“When you gotta go.”
The guard shook his head and opened the side gate. Gorski was standing there waiting.
“Finally,” he said.
The guard nodded. “That’s what I said.”
Gorski got up into the bus and started it. Flynn jumped up onto the tractor and started it up with a thump of dark smoke. He turned the wheel hard and slowly got the tractor and trailer platform turning in a tight circle until he was facing the gates. The first guard opened the tall gate and the next guard put the boom up and both dropped the dragon’s teeth, and Flynn chugged forward. There was no point stopping him. There was nowhere to hide anything or anyone. He pulled out onto the road and turned toward the village. He didn’t wait. Gorski would get through or he wouldn’t. There was nothing Flynn could do about that now. But he was on a slow moving tractor and he needed to be gone as fast as he could. By the time he lost view of the gate, there was no sign of the bus.
Gorski stopped. There were dragon’s teeth in front and more behind. A tall gate behind and a boom in front. He could take the boom out with the bus, that was for sure. The dragon’s teeth were another matter. Gorski opened the window. The guard leaned out of the gatehouse.
“Say hi to Petrov,” said the guard.
“I don’t speak to Russians,” said Gorski. “Especially those kinds of Russians. You want me to open below?”
“You think these people walked halfway across Europe just to escape?”
Gorski shrugged and the guard hit a button and the boom went up. He waved and Gorski waved back and then he pulled out of the detention center and turned away from the village toward the main road out of the Ain region.
Chapter Thirty-One
The village of Saint-Suliac-de-Bugey was a company town. It was bought and paid for, and loyal until the end, or when the money ran out. But the money hadn’t run out, so Flynn knew there were eyes everywhere. But there was also a resistance. The village might have been owned by Jean Loup, but the farms around it certainly weren’t.
Monsieur Pepard lit the resistance network up. First order was the bus. It wasn’t UN marked. It was just another charter coach. But such vehicles weren’t exactly thick on the ground around Saint-Suliac. So Gorski stopped just short of the main road and let Elyse and Monsieur Betesh out of the lavatory at the rear of the bus. They clambered off and Gorski tossed Elyse the keys to her rental that he had left by the roadside and told her to get moving.
Then Gorski headed north. His general heading was Geneva, but he didn’t plan on going that far. It was getting dark by the time he reach the kilometer marker Monsieur Pepard had given him. He checked there were no other headlights or taillights in the vicinity, and then he pulled off and drove down a dirt road, to another farm with a barn whose doors lay open and waiting. He drove straight in and the doors closed behind him.
Gorski was enjoying a glass of red wine when Flynn finally arrived in Elyse’s rental car. Flynn was glad for the absence of a fire and the sight of his old friend. He declined wine and took a coffee. Their hosts told them of their long held pride in their parents’ resistance activities, and they offered any help that the men or Monsieur Pepard would require.
Thierry knocked on the door. It was late and he had every expectation that Loup would be on his second Cognac. He waited to be called in but heard no words, so he knocked a second time.
“What?”
Thierry stepped into the den. Loup sat on a plush sofa in front of two large screens mounted on the wall. One displayed the results from the day’s global financial markets and the other a Paris St. Germain football match. Both were on mute.
“There was an incident, monsieur.”
Loup sighed. "What now?”
“The Saudi thing.”
Loup turned from the screens. “What about it?”
“There was an issue.”
“Whaaat?”
“Someone got out.”
“Someone?”
“A refugee. Or two.”
“Why? Where do they think they’re going?”
“They say the reporter has been back around the village.”
“And what are they saying in the village?”
“To a reporter? Nothing. But there’s someone else.”
“Who?”
“They don’t know. Some unknown guys drove the bus away.”
“What? Did you call them?”
“Trubisky’s not answering.”
“Did they make the delivery?”
“To the center? Yes. They other guys did it.”
“What guys?”
“They don’t know. The bus broke down yesterday. They came back today with a tractor.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“They used a tractor to deliver a spare tire. Which they must have gotten locally. You can’t drive a tractor very far. Doesn’t make sense.”
“So find the tractor.”
“We’ll have the boys out at dawn. They’ll check all the farms.”
“And the Russians? Did they get a prize?”
Thierry hesitated.
“Whaaat?”
“Petrov is not answering, either.”
“The minivan?”
“Didn’t arrive.”
“Is someone trying to sour this deal?”
“I don’t know, Monsieur.”
“I don’t trust those Russians. They’re cheap to hire because there’s a surplus of ex-military men, but I tell you I don’t trust them.”
“No point in them trying anything. They don’t know the end of the pipeline. Do they?”
Loup sat back and looked at his screens again. No one else knew the end of the pipeline. Only Loup. And one other. One other had stood beside him when he shook hands on the deal, when promises of favors had been made. He glanced back at Thierry.
One other.
When Flynn and Gorski got back to the farm all the lights were off. The house was cold and silent. They stepped into the barn. It smelled of wet straw and cow. Their cots at the rear were gone. So was the stack of spares by the wall. They strode back out to the driveway and found Elyse standing in the dark, watching them.
“Okay?” asked Flynn.
“Oui. You?”
“Fine. Did you get what you wanted?”
“I got plenty. But I don’t know what to make of it.”
“How so?”
“Come inside the house.”
They stepped up into the farmhouse. There was a chill in the air. The fireplace was dormant and the lights were doused in the kitchen where Elyse led them. They sat in the dark at the table.
“What did you find?” she asked.
“What did you find?” Flynn replied.
“In general, conditions are good. There’s heat and water and plenty of food. The yard is small but functional. On the face of it, it’s a lot better than most refugee camps.”
“But?”
“But there’s no communication. They can’t have phones and they can’t make calls. They’re told it’s for security reasons. Same with internet or email.”
“But?”
“There’s one or two cases of alleged abuse. But you find that in every situation where people are brought together like this. It happens in the camps in Greece, it happens in the camps in the Middle East and Africa. And from what I can tell here, it’s not rampant. It’s hard to know for sure. I don’t speak Arabic and the few people I talked to who spoke English or French weren’t exactly fluent. But it seems where it has happened, it has been shut down.”
“Shut down?” asked Gorski.
“At both ends. The accuser has been transferred, and the alleged perpetrator has been reassigned. Not seen inside again.”
“Loup can’t fire them because they’ll talk.”
“If they’ve committed sexual abuse, you think they’ll talk?”
Gorski shrugged.
“But?” said Flynn again.
“There’s no representation. No lawyers, no inspectors
, no UN. The Greek camp is funded by the EU and partly staffed and managed by the UN. But this center, it’s all France. Any so-called inspectors are French.”
“Bought and paid for,” said Gorski.
“But?” asked Flynn.
Elyse turned to Flynn but couldn’t read his face in the darkness.
“The third wing.”
“What do you know?”
“Not much,” she said. There’s clearly another corridor leading off the lobby. It’s not hidden. But the doors are locked. It’s as if they aren’t using that section yet. Like it’s there for future refugees. Except it’s not.”
“Why not?” asked Gorski.
“Because there are people in there. The women tell me that the place is practically sound proof, but for the air-conditioning ducting. It runs through the roof. They can hear it at night. Crying. They said at first, they thought it was another room, another cell. But then they started talking. Each thought it was the other, but they figured out it was none of them. It was coming from somewhere else. For the lock corridor. One of the younger girls spoke some English. She said they were calling it the third wing.”
They sat in silence for a moment and then Elyse said, “So. You went in there. Monsieur Betesh wouldn’t say what he saw. Not a word. Like he was traumatized by it or something. And I’m willing to bet Monsieur Betesh has seen some pretty horrible things. So tell me.”
“Where is Monsieur Betesh? With the others?”
“No, he’s cleaning up. What did you find.”
“We found his wife and daughter.”
Elyse drew in a breath. “Dead?”
“No, very much alive.”
“Why didn’t you get them out?”
“No chance. They were, as you suggested, traumatized. One of them almost went fetal when I came in the room. The other one started screaming. We couldn’t get them out like that. No way. We would have all been caught. So we had to leave.”
“You left them?”
“Better to retreat and win another day, than to fight and lose.”
“I pegged you for a forward at all costs kind of guy.”
“When a full offensive is called for, that’s what I’ll do. But bravery is not synonymous with stupidity. Stupid and brave equals a flag over a casket. Smart and brave, you get the medal pinned on your chest.”
“And Monsieur Betesh was okay with this?”
“No. He was not okay with it. But he’s a smart guy. He’s a survivor. He got there, pretty fast actually. Given the circumstances. He saw how it was going to go down. He understands that a retreat is not a defeat.”
“No wonder he was so quiet. Poor man. Poor women.”
“Yeah, about that,” said Flynn.
“What?”
“You didn’t ask the question. The one I would expect a journalist to ask.”
Elyse sat silent for a moment, and then, “Why were they isolated in the third wing.”
“Because they weren’t alone. There were others. All women. At least three rooms, five women, but maybe more.”
“Why though? There are women in the main population of the center. Single, married women. Some mothers, some not. What was different about these women?”
Flynn hesitated.
“They all had one defining feature.”
“Being?”
“They were stunningly beautiful.”
The kitchen went silent again. Each could hear the breathing of the others. Then Elyse spoke.
“You realize how chauvinistic that sounds, right?”
“Of course. But I’m not talking about this as a man. I’m pointing it out as a matter of fact.”
“Physical beauty is not a fact,” said Elyse. “It’s subjective. What is beautiful to one is not beautiful to another. Except maybe if you’re a man.”
“That may be true, but what I’m, saying is, there are some attributes that might be hard to define, but are universal. Not sexy or anything like that. But beautiful. Like a painting. Have you ever seen a model who just has that certain look, that you think, yes, even as a woman, that woman is beautiful?”
“Some women prefer women.”
“Sure, but you’re missing the point. There are people that other people think are drop dead gorgeous but others don’t find attractive in the slightest. Most people skew one way or the other. But not absolute. Not every likes the cheerleader or the sex kitten or the girl next door.”
“Exactly.”
“But some people are universally beautiful. Not necessarily sexy or the girl next door, but beautiful. They have universal traits. Take Marilyn Monroe.”
“You think she was beautiful?”
“She was sexy, but not everyone would agree she was beautiful.”
“Right.”
“Now consider Audrey Hepburn. Not sexy, not some men’s type, or even some women’s type. But the people who aren’t attracted to her look would still say she was a beautiful woman.”
“What is your point, John?”
“Just that. These women were universally beautiful. Not necessarily my type. Hell, a couple were barely in their teens. But by point of fact they were all beautiful.”
“So what are you saying? That Syrians have more beautiful women?”
“I wouldn’t know. I suspect statistically they’re similar to everyone else. But what Syrians are is displaced. Forgotten. Moving from place to place, losing touch with their roots and their families. And then ending up in one place. Like a refugee camp, for example. Where, if someone wanted to cherry pick the most beautiful women, they would be able to do it like a stockyard sale.”
“You’re saying these women are being selected on purpose? And then isolated? Why?”
“Think it through. Tens if not hundreds of thousands of people displaced. Tens of thousands in camps. A lucky few being selected and sent onward to France, which is taking only a small number compared to other countries in the EU. So what if you found such a woman, and got her on the UN bus.”
“And then got her off halfway,” said Gorski.
“People would notice.”
“People did notice. But those people are not being heard. And anyone who would make a fuss, like the girl’s families, are not there. They might all be Syrians, but they don’t know each other. They are from Aleppo and Damascus and small villages in between. And they themselves are frightened and unsure and fleeing a war zone.”
“Why take the girls off the bus?” asked Elyse.
“I’m not sure, yet,” said Flynn.
“But they do bring them here,” said Gorski.
“It seems, but not on the bus,” said Elyse. “So why? And how?”
“The minivan,” said Gorski. “The minivan brings them.”
“Why the separate vehicle?” asked Elyse.
“You’re right,” said Flynn. “The minivan. They go somewhere between the drop off in Italy and here. But then they always come here.”
“For the last time, why?” asked Elyse. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Because something happens between there and here. Something the people on the bus can’t see.”
“Something that can’t happen in the refugee center,” said Gorski.
“They’re being inspected,” said Flynn. “Prior to purchase.”
They sat in silence thinking about that for a long time. Then Elyse said, “Why are they coming here at all, then? If they are being sold as what? Slaves, sex workers?”
“All of the above. And I think it’s because there is the possibility that the girl might not be chosen. The buyer doesn’t like the merchandise.”
“That’s horrible. Don’t say that.”
“That’s how it is. That’s how they think. That’s why the girl’s all have the same look. Because the buyer wants that look. But if they reject the girl, then Loup wastes a trip, and too many trips might raise suspicion. So Loup is . . .”
“Loup is what?”
Flynn let out a deep breath. “Why would Loup, who is
a billionaire, be involved in something like this. Or shipments of guns, for that matter.”
“Money, of course.”
“Of course. But these people, they are not worth that much money. I mean, in Africa, slaves are sold for as little ninety US dollars. They are cheap and disposable. Now these girls, they demand a premium. Let’s say they are worth ten thousand euros each. In fact, let’s make it a hundred thousand, although there’s no way it’s that much. And let’s say we found half the women and girls in the third wing. Call it a dozen. That nets Loup around one point two million Euros.”
“Not pocket change,” said Elyse.
“Yes, it is pocket change. Loup’s not worth millions, or tens of millions or hundreds of millions. He’s a billionaire. What are his horses worth?”
Elyse said, “An Olympics quality horse is worth anywhere from three quarters of a million to fifteen million euros.”
“And he’s taking all these risks—paying off officials, the drivers, building a refugee center—all just to net one point two million. And remember, that’s a fanciful number. The real number is half or even one tenth of that.”
“Then why?”
“Like you said. Money. But not this money. This operation is a loss leader. Let me ask you, who did you see when Loup was at the rugby game last week?”
“I saw you. Both of you.”
“With Loup?”
“His lawyer, Pierre Robert. And his old school chum, Alain Beaumont.”
“Who else was in his box?”
Elyse thought for a moment.
“The minister for finance.”
“Right.”
“You think the minister for finance is involved in this?”
“No, I don’t. But it illustrates a point. Why did he have the minister for finance in his box?”
“Because he likes rugby.”
“I like rugby. He didn’t invite me.”
“Because he wants the minister to be in his debt.”
“Exactly. He does favors for people. I think that’s what this is. A favor, or favors for people Loup wants to have in his debt.”
“He’s sweetening the deal,” she said.
“Yes.”
“For whom?”
“I don’t know. But we know something. The Avro RJ-100. It’s a small cargo aircraft that is owned by an offshore company Loup owns.”
One for One (John Flynn Thrillers Book 3) Page 23