“Bathroom’s there. You want something to eat—some bread or fruit—that door leads to the cafeteria. I suggest you do that before the new arrivals come in for dinner. They’ll pick it clean. They always do.”
Flynn wondered if the refugees on the bus had received any food during their twenty-four hour journey. He suspected the UN would have to supply something but he also suspected it wouldn’t have been any kind of feast. He noticed a door at the far end of the corridor that was located in roughly the position that he had left the bus.
Gorski pushed the bathroom door and went in. It was white tiled floor and more taupe paint. There was a line of sinks by a wall mirror, and benches to sit on and a shower stall at the end. The two men had been sleeping in barns or traveling for days and they figured they had time. Each of them took a shower, and then got dressed in the same clothes. They used their hands to comb their hair. There wasn’t much to it. Although both men wore their hair longer than they had in the Legion, it wasn’t long by any kind of civilian definition.
Once they were refreshed they wandered out into the corridor and through the doors into another corridor which led to the cafeteria. It looked like a cafeteria in a hospital. More linoleum floors, and plastic chairs and easy care plastic tables that seated eight in a circle. There was a couple of vending machines and a window into a central courtyard that appeared to be the only outdoor space. Despite the attempt at making the place feel like a college campus, it was the outdoor space more than anything that made it feel like a prison. The prison yard.
The kitchen was at the far end of the cafeteria. Like everything else, it looked like a hospital or college space. A steel shelf to put a plastic tray on, glass cabinets showing bain-maries that would hold steaming food but at that moment showed nothing but the hot water that would keep the food warm when it arrived. The kitchen was busy. Lots of stainless steel surfaces and refrigeration units and gas cookers. A pot of some kind of soup was bubbling away. A woman prepping the service area told them dinner service wasn’t for fifteen minutes.
“Do have any bread?”
The woman nodded, stepped away and returned holding a basket with a baguette broken into two halves.
“Butter and cheese in the refrigerator. Fruit as well. Water in the jug.”
“Merci,” said Flynn.
The woman nodded again. “You’re not with them, huh?”
“With them?”
“The Syrians.”
“No.”
You want wine?”
“Wine? You have wine?”
“Of course. But mostly they don’t drink it. They’re Muslims. Can you imagine that? No wine with your dinner?”
Gorski said, “Thank you, but, no. We’ll be having dinner later.”
“Please yourself.”
Flynn and Gorski took the bread and collected some butter and apples from the fridge. Gorski poured two plastic cups of water and joined Flynn at a table in the otherwise empty room. Pots and pans clanging were the only sounds. They both took some bread. The baker in Saint-Suliac-de-Bugey had been working hard and his product was excellent. Crisp on the outside but light on the inside.
Gorski spoke in a low voice. Both men assumed the room was bugged. “So Loup is doing something bad here?” He glanced around the room. “This makes a Legion barracks look like the Hotel George V. Or at least the Four Seasons.”
Flynn had to agree. It was secure, but no more than most government buildings. It was clean and bright. There were no bars or even guards with rifles watching over them. Flynn noted the cameras in the corners, but he saw those in hospital cafeterias. All in all, if he were escaping a war zone, he figured he could do a lot worse than end up being processed for a asylum in a place like this. As long as he didn’t think about the fact that he wasn’t free to leave.
They ate and refueled and took their time about it. No one rushed them out. One thing that both men had learned in the Legion was that the French did not rush their food. Even when they found themselves in the desert, with meager rations and little water, the officers would always allow the men to take their time with dinner. When it was available, each man even received a wine ration. It was never an award winning vintage, but it was as important a part of the meal as bread or potatoes.
Gorski tapped Flynn’s boot when he saw the movement in the courtyard. Some women were out in the space with children. The kids were running off some steam, some kicking balls and others just running for the sake of it.
Then the women and children started coming inside. Each woman noticed Flynn and Gorski without looking directly at them. The women ushered the children to a wash station, where they cleaned their hands and then directed them to tables toward the rear of the room. The children sat talking and fidgeting while the women lined up at the service counter. The bain-maries had been filled with rice and potatoes and soups and stews. The women shuffled along the line, taking plates of food for themselves and the children. They took the food back to the tables and then returned for water.
Once they were seated and eating, men appeared through an interior door on the opposite side of the room to the courtyard. They repeated the process, washing and lining up and collecting food. They took tables closer to the service area. Some offered nods to Flynn and Gorski and three men sat at their table. Others offered frowns and sat far away.
One of the men spoke Arabic. “You are new?”
“Visiting,” replied Flynn, hoping his Arabic wasn’t too rusty.
The man nodded and ate some rice and beef stew.
“How is it here?” asked Flynn.
“How does it look?” replied the man, sipping some water.
“It looks nice.”
“Then it’s nice.”
The men ate without further conversation. Once finished, the three of them collected their plates and took them to the return station, and then they stepped into the courtyard to smoke. Flynn and Gorski had spent a lot of time in the Middle East. They knew men liked to smoke everywhere. Inside, outside, wherever. Flynn suspected there was an EU rule that prevented them doing it inside, especially around the children. Perhaps they weren’t even supposed to do it in the courtyard, but with the children in the cafeteria, blind eyes were turned.
Flynn was growing concerned. The French might not rush their meal, but there was also a limit to how long they could linger in the facility. As he considered his options, the door the men had come through opened again and another group of men came in. It was the men from the bus. A guard strode in behind them and gave them the orientation. Wash station, food station, water. Return your plates and cutlery. Keep the place clean. The usual. The guard left them to it and stepped into the kitchen to chat with a cook. Perhaps his wife.
The men moved toward the wash station. Many of them looked around, Flynn assumed for their families. They didn’t find them. One of the men glanced at Flynn. It was Monsieur Betesh. He used the wash station and then joined the line for food. He took some and then dropped his tray on the table beside Flynn. He collected some water and then sat.
As he began eating Flynn steepled his hands in front of his face and spoke softly.
“How is it?”
“The food? Not as good as your steak.”
“And the place?”
“Better than Greece.”
Flynn sipped his water. “Did you find your family?”
Betesh finished a mouthful of rice. “No,” he mumbled. “Not yet.”
“If they weren’t on the bus, and they aren’t in this room, perhaps they are not here at all.”
“They are here. There must be others. Perhaps the dinners are in shifts. I will find them.”
“We’re leaving soon,” said Flynn. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”
“I will be ready.”
Betesh took his half-finished plate to the return station and then stepped outside for a cigarette. Flynn and Gorski waited a moment more, and then took their bread bowl and cutlery to the return station. As they tossed
apple cores into the food waste bin, the door the men had come through opened again. This time the women and children from the bus came through. Another guard was with them. He gave the same speech, about the stations and the process and about keeping it clean. Flynn saw Elyse among them. She still wore the scarf on her head as the other women did.
After the speech the women moved to the wash station. Elyse dropped behind the children. As Flynn watched, the guard who had spoken to the women wandered over to him.
“I thought you left?”
“Just washing up.”
“You shouldn’t be here now.”
“We couldn’t get out,” said Gorski. “The door back out is locked and we didn’t think we should go wandering around.”
“No, you shouldn’t. I’ll show you out.”
“Can I just get some water before we go?” Flynn asked.
The guard groaned. “Quickly. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
The guard moved away but kept looking back at them. Flynn waited until most of the women and children from the bus had moved into the food line and then he went the other way. Over to the water jugs. Elyse stood there, pouring tea from a silver urn.
“You okay?” he asked as he picked up a cup. He made sure not to look at her. She did the same.
“Fine.”
“The room?”
“It’s nice. Everything’s nice. I’m sharing a room with another single woman. Most of the women are in with their kids. Their husbands and the single men are in another wing. I don’t know why they won’t let the media in. It’s all so nice.”
“Too nice, maybe,” said Flynn. He poured some water into his cup and sipped at it.
“I agree. It should be a PR triumph. But they’re choosing to keep it secret.” Elyse sipped her tea and recoiled. It was hot.
“Do you have it?” she asked.
“Hey, you!” The guard called to Flynn. “Time to go.”
Flynn turned his body so he was side on. He nodded to the guard and drank down the rest of his water. As he did, he put his hand on the blind side against Elyse’s hand. She took the iPod from him and slipped it into her coat.
“Tomorrow, lunchtime,” he said.
Flynn took his cup to the return station and then walked over to the guard who had called. Gorski was already there, talking to the guard.
“He says there is no hotel nearby,” said Gorski.
“The closest is in Ambérieu,” said the guard.
“Then that’s where we’ll go,” said Flynn.
The guard walked them back into the room with the big desk and the woman behind it handed them back their phones, and then they were escorted out of the building and through the gate and past the boom. The guard left them on the empty street outside. No taxi rank, no mention of a ride to Ambérieu, a good five kilometers from the center.
They marched away.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Elyse waited until dinner was finished and she could go back to her bedroom. The other women, including her roommate, had moved to another room that was part television room and part playroom. She found her bedroom and sat on the bed. It was a comfortable space, like a dorm room at a university. Two single beds, two nightstands with drawers and nightlights, and one wardrobe. The people who arrived here did have many belongings. They had carried what they still owned. Her roommate’s duffel had been placed at the end of her bed. The few items belonging to the girl who had been taken from the bus were in a black garbage bag. It had been opened and searched, and lay splayed open at the end of the bed. The girl’s name was Rasha. Elyse wasn’t sure what else the authorities in the center knew about Rasha. Like her age. She was young, maybe fourteen years old. Elyse was double that. Perhaps they didn’t have that information. Perhaps it would only be a matter of time before they figured it out.
Elyse took the iPod from her pocket. Flynn had said the device belonged to Gorski, something he had bought off the internet. The wire wrapped around it looked like a headphone cord, except the headphones were missing. Elyse plugged one end into the iPod and the other end into a another socket that led to a second thinner wire. The second wire was brown and the width of a few hairs knotted together. The brown wire connected to what looked like a hair clip that Elyse wore to pulled her hair back under her scarf. She ran the wire back under her scarf and down into her coat. Then she turned the iPod on. The small screen came to life, but there was no music displaying. What she saw was the room she sat in. Taupe walls and her roommate’s bed. She moved her head and the picture moved with her. The tiny camera in the hair clip wasn’t high definition, but gave a level of clarity that amazed Elyse. She looked in the small steel mirror on the wall and checked her look. Even knowing it was there she couldn’t spot the camera in the clip that kept the hair out of her right eye. She slipped the iPod into her pocket. It saved no data, because inside it was no longer an iPod. Instead, it transmitted what she saw to a storage drive that Gorski had placed under the driver’s seat on the bus. Which meant she didn’t really have to get out of the center at all. But the bus did. She straightened her scarf and checked her look once more, and then left the room to find out what was really going on in this place.
Flynn and Gorski didn’t march far. Gorski had parked Elyse’s rental car nearby before getting on the bus, and they used it to get back to the farm. They were already fed and watered. Gorski went out behind the barn for a smoke. Flynn headed for the farmhouse. He didn’t go in through the front door. Instead he wandered around the side and onto a small paved patio at the rear of the house. It overlooked the fields, with goats and a few head of cattle munching on grass. There was a wooden door with a glass pane in it which Flynn knocked on.
The door opened into the kitchen. Monsieur Pepard sat at the kitchen table reading a newspaper. The farmer was older than Flynn had assumed. Without his beret his bald pate showed his age. He had to be seventy, if he was a day. The farmer looked up at Flynn but he gave no expression. He simply gestured for Flynn to take a seat at his table.
“Bonsoir,” said Flynn as he sat.
The man grunted a response. “Bonsoir.”
Flynn could feel the warmth in the home. He pushed the idea from his thoughts. He knew that in the next room flames burned in the fireplace. He took a low, slow breath. As long as he didn’t see it, he could push it away. He could hide his fear in one of the locked compartments in his mind. It would come out, he knew that, but later, when he was alone.
“Thank you for your hospitality, monsieur,” said Flynn.
The farmer shrugged and looked at Flynn. It felt to Flynn like the old man was reading every line in his face, every mission, every success, every failure. Flynn waited until he thought Pepard was done, although the old man never dropped his eyes.
“Have you lived here a long time?” Flynn asked.
Pepard took a deep breath. “All my life, give or take.”
“A lot of changes.”
The old man shrugged. “Not so much.”
“New factories, money in the village.”
“Oui.”
“But you don’t seem to want any of it.”
“I am just an old man. What would I do with money?”
“I am sure you are many things, monsieur, but just an old man? I don’t think so.”
Pepard folded his newspaper and lay it on the table. “Why are you here, monsieur?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Life is a long story. Longer when the life is short.”
“Oui,” said Flynn.
Pepard nodded to himself. “You have the walk of a military man.”
“I suppose I do.”
“But you are not in the army anymore.”
“No.”
“But something in Saint-Suliac troubles you.”
“Oui.”
“What is it that troubles you?”
“The village is a part of the region, and yet separate from it. Like an island paradise. As if it is pretending to live in anothe
r time and place. A perfect French village. Such that I don’t think really exists anymore.”
“You see much.”
“But not you.”
“And you?”
“I’m not from here. I’m just trying to right a wrong. And what is happening here seems central to that wrong. In a way I can’t quite fathom.”
“And what would you do if you learned the truth?”
“Stop it.”
“Sometimes this is not possible.”
“And sometimes it is, monsieur.”
Pepard looked at Flynn again. “You have stopped such things before. I see it in you. But these are powerful people.”
“I’m sure. More powerful that anyone has ever seen. But you resist. Those poor souls in your barn aren’t there by accident.”
“No. But then I have seen real power, Monsieur Flynn. The absolute and corrupt power of evil.”
Flynn said nothing.
“Do you know your history, monsieur?”
“Some.”
“Do you know of Vichy France?”
“Of course. The de facto French government during World War Two.”
“De facto, oui. You see, Ambérieu was at the crossroads of German occupied northern France, Vichy France in the south and the Italian controlled east. You know that the Vichy sympathized with the Nazis.”
“I’ve read the books.”
“The books, hmmm. There were many people here who were taken by the Vichy. Handed over to the Germans. Friends of my mother and father. Children I went to school with. People who were, like my father, Jewish.”
Flynn said nothing.
“I was a young boy. My family hid for two years. We moved from farm to farm, moving when we got word that the Vichy were coming to inspect. They didn’t march people away, mind you. They had friends for that. And you know why they cared so much about this little corner France?”
Flynn shook his head.
“Because of the resistance. A man called Marcel Demia. He and his comrades hid many resistance fighters on the farms around here. Jews from Germany were brought through Ambérieu and other towns in Ain, and onward to Sweden and Portugal and from there to South America and the United States. The village was awarded the Croix de guerre. Do you know the Croix de guerre?”
One for One (John Flynn Thrillers Book 3) Page 21