn waited.
“She’s talking about human trafficking,” said Gorski.
“I know she’s talking about human trafficking,” said Flynn. “But we’ve seen human trafficking, and that’s not how it goes down.”
“There are many ways to win a chess match,” said Elyse.
“No, there’s one way to win a chess match. Take the king. The rest is just quitting. And there are a thousand better places to take young girls than under the eye of the EU and the UN. Those girls have to get to Greece first. They don’t do that on the QE II. They are smuggled. And smugglers are the talent scouts of the human trafficking world. They sure as hell don’t need to wait until the talent gets into Europe.”
“Well I have reason to believe that they are doing it. I don’t know the why, but there’ll be one. I’m sure of it.”
“All right, let’s say it’s happening. How do you know Loup is even involved? I’m sure he has nothing to do with the day to day running of most of his businesses.”
“You said it yourself, bad men do bad things.”
“I did. But I also said I wanted evidence of something before I drew a final conclusion. I don’t see one. Besides, Loup is one of the richest men on the planet. Why would he get involved in such a thing? Where’s the upside? A few thousand dollars here and there. Good money for a Syrian smuggler but not a man who owns half of Paris.”
“If I had all the answers I would have written the story already. At the least, we are hearing stories of maltreatment inside the facility. But we can neither confirm nor deny. At worst, the evidence we seek might be inside.”
“What evidence.”
“People, John. People who’ve seen things. People who know.”
Chapter Fourteen
They went back and spent the afternoon looking around Saint-Suliac-de-Bugey. A handful of people were on the street, and stores were open. They didn’t
interact with anyone but they didn’t get much encouragement to try. It wasn’t open hostility Flynn saw in their eyes. But it wasn’t far from it.
Elyse drove them out to the other side of town to see the factory that was the town’s biggest employer. The building was a cube of mirrored glass and stainless steel. There was a lush lawn and a large parking lot full of recent model cars.
“What do they make?” Gorski asked.
“Technological components for the military and certain civilian applications,” Elyse told him.
“That sounds like you read the brochure. What do they really do?”
“Just that. Components. Circuit boards, computer chips, that sort of thing. Stuff that gets used in communication systems.”
“Doesn’t it get made cheaper in China?” asked Gorski.
“Almost certainly. But there are certain applications where the government just plain doesn’t trust the Chinese. Telecommunications infrastructure, military comms and targeting. That sort of thing. What it is and who it is for is secret, but that’s the general idea.”
“So it’s security clearance stuff?” asked Flynn.
“I would think so.”
“And half the town works here?”
“More,” said Elyse. “Probably two-thirds, plus most of the rest in the refugee facility, and the rest in services to the town—the restaurant, the stores.”
“I know if I were looking for somewhere to build a place where I was planing on getting up to no good,” said Gorski, “A town that knows how to keep its mouth shut would be high on my list.”
Elyse nodded. “You see my point?”
“I’m starting to,” said Gorski. He looked at Flynn who shrugged.
“We should probably find somewhere to bunk down before it gets too late. This place looks like it rolls up the sidewalks pretty early.”
“You don’t want to stay here,” said Elyse. “We’ll go back to Ambérieu.”
“No, this is where the action is, metaphorically speaking. This is where we should be. They must have a hotel or B&B or something.”
“They do but I don’t think we’ll get in.”
“Why? It’s not exactly Manhattan with the tourists out here.”
Elyse frowned. “Okay. I know somewhere. It’s not much.”
“It’s not much sounds like a palace,” said Gorski.
Elyse took them to a farm back on the side of town they had arrived from. It was a stone farmhouse that didn’t look quite as refreshed as the rest of the town. There were several outbuildings, and some goats wandered across the driveway. She stopped the car short of the house, near a barn, and got out. Gorski followed. Flynn sat in place for a moment.
He’d never been on this farm before but it made the hairs on his arms stand up regardless. It was a similar layout to a farm in which he had once sought refuge in the French Alps. That house had been closer to Gorski’s house than this one. Made mostly from wood, like a chalet. And that had been the problem. He closed his eyes for a moment. Bright day became dark night. Long, waving grass became snow. Flynn took a deep breath and pushed at the world as it closed in.
“You coming?” asked Elyse.
Flynn let the air slowly pass through his lips like a meditation. There would be time for such things later. He stepped out of the car. It smelled like a farm. Fresh air with a hint of manure, that one got used to quickly. He walked a few steps back from Elyse.
She reached the house and knocked. And old man who looked like an advertisement for French cheese stepped out. His hair and mustache were dark and he wore a black beret and a blue and white striped shirt. He nodded at Elyse without a smile. They spoke for a moment and then came over to Flynn and Gorski.
“This is Monsieur Pepard. This is his farm. Monsieur please meet John and Alex.”
They shook hands and the farmer grunted, “bonjour.” His voice was soft and deep and the result of a lifetime love affair with Gauloises cigarettes.
“Monsieur Pepard says we can use this barn to sleep in. Come see.”
They wandered over to the barn. The front section was all barn. Stalls with hay, pitchforks, steel buckets. The rear of the barn was something else. The concrete floor had been washed clean. The frames of camping cots were stood up against one wall. A pile of thin mattresses were covered in heavy plastic beside the frames. On a shelf attached to the barn were gray blankets. Flynn knew army surplus when he saw it.
“There’s heat, water,” said Elyse, as if trying to sell the place.
“It’s great,” said Gorski. “Actual cots.”
Flynn agreed, and the farmer nodded and walked back inside his house.
“So what now?” Elyse asked.
“Now you tell us what you want from us,” said Flynn.
“What I want from you? Why on earth do you think I want anything from you?”
“Because we’re all standing in a barn outside of Lyon. We’re not here by accident.”
Elyse frowned. “I don’t know, is the answer.”
Flynn nodded. “Good.”
“How is that good?”
“It’s honest. So let me ask another question. What do you want to have happen here? What’s you’re end game?”
Elyse paced around the barn.
“I want to look inside that facility. I want to make sure the people in there are being cared for. I want to confirm if the stories of girls going missing is true. I want to write my story.”
“And in the back of your mind, you see us doing what?”
“I don’t know. You seem capable, for some reason. And I’m out of options. I suspect a person can get into a prison, but how do they get out again? I thought you might have some ideas.”
Flynn nodded. “I have some ideas.”
“Like what?”
“Not now. Right now, I need to borrow your car.”
“Why?”
“I want to look at the airfield, and I want to see Loup’s estate.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No. I want to look around the refugee facility again, too, and I think it would be best to do that without you. In case they know you.”
“They don’t know me there.”
“Just in case. We’ll be a couple of hours, that’s all. Then I can tell you how much we can help, if at all.”
Elyse looked at Gorski and then back at Flynn. Then she fished the keys out of her pocket and handed them over.
Gorski drove. In the Legion, he always had. He was a good driver, fast reactions. Better than Flynn. Flynn was good enough, better than most, but when he drove he liked to pay attention to the task at hand. It made it hard to look around at the environment. And right now, he wanted to look around.
“You really need to see the refugee center?” asked Gorski.
“No,” said Flynn. “I just told her that.”
“The airfield?”
“It’s closest.”
Gorski pulled out of the village and onto the main road. He saw the sign for Ambérieu-en-Bugey and for Base Aérienne 278.
“She’s got it wrong,” said Gorski as he drove. “The refugee center.”
“I know.”
“It won’t be easy getting in and hard getting out. It’s the other way around.”
“I know.”
“Who puts razor wire on a fence angled outward?”
“Not a prison.”
“No,” said Gorski. “That place is designed to keep people out, not in.”
“I know.”
They drove past the turn off for Ambérieu, and then got off and followed the signs to the airbase. The stopped short and walked in.
It was small. Smaller than Le Bourget. The runway was on the west side of the field, and looked about two-thirds the length of the main runway at Le Bourget. Maybe 2,000 meters. Big aircraft could not land here. But Flynn recalled the Dassault that Loup had flown out of from Paris. It had three jets and was airborne well before the end of the runway. He suspected the reverse thrust was equally effe
ctive. Flynn noticed that adjacent to the bitumen runway was another shorter grass runway.
The bitumen taxiway ran away from them to a handful of small hangars in the south-east corner of the field. A small aircraft, about the size of a four-seater Cessna was parked at an angle outside one of the hangars. Flynn noted a number of men in uniform walking around the tarmac. There wasn’t many, and there wasn’t much activity. It was a small unit. It didn’t seem cost effective. He knew such things were important to people who ran militaries. He wondered what kind of political pressure had been applied to keep it open. Perhaps its proximity to Loup’s estate was its saving grace. Perhaps Loup’s landing fees kept it in the black.
“I don’t see Loup’s jet,” said Gorski.
Flynn didn’t see it, either. They drove on, past a sign for an aero club, which appeared to be on the grounds of the airbase. They kept going to the south-east corner, which turned out to be the main entrance. There was a guardhouse and a boom gate. Flynn saw accommodation blocks, like apartments, three stories tall. Perhaps barracks, but he couldn’t fathom that many bodies being required. They drove around the perimeter. It was, for all intents, just a big field of grass in the middle of other big fields. The area had that feeling of new build suburbs on the periphery of large cities, as farmland and fields became warehouses and distribution centers and big box stores, and then suburbs grew up around them. The suburbs hadn’t quite arrived yet, but the rest was in place.
They drove by an old rendered building with faded paint that would not have fit in, back in Saint-Suliac, but looked the part near an airbase. It was mustard-colored and faded script read Café de l’Aviation.
Gorski pulled in. There was no charm about the place. Just a building on a plot of grass plopped next to an airfield. They went inside. The space was dark and in need of repair. Pictures of aircraft hung from the walls, but they weren’t the kinds of sexy aircraft that normally hung in such places. These were prosaic aircraft, two and four and six-seaters, all prop driven. Not a jet to be seen. There was a large man in a white t-shirt behind a wood bar. The lacquer was peeling from the top like a week-old sunburn.
“Bonjour,” said Flynn. He got a nod. “Deux bières, s'il vous plait.”
One for One (John Flynn Thrillers Book 3) Page 11