Chapter Seven
W hen Mathias arrived at the warehouse the following morning, a woman was seated in the chair across from his desk, talking to Elise. He stopped outside the door to the office and studied her through the glass panel. Elise caught his eye and excused herself.
She slipped out of the office and closed the door behind her, speaking to him in a low whisper. “She showed up a few minutes ago and asked to speak with you. I wasn’t sure when you’d be in.”
“I’m never in before ten,” Mathias said, shrugging off his coat and draping it over his arm.
“I know, but she insisted on waiting. She seems important. This could be a big commission.” Elise adjusted her glasses, unable to hide her excitement. “She mentioned she was interested in Asian antiquities.”
Mathias narrowed his eyes. “Did she?” He reached into his pocket, pulled out several bills, and handed them to his appraiser. “Why don’t you head across the road and get us some coffee?”
Once Elise had left, he stepped into the office, and the woman turned to look at him curiously. “Monsieur Beauvais?”
There was no getting around it—she was beautiful.
Her angled features and sinewy limbs looked like they belonged on the pages of a fashion magazine.
She wore a tight-fitting black dress and Louboutin pumps that she tucked demurely to one side of her chair.
Her blond hair was styled to frame her perfectly made-up face, accentuated by large green eyes and too-plump lips, hinting at money meticulously spent.
She exuded an opulent glamour, and by the time she lifted her manicured hand to shake his, Mathias had seen right through her.
“That would be me.” He released her hand and moved to hang his coat on one of the hooks along the back wall.
“I hope you don’t mind if we continue in English. My French is not very good, I’m afraid.”
Mathias took a seat at his desk. “I’m sure I can manage,” he replied, switching to English.
The woman’s lips tweaked into a smile. “Impressive. I don’t detect an accent.”
The same couldn’t be said for her. By the sound of it, Mathias guessed she was from the Balkans—maybe Bosnia or Bulgaria, but his money was on Albania.
“Have you spent time abroad?” she asked.
“Some.”
The smile widened. “You’re not what I was expecting, Mr. Beauvais.”
“What were you expecting?”
The woman recrossed her legs, and the hem of her dress slid higher up her smooth thigh. She made no move to adjust it. “An old man with a bow tie who likes to collect junk. You, on the other hand, are quite a treat.”
Their eyes locked, and it was written all over her face—so overt it was almost cheap, despite her polished appearance.
“My associate tells me you’re looking for Asian antiquities,” Mathias said flatly.
“Apologies—how rude of me. My name is Marsela Asllani, and I represent a small group of investors looking to purchase high-value oriental art. They have a particular interest in Javanese Buddhist idols.”
“What a coincidence,” he remarked. “We just received a shipment of earthenware figures from Indonesia.”
“I’d love to see them.”
“Unfortunately, they were damaged in transit. Shipping companies aren’t what they used to be. We’re in the process of lodging an insurance claim so we’re not left entirely out of pocket.”
“That is unfortunate.” The lightness of the woman’s tone had disappeared.
“I’m on good terms with the dealer. If your group is interested in something similar, we can source it directly.”
“Is there any chance I could have a look at the pieces you received so I can get a sense of the quality if we were to order something else?”
“By all means.” Mathias stood and held open the door to the office. They made their way through the warehouse, Marsela’s heels clicking briskly on the concrete floor.
The woman appeared uninterested as they walked past shelves crammed with unique pieces. She certainly didn’t give off the air of an enthusiastic art procurer. But then, neither did he.
Mathias stopped by the open crate Vicente had shifted to the back of the warehouse.
His store hand had placed a square of black plastic over top to cover the contents.
Mathias lifted the plastic and gestured down at the mess of shattered earthenware.
Each figure had been smashed with an exactness that did not look like an accident.
“You can see there’s nothing worth salvaging.”
She stared down at the broken shards then returned her icy gaze to him, the smile gone from her face.
“You seem disappointed, Ms. Asllani,” he said evenly. “Not what you were expecting? Or perhaps there was something else you were hoping to find?”
A tension filled the air between them, and Mathias knew his suspicions had been correct. Then Marsela began to laugh, a soft tinkling sound. She leaned forward and pressed a palm against his chest, holding it there a moment too long.
“You really are a treat, Mr. Beauvais. It’s a shame about the sculptures—things would have been so much easier.
” She reached into her purse and pulled out a card, which she slipped into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
“Call me when you change your mind about being difficult. You seem like a smart man. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision. ”
She turned and strode out of the warehouse without another word.
Mathias tossed the plastic cover back over the crate and returned to the office. He pulled the card from the pocket of his jacket and flipped it over in his hand. It was blank except for a phone number and a stylized monogram printed on the back—an O intersected by a vertical cross.
Elise returned moments later with three cups of coffee and gave him a quizzical look. “Did you scare her away?”
“If she shows up again, you call me. Understand?”
Her forehead furrowed, but she nodded mutely, accustomed to his cryptic directions.
The woman was with the Albanians—Mathias was sure of it.
The country played host to a handful of crime families who controlled a large part of the wholesale cocaine market in Europe and were primary distributors across the channel.
With its proximity to the UK, an import business based in Calais was the perfect choice for an unsuspecting mule.
He’d known someone would come for the drugs, but he hadn’t expected someone like her.
Mathias tapped the corner of the card against his desk. It would take more than empty threats for him to cooperate with a bunch of puffed-up Eastern European gangsters. Marsela Asllani was forgetting one thing—he had what she wanted.
And this wasn’t his first rodeo.
The Groupe d’action funding committee met once a month and allocated time for one proposal presentation per meeting.
Karl must have pulled strings to get them onto the agenda for that afternoon.
The organization’s Calais headquarters was located downtown on the second floor of a drab commercial building.
Rayan stood with Asmarina and Laurent in the corridor outside the conference room where the board was gathered.
Karl had come to join them, looking almost unrecognizable in his navy suit and tie.
Rayan, too, wore a suit, the feel unfamiliar despite it having been his default uniform for years. He’d gone home to change before the meeting and had watched as his reflection in the mirror morphed before his eyes, a different person staring back.
“Remember, this is more a formality than anything,” Karl said as they waited. “I’ve already had several discussions with management about the idea, but there’s a process we need to follow.”
Laurent paced the corridor with a nervous excitement.
In his hands, he held a black portfolio book with the plans for the building and the prospectus they’d made to highlight their work at the center and the services they offered at the camp.
He gave Rayan a jittery smile. “Stop me if I go on for too long. I don’t want to mess this up. ”
“You’ll do fine,” Rayan said.
A young woman emerged from the conference room and held open the door. “Come on through. They’re ready for you.”
Once inside, they took seats across from a committee that mirrored their own—three men and a woman.
The woman who’d summoned them sat at the end of the table behind a small laptop and appeared ready to take notes.
The committee had copies of the plans from Laurent’s portfolio, and as Laurent began to outline the scope of the project, they flicked through the pages, their expressions unchanging.
In the chair beside Rayan, Asmarina began to tap her foot against the carpet.
Laurent had skipped ahead to the technical details of the construction process.
Rayan knew that was what the man was most anxious about.
It was a considerable undertaking, building from scratch, and while they’d taken pains to secure several different estimates, the cost remained significant.
But in his rush to reassure the committee, Laurent had lost sight of the bigger picture—the reason why they were here.
Asmarina shot Rayan a glance, and he knew she was thinking the same thing.
She inhaled audibly before clearing her throat.
“If I may interrupt my husband, I’d like to take a moment to return to the root of the issue.
We can discuss planning and consents and construction costs, but what we really need to be talking about is the people.
You know as well as I do what they’re up against. Both our organizations work on the front lines, and we see the reality—unaccompanied children, threats toward women, families who feel unsafe.
The place is a hotbed for exploitation and frequently targeted by traffickers.
We offer services and support, but we’re tired of simply standing by.
With a designated residence facility, we can prioritize the most vulnerable in the camp while they’re in transition. ”
Several of the committee members were nodding. At the end of the table, the young woman tapped her nails briskly against the keys of her laptop.
“In the last six months, the police presence at the camp has doubled,” Rayan added quietly. “But they’re not stopping the violence or the smugglers. They’re keeping people away from the A16 and making sure they don’t stow away in freight trucks headed for Folkestone.”
It was difficult to encapsulate the hope and suffering, the pain and resilience that he encountered each day in the camp—the weight of responsibility he felt bearing witness to it.
“The government is looking out for its own interests. Who is looking out for the interests of the people living there?” Rayan continued. “That’s the gap we’re trying to fill.”
From his seat beside Laurent, Karl was bobbing his head in agreement.
“The Calais Center for New Migrants has been an invaluable resource to the city’s displaced population over the past few years, and they’re well-placed to help manage a facility like this.
Groupe d’action makes a point to prioritize efforts by local organizations, and I believe the funding would be well utilized here.
It would also assist in reducing the movement of migrants across the Channel.
You’ll find my notes in the attached addendum. ”
The committee shuffled through their papers and began murmuring among themselves. One of the men removed his glasses and placed them down on the table. He fixed his eyes on Asmarina for a moment before speaking.
“We agree there is urgent need for a clean and safe residential facility to house the most vulnerable of those displaced people who’ve found themselves here.
And I applaud your efforts to appeal on behalf of those unable to do so themselves.
I’m not sure if Karl’s informed you, but we’ve recently been awarded an aid grant by one of the EU’s development programs. We, too, have been looking for ways to alleviate the delicate problem the Jungle presents, and with the government increasingly reluctant to get involved, I think this project represents a promising collaboration between our two organizations. ”
The man glanced over at his colleagues. “That being said, while generous, the aid grant isn’t large enough to meet the full cost of even your most conservative estimate.
We’ll consult on the proposal, but if Groupe d’action decides to commit the funding, it will be contingent on you securing the remaining money for the project.
Appealing to the city is the obvious choice.
The council has the ability to apply for a discretionary grant from the French government for projects of humanitarian importance. ”
They spoke a while longer about logistics and timelines before the man got to his feet, and the rest of them followed. He rounded the table and reached out to shake each of their hands in turn.
“Karl has been following your efforts for some time, Monsieur and Madame Moreau. We’re quite confident in your commitment to the cause.
We’ll have to go through the full consultation process, but I wanted to let you know that your proposal looks promising.
This is exactly the kind of project that gives hope to those of us watching the development of this situation with great empathy.
We’ll be in touch when we have a decision.
In the meantime, I suggest you make efforts to meet with the mayor and determine the city’s involvement. ”
Karl thanked the committee, and the four of them filed back into the corridor. Laurent clapped Rayan on the shoulder, a grin splitting his face. “Promising. He said promising.”
Rayan managed a smile but couldn’t muster the same level of enthusiasm. Karl and Laurent began speaking quickly, already planning next steps.
“You don’t look too pleased,” Asmarina said at his elbow.
“That’s not it,” Rayan said.
He didn’t want to voice his skepticism—not when the mood was so buoyant, when the wins were so few and far between.
Yet the fact remained that they needed the city on board if they were to have any hope of breaking ground on the project.
And knowing what he knew about Mayor Durand, that would prove a difficult prospect.