Flynn and Gorski both offered nods as thanks and drank their coffee. It was good and hot and pumped full of caffeine. Flynn asked the woman if she had anything to eat and was answered with a gruff non.
“Un Croissant? Le pain?” he asked.
The woman shook her head.
Flynn nodded like this was not unusual information and he turned to the room with his cup to his lips. Almost everyone in the room was drinking coffee, but none were eating. It seemed that the woman was good to her word. There was no food on offer in her cafe. Which Flynn knew was an altogether uncommon scenario in a French cafe. He knew for a fact, he had never seen such a thing. The baker was busy, but the bread was not being sold.
They watched a group of people thank the woman behind the bar and leave, headed along the street in the direction of the church. Then a young woman stood from a corner table and told her companions she would see them later, and she made for the door. Flynn finished his coffee and dropped a ten euro note on the bar, and then he moved to the door just before the woman got there. He offered her a smile and opened the door for her.
“Merci,” she said as she stepped into the street.
Flynn followed her out, Gorski on his heel.
“Busy for a Sunday,” Flynn said.
The woman nodded. “Oui.” She made to walk away.
“Is there a restaurant open today?”
The woman hesitated as if she didn’t want to have the conversation, but equally didn’t want to be rude to a stranger.
“Non, monsieur,” she said. “It is Sunday.”
“I smell food cooking.”
“Someone’s Sunday lunch.”
“And the baker seems to be baking.”
“Oui. But he is not open on Sunday.”
The woman offered them a curt nod to end the conversation, and walked down an alleyway.
Gorski rubbed his chin. “A baker baking on Sunday?”
“How much day old bread do you think he sells?”
“In France? None.”
“I agree.”
They walked along what seemed to be the main street of the town. About two hundred meters from the cafe was a small park. A group of boys that Flynn pegged at around fourteen or fifteen were kicking a football around. They were dressed in football jerseys and Umbro sweaters. Not church clothes. Flynn leaned on the wire fence around the park. There were flowers bordering the grass despite the season, and the grass was lush and green. He watched the boys playing for a while. They seemed to pay him no attention, but he didn’t think it malicious. Young boys lived in their own oblivious world.
A kick went astray and hit the fence by Flynn and a boy came to retrieve it. The boy made eye contact with Flynn.
“Nice field,” Flynn said.
“Ouais,” said the kid.
“Monsieur Loup?” asked Flynn.
“Bien sûr,” replied the boy, as if the answer were self evident. He picked up the ball.
“Why do you care?” asked the boy.
“It’s a beautiful village.”
“I said, why do you care?”
“You don’t see such perfect villages every day.”
“No, I expect not.”
“But Monsieur Loup looks after his friends,” said Flynn.
“Oui. He does the village many favors.”
“Does your dad work for Monsieur Loup?”
“Everyone here works for Monsieur Loup. What about you?”
The others in the group called for the ball and the boy turned and kicked it back to them.
“No,” said Flynn. “I don’t work for Monsieur Loup.”
The kid nodded. “Then you have no business here.” He turned away and ran back to his friends. He didn’t look back at Flynn and Gorski. But other boys did. And they didn’t look like they wanted the men around.
Flynn took the hint. He and Gorski marched back out of the village, in the opposite direction from the farm. Once they hit the first open land beyond the village they turned and headed back toward the Pepard farm.
“How many French villages have you been in?” Flynn asked.
Gorski shrugged. “Hundreds.”
“You ever seen anything like that?”
“The looks? Yes. The stores closed on a Sunday? Sure. But that was something different. That I don’t understand.”
“They were busy. The baker, the butcher. Even the restaurant. But no one was open and no one was buying.”
They marched back to the farm. Elyse must have been watching from the farmhouse because she met them on the driveway with a coffee in her hand.
“What did you see?” she asked.
“Let me answer your question with a question,” said Flynn. “Yesterday that village was dead. Not a soul stirred. You ever seen it like that?”
“Often.”
“And what about the opposite? Busy, things happening?”
“What sort of busy?” she asked.
“The village businesses—the baker, the butcher, the restaurant. Busy, but not necessarily serving customers.”
“Most Mondays, I suppose.”
“What happens most Mondays?” Flynn asked.
“It’s like a closed loop. Many people in the village work in the factory. They seem to earn more than the average factory worker. Even if it is a high tech production facility, and even if it does have secret government contracts. And then there’s the refugee detention center. A good number work there. They seem to get paid well, too. I always figured the great wages helped keep lips sealed. But I couldn’t ever figure out the businesses in the village. They don’t charge more for a baguette or a steak than anywhere else. So they’re not making the same money. So they’d be the ones to have loose lips, give up the secrets.”
“But they’re just as tight lipped as anyone,” said Gorski.
“Maybe more so,” said Elyse. “But then I noticed Mondays. Most of the others are at work at the factory or the refugee center. So there are not that many people around the village, but the shopkeepers are all busy on Mondays.”
“Doing what?” asked Gorski.
“I think they’re catering. For the refugees. Preparing food for the week.”
“How many refugees are in there?” asked Flynn.
“I don’t know. We suspect maybe about two hundred.”
“And that keeps an entire village’s stores working?” asked Gorski.
“I suspect just as the workers at the factory and the refugee center make abnormal wages, so the baker and the butcher are paid above market rate for their produce by the center.”
“What about the restaurant?”
“They’re actually preparing the food. Like a catering business.”
“What about the barber,” said Gorski. “What’s he doing for this extra money?”
“Cutting hair at the refugee camp for a hundred euros a head? And the tabac is selling hundred euro cigarettes. Or maybe they’re just getting a per diem to stay in business and keep quiet. I don’t know for sure.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Gorski. “If Loup is paying all this money, how is he making any profit running a refugee processing center?”
“That depends on how much he’s being paid to run it,” said Elyse.
“Surely that information is public record?” said Flynn.
“I’m sure it is. But there are ways to do these things? Aren’t there?”
Flynn nodded but said nothing. A word was bouncing around in his head, trying desperately to land somewhere that would allow it to make sense. He thought back to the village. To every other village he had seen on a Sunday. And to the boys in the park, playing football as boys do.
“Favors,” said Flynn.
“What?” asked Elyse.
“A boy in the village. He used the word. Favors. Monsieur Loup does the village many favors.”
“So? I think that’s pretty obvious.”
“Yes, but he expects something in return for those favors.”
“So
me people are like that. Quid pro quo.”
“Yes. Which makes me wonder who else Loup is doing favors for.”
“Who else would he do favors for?” Elyse asked.
Flynn felt some links falling into place. Very loose, very theoretical links. He looked at Elyse.
“Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say Mondays are busy because the village is preparing for the week. Why would they be so active on a Sunday? The factory workers are all at church. But not the baker, not the butcher. They’re doing their Monday routine, but on a Sunday. Why?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Because they’re preparing for some extra mouths. They expect more refugees to arrive.”
Chapter Twenty
The idea of favors done and returned quid pro quo was lodged in Flynn’s mind. He was thinking about things Gorski had said, and things Elyse had said, and about who it might be that Loup was doing favors for, and what he might be getting in return.
Flynn had told Gorski about Major Bradshaw, the US officer in Iraq. Now Bradshaw was talking to him, through space and time, in conversations remembered. Bradshaw had been on the trail of arms and ammunitions suspected to be coming from the US stockpile. During the drawdown billions of dollars in equipment and ordnance was being shipped back stateside, and billions more was being left behind in Iraq, ostensibly to aid the incoming Iraqi forces in the transition, but in reality because it would cost more than its value to ship home. It was the ordnance that was remaining in Iraq that was of most concern to Bradshaw. He was adamant that the army knew exactly where its equipment was, and where it wasn’t. But he couldn’t be so sure about the arms being left to the Iraqis.
And then he found evidence that arms he suspected had come from the Iraqi stores, had in fact arrived from France. When he worked it back, he found the origin to be a small maintenance base near Ambérieu-en-Bugey. At the time the base meant nothing to Flynn. Now there was meaning behind it.
Flynn asked Elyse if he could borrow her rental car again. This time she wanted to come. She could see a story building momentum, and she could see that she was being left behind.
“It’s better if you stay. You’re known around here. I need to be able to ask questions before people decide to clam up.”
She gave him a look of uncertainty.
“If I learn anything, you’ll know,” he said. “I want your story out there.”
She clearly didn’t buy it, not completely, but she handed him the keys.
“Don’t make me regret this,” she said.
“No, ma’am.”
Flynn decided to return to the place where Major Bradshaw had ended up. The airbase at Ambérieu-en-Bugey. He wasn’t planning on sitting around watching nothing happening, waiting for something to occur. He already knew people who did that. And he hoped they knew a thing or two about the past.
He stopped the car just off the pavement outside the Café de l’Aviation. The interior had the same musty atmosphere as it had the last time, and the large man behind the bar wore a white t-shirt, as he had the previous day. Flynn figured the chances were good that it was the same t-shirt. As he moved toward the bar Flynn noted a couple of faces that had been there on their last visit. None of them were the face Flynn wanted to see.
“Bonjour,” he said to the man behind the bar. The man didn’t so much as grunt.
“Is David here today?” Flynn asked.
“Non.”
“How often does he come in?”
“You want beer?” asked the man. He wiped his hand down his shirt as he said it.
“No,” Flynn said.
The man shrugged like he didn’t care either way.
“You looking for David?”
Flynn turned to see a man sitting in the corner with large headphones wrapped around his neck.
“Oui,” said Flynn. “You know him?”
“Sure.”
“You expect him in?”
The man shook his head. “He’s at work.”
“On a Sunday? Where does he work?”
“In the Aldi Marché, on the other side of the base.”
Flynn thanked the man and offered the barman a nod. They got back in the car and drove two minutes to the opposite corner at the south end of the airbase, where an assortment of modern boxes had been erected in place of architecture with any kind of charm. The boxes contained a variety of stores, from farming equipment to auto parts to stationery.
Flynn and Gorski found David at the back of the Aldi grocery store, placing packaged meat onto refrigerated shelves.
“Bonjour, David,” Flynn said.
David frowned as he had when they had first met, as if he was surprised that he was being spoken to, rather than at.
“You,” he said, and then he looked around as if he might get in trouble for engaging with a customer.
Gorski stepped forward and picked up a package of steak. “Looks good. Is it?”
David nodded. “Yes, it’s very good. And a great price.”
“I suppose you have to say that.”
“I’m paid to stack shelves. I don’t have to say anything. But it is excellent value.” He glanced at Gorski and then at Flynn. “Who are you guys? Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“No,” said Flynn. “No trouble. We just happened to be shopping and we saw you back here.”
“You were shopping?”
“Sure, we eat, and we don’t have servants. So we shop.”
“And you came over?”
“Yes. Because we were talking about you earlier.”
“You were talking about me?”
“Yes. Actually we were discussing some of the flights that come in and out of the airbase,” said Flynn.
“Like Monsieur Loup’s jet?”
“Right, and others, and we thought, you know who would know all about that? David.”
Gorski nodded. “David.”
“Me.”
“That’s right,” said Flynn. “See, we were wondering how many other aircraft came in other than Monsieur Loup’s jet and his other aircraft.”
“The Avro.”
“Yes. Apart from those.”
“Just the courier aircraft the military uses to deliver parts, and the small aircraft that come in with the aero club.”
“No other jets?”
“No.”
“No other cargo?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I follow them. I record them.”
“But you can’t record down aircraft you don’t see. Right now, for instance. You can’t track anything while you’re at work.”
“Yes I can.”
Flynn frowned. “You can? How?”
“Like I said. I record them. I have sensors set up to video any flight that lands.”
“Why?” asked Gorski. “Why do you track them?”
“Because I like to. I like to know things.”
A store manager in a tie and short sleeves strode down the aisle toward them. He had his eye on David, who stared hard at the floor.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” asked the manager.
“No, merci,” said Flynn. “Your staff member here was just recommending some steaks.”
“I’d be more than happy to assist you,” said the manager.
“As I say, your man here already did that.”
“I see. Well, if there’s anything I can do.”
“Actually, there is,” said Gorski. “I need water crackers for my cheese board. Do you have something?”
“Of course, monsieur. This way.”
The manager walked away with Gorski in tow.
“So you were saying, about knowing things,” said Flynn.
David watched his supervisor disappear up an aisle with Gorski. “I follow the air traffic. Here and there.”
“Would you know of any flights that came in during 2011?”
“2011? I don’t know.”
“So you don’t know eve
rything about the traffic?”
“No, I mean yes. I know. Or I can find out. 2011 will be recorded somewhere. You’re asking about Monsieur Loup’s aircraft? He didn’t have the 8X back then.”
“What about the Avro?”
“Maybe. I’d have to check.”
“You have records going back that far?”
“Someone does.”
“Should I talk to this someone?”
“No, I can do it. I can find out. Can you come back after my shift? I can show you then.”
Flynn said he could. He told David he would be in the parking lot after his shift. He took an armful of steaks and sausages and met Gorski in the aisle where he was getting chapter and verse on different types of crackers. They took a few boxes and checked out, and bought an insulated bag to put their purchases in.
As they walked back to the car like two guys planning a Sunday barbecue, Flynn updated Gorski.
Then they returned to the farm. Flynn gave Elyse the bag of meat and crackers.
“An interesting combination,” she said.
“It’s a long story, and I’ll update you later. But feel free to cook up something for Monsieur Pepard and his guests.”
Elyse took the bag. “Merci,” she said. “And what will you do now?”
“I want one more look at the refugee center.”
“And I suppose I’m known there so I can’t come.”
“It would be better.”
“Do I have any role to play in your little game, monsieur?”
“Bigger than you could know, mademoiselle.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Flynn didn’t go to the refugee center. That was the secondary mission, and despite what Gorski thought, Flynn still had his mind on the primary goal: Jean Loup. But he had a growing sense that all things were layered in together like a butter croissant. Right now, though, there were two places he wanted to be, because there were two places he expected his quarry to be.
Flynn dropped Gorski near the Café de l’Aviation. He would find a suitable position nearby, where he could see the runways and the tarmac and the hangars. Gorski took off at a slow jog and then Flynn kept going to the estate. He parked in the same place they had stopped before, but this time he turned off his phone and left it in the glove compartment. He cut his way through the forest, keeping along the river line, counting his steps as he moved. He saw the distant outline of the roe deer, moving like ghosts through the gloom.
One for One (John Flynn Thrillers Book 3) Page 15