Chapter Thirteen
C harles lived a half hour’s drive from Calais, on a large block of land, where he tended animals and grew a selection of crops. It served as an idyllic cover for his less-savory activities. Casual drug runner, part-time farmer—who could want for more?
It was already dark when Mathias pulled up outside the main house that evening.
He got out of the car and walked around to the covered porch, where Charles sat drinking, one hand dangling down to pet the black mutt lying at his feet.
Charles spotted Mathias and reached for a bottle of beer from the cooler at his side. He raised it in offering.
“I’ll pass.” Mathias took a seat on the chair across from him. He’d never developed a taste for the stuff. As far as he was concerned, beer belonged in the same category as one’s own piss.
Charles shrugged and returned the bottle to the cooler. “You a dog man, Mathias?”
“I barely have the stomach for people.”
Charles let out a snort and ruffled his dog’s ears. “There’s no comparison. People are selfish sacks of shit. A dog will have your back to your dying breath.”
They’re also excellent conversationalists. “At least they don’t talk back.”
“That they don’t.” Charles drained the bottle in his hand and set it down on the porch.
Then he lifted another from the cooler and reached into his pocket to pull out a bottle opener.
He snapped off the lid, and it went clattering across the floor.
“I’ve got everything set up, just like I told you. Want to take a look?”
“I didn’t drive all the way out here for your company.”
Charles chuckled and got to his feet with a grunt. Beer still in hand, he descended the porch steps with a series of short whistles that made the dog’s ears prick to attention. “Here, Skip. Here, girl.” The dog leapt up and bolted after him.
Less eager, Mathias stood and followed the man through the garden and out toward an old stone barn in the field beyond. The grass was tall and wet with dew, dampening the hems of his pant legs. Mud oozed up and around the sides of his shoes as he navigated the sodden earth.
“Should have said to leave your city clothes behind,” Charles said, craning his neck to shoot him a grin. “I have an extra pair of work boots at the house.”
Mathias scoffed. “I’ll survive.”
They reached the barn, and Charles slid back the barrel bolt on the door.
It gave a loud creak of protest as he pushed it open.
Inside, the space was empty except for a cluster of plastic feed drums. The dog surged past their legs and dropped its nose to the ground, sniffing around the perimeter.
Charles moved to the far corner of the barn and tapped the toe of his boot against the floorboards in several places until Mathias heard a hollow thud.
Then Charles crouched, placing his beer aside, and pressed down on a loose wooden board, which buckled beneath his hand.
He slid it out and removed two other panels to reveal a large metal box that appeared to be bolted to the foundation.
He fumbled beneath his shirt to pull out a key on a chain that hung from his neck.
After unlocking the lid, he opened the box to reveal a neatly lined cavity that contained the stacked stash of powder-filled bags Mathias had asked him to pick up from the warehouse.
“It’s all here. I’ve got commercial-grade lining to keep the moisture out so everything stays dry and cozy.”
Mathias gave a satisfied nod.
Charles locked up the box and set the floorboards back in place. He straightened and wiped the dirt from his hands on his pants before bending to retrieve his beer. “I’ve had a chance to look into that business for you.”
“How much are we talking?”
“I’d say you’re getting close to twenty mil, street value,” Charles said. “It’s a premium product. Fetches quite a nice price on the open market.”
Through the barn window, Mathias could see the darkened fields stretching out into the distance. Somewhere behind him, the dog let out a low whine.
“I have a few parties who’re interested,” Charles went on.
“And would one of those be our mutual friends up north?”
Charles eyed him carefully. “I’ve put feelers out on the mainland first, but I know for a fact they’d be in the running.
They don’t always get product of this quality out that way.
” He gave another whistle, and the dog appeared by his side.
He reached out and rubbed its head. “Have you decided what you’re going to do with it? ”
Mathias hadn’t. The last thing he wanted was to start a full-scale war with the Albanians.
At the same time, he refused to be fucked over by Marsela and her group of opportunists.
While he didn’t have the manpower to match them, he sure as hell had the balls.
The way he saw it, he was well within his rights to hold their product hostage and tack on his own penalty fee as punishment if only as a deterrent, so they knew not to mess with his business again.
But Mathias wasn’t going to make any sudden moves.
Better to keep them waiting and see if he could get Marsela to show her hand first.
“Not yet. I’m keeping my options open.”
Charles nodded and took a gulp of beer. “You can always find another buyer and pit them against each other.”
Mathias’s mouth curved into a smirk. “I underestimated you, Charles.” He knocked the heel of his shoe against the barn floor, dislodging a clump of mud. “For a flannel-wearing redneck, you’ve got a real eye for this business.”
H?tel de Ville was an ornate building of redbrick and white limestone, which served as the seat of the Calais City Council.
Commissioned by King Francis II, the building held official monument status and featured heavily in the tourist tat hawked to visiting holidaymakers.
The mayor’s office was located on the top floor.
Rayan sat with Laurent and Asmarina in the reception area as they waited for their appointment with Durand.
“We’ve got this,” Laurent said in an attempt at encouragement. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Gone was the excitement of their meeting with Groupe d’action.
Perhaps he’d begun to realize exactly what they were up against. After the recent fatal crossing and a string of violent incidents, the mood in the Jungle had become even more apprehensive.
The lines outside the service office stretched farther than usual as people grew frightened about what was to come.
“Maybe we should have brought along one of the residents,” Asmarina said, glancing over at the mayor’s secretary, who sat behind her desk. “Listening to their stories, he’s got to understand why this is so important.”
“He’d probably see it as a gimmick, a way to make him look bad,” Laurent said. “Durand’s pretty touchy about the subject, especially with the election coming up.”
Rayan tried not to let the cynicism show on his face.
During his time with the family, he’d had a lot to do with the Montreal City Council.
In his experience, those tasked with serving the city were often more interested in serving themselves.
He didn’t know whether to expect much else from Claude Durand.
“It’s going to take all our efforts to get him to see the benefit of a permanent solution,” Asmarina added. “Especially since the city seems determined to wash its hands of the problem.”
Durand’s secretary stood and approached them with a smile.
“He’s ready for you.” She motioned for them to follow her, and together, they walked down the corridor toward a set of wood-paneled doors.
“The mayor is quite busy today, so we’re on a bit of a tight schedule.
But I know he’s an admirer of your work, Monsieur Moreau. ”
“My wife’s the one who deserves the credit,” Laurent replied. “She’s the real force behind the organization.”
The woman nodded vaguely before rapping on one of the doors and poking her head into the office. “Claude, I have your three o’clock.”
Mayor Durand looked different from how he appeared on the campaign posters that had started cropping up around the city.
He was tall and portly, with a prominent mustache and a rapidly diminishing hairline.
The billboards gave him a glowing tan that matched the sun-kissed setting of the district he was trying to win, but in person, his skin had a pasty hue.
He greeted them with handshakes, and Rayan fought the urge to pull back when Durand clapped him on the shoulder like a schoolboy.
They took seats as the mayor returned to his desk.
Rayan’s eyes fell on a framed photo of the man’s family, perched on the corner of the desk.
It was angled outward to reveal a short blond woman sandwiched between two teenage girls with matching toothy smiles.
Durand placed his clasped hands out in front of him. “I understand you’ve come to me today with a proposal.”
Laurent paused briefly and tapped his fingers against his knee, which meant he was nervous, despite his earlier expression of confidence.
“As you know, the situation at the Jungle isn’t ideal for anyone—the residents of Calais or the people forced to live there.
But with no real plan in place to address the situation, it’s only going to get worse.
The city’s existing facilities are at capacity, and as more people arrive, they’re going to find themselves forced into the hands of those looking to exploit them.
We have a duty of care to those who come to our city. We can’t ignore that responsibility.”
Durand’s face remained unmoving. “Then what would you suggest we do?”