Chapter Fifteen #2
Belkov’s contact had arranged for the local ?obuzi head to meet Mathias outside a small town near Poland’s eastern border. From there, they would determine whether the group had taken Farhan.
“We cross into Poland, make our way to Korczowa, and then find Zabawski. If he has your friend, we load him up and get the fuck out of there.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Mathias moved to face him. “Then we turn around and go back. There is no second option. If he’s not there, he’s gone. We took it as far as we could.”
Rayan shook his head, unable to accept that as a viable outcome. Yet at the same time, he knew Mathias was right. This was their only chance. If they couldn’t find Farhan with the Bratva’s help, what chance did they have on their own?
Mathias sighed. “What happens after this?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not running around Europe for every migrant you get attached to.”
Rayan smarted. “Christ, Mathias.”
“He’s not the first person to find himself in this situation, and he won’t be the last. You can’t save everyone.”
“I owe it to the girls.” Isn’t it enough that they lost their mother?
I can’t stand by and watch them lose their father too.
“And we’re working to try and stop this kind of thing from happening, or at least better protect people from it.
We want to build a residence facility to safeguard vulnerable families like Farhan’s. Someplace permanent.”
That is, if we still have any hope of getting it off the ground.
Mathias raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How do you plan on doing that?”
Rayan recalled the mayor’s pitying look and Laurent’s glum admission that the project was too ambitious. Mathias would only say the same thing.
“What about you?” Rayan deflected.
“What about me?”
“What’s next? Is this enough for you? The business, Calais…” Me?
“What are you talking about?” Mathias asked.
“You know what I’m talking about. This is a far cry from reporting to the head of the Fifth Family.” Rayan paused, his voice lowering. “You’re not exactly cut out for an ordinary life.”
Mathias snickered. “Is that what you’d call this?”
“You would tell me,” Rayan murmured, “if there was something else you wanted.”
He waited for the man’s denial, but instead Mathias seemed to be mulling over Rayan’s question. “There might be other opportunities I’m considering.”
Rayan frowned. “What kind of opportunities?”
Mathias was quiet for a moment, then he pulled away. “Enough, Rayan.”
Rayan felt it again—the same prickle of fear as when Mathias had dismissed his concerns about the import license. What else is he keeping from me?
Mathias shed the remainder of his clothes and turned down the covers on the bed. “I’m tired.”
Rayan decided now wasn’t the time to push.
If they wanted to have any chance of tackling what awaited them the next day, they would need their rest. But as he lay in the dark, a sleeping Mathias pressed against his back, the roar of the nearby highway rattling the cheap motel windows, Rayan couldn’t help but think that, unlike him, Mathias was very good at lying.
As Rayan and Mathias drove up to the Bademeusel checkpoint the following morning, they were funneled into a steady stream of traffic headed for Poland.
Germany had recently reintroduced checkpoints at several of their border crossings to combat the spike in illegal migration.
The operation was efficiently run. Two guards flanked each barrier gate, and as a vehicle approached, one of them would step up to the driver’s-side window to inspect documentation.
If everything checked out, the vehicle was waved through.
If it didn’t, vehicles were directed to park in a separate lane and passengers ordered out for additional questioning.
Mathias took out his driver’s license as he inched the truck forward in the queue. When they reached the barrier gate, a heavyset guard in a forest-green uniform stepped forward.
“ Deutsch? ”
“ Francais, ” Mathias replied.
“License, please,” he said, switching to English.
Mathias passed it to him through the open window. The guard asked where they were going and what was the purpose of their trip. Mathias provided a spare account, his expression bored yet his tone polite.
“You.” The guard pointed a thick finger at Rayan in the passenger seat. “ID.”
Rayan held out his driver’s license, but the man shook his head.
“I want to see your national identity card.”
Rayan returned the license to his wallet and removed his CNI.
The guard inspected the card as though he’d never seen anything like it before. “You live in France?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s not where you’re from.”
“Are you asking where I’m from?”
The guard made a face like Rayan had spat in his coffee. “I’m the one asking the questions.”
Rayan kept his voice measured. “I’m from Quebec.”
“Is that where you were born?”
“Yes.”
Mathias let out a frustrated sigh. “Is the problem that he lives in France or that he comes from Canada?” He gave the guard a pointed look. “Perhaps the real issue is that you don’t think he belongs in either.”
The guard held Mathias’s gaze. “It’s my job to be thorough.”
“Of course. Would you like to see my identity card?” Mathias asked. “I have it right here.”
“That won’t be necessary.” The guard handed back Rayan’s CNI with a scowl and indicated for them to drive on.
As Mathias drove through the border crossing, his eyes flicked to the guard in the rearview mirror. “Fucking idiot,” he muttered. Then he turned to Rayan. “Your face was so distracting he didn’t bother looking in the truck. Maybe we should try that on the way back.”
Rayan could still hear his heart pounding in his ears. “No. Let’s not.”
It was another eight hours before they reached Korczowa.
Rayan was beginning to feel the effects of almost two days on the road.
He couldn’t imagine what Farhan had been through, making this journey against his will and not knowing what would happen to his daughters back in Calais.
Rayan remembered how adamant Farhan had been that Amina and Zahra be given a chance at a new life so that his wife’s death wouldn’t be in vain.
They had to find him. Rayan couldn’t go back empty-handed.
By the time Mathias drove the truck through the small Polish village, it was late afternoon. They continued out of town and along a single-lane road flanked by grassy fields. Above them, the sky began to darken.
At one point, Mathias pulled over to check his phone.
He let out a string of curses as he realized they’d missed the turnoff.
Mathias turned the truck around and headed back the way they’d come, slower now, peering out the window for any sign of the dirt road that would lead them Zabawski.
Rayan spotted it first, and they veered off onto a crude gravel driveway.
At the end of the driveway was an old, weathered farmhouse, and behind it in the distance, two large grain silos came into view. Smoke curled from the chimney of the house, and Rayan could see light through the gaps in the curtains. Someone was home.
Mathias parked the truck out front, and they both got out, limbs aching, their shoes crunching on gravel.
The door to the cottage opened, and a man moved into the doorframe.
He was older than Rayan had expected, his dirty-brown hair streaked with gray.
He had a curved nose that turned down at the end and dark eyes that squinted as Rayan and Mathias approached.
Out of instinct, Rayan zeroed in on the pistol tucked into the man’s belt and was immediately on edge.
“Beauvais?”
“Zabawski?”
The two men shook hands, and Mathias instructed Rayan to retrieve the box from the cab of the truck.
Zabawski ushered them into the house, and Rayan set the box down on the dining table.
Aside from two scuffed wooden chairs, the room was empty.
Zabawski disappeared into the hallway and returned moments later with a dull steak knife.
He used it to open the seal on the box and pulled out six pristine bottles of amber liquor.
He made an approving noise and spun one of the bottles in his hand. “Louis XIII? This would’ve set you back.”
“A token of our appreciation,” Mathias said.
The Polish gangster held the distinctive curved decanter up to the light. “Beautiful,” he murmured. Then he placed the bottle on the table and gestured for them to follow him.
Zabawski led them back outside and around the house to a sprawling grassy field. At the far end of the field stood the grain silos, which was where the man appeared to be taking them.
“I was told you were looking for someone,” Zabawski said as they walked.
“That’s right,” Mathias replied.
“We pick up people from all over—Germany, Spain, France. Some come willingly. Others need a little convincing.” He glanced over his shoulder with a grin, revealing a set of golden canines.
Rayan had to work hard to keep the disgust from showing on his face. As they drew closer to the silos, he saw two men standing by the access door to the larger tower. One of them nodded at Zabawski and moved to unlock the door. He pulled it open with a metallic screech.
Instead of grain, the silo was filled with men.
They sat on makeshift mats spread out across the concrete floor.
Around them were backpacks, shopping bags, and all manner of hastily assembled possessions.
They were of varying ages, most of them young, all of them gripped by a collective air of resignation.
Rayan’s stomach turned at the blatant lack of humanity.
“Well, here they are. There was a group from France that arrived in the latest cohort. See if your man’s among them.” Zabawski pulled a hand-rolled cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it.
“Jesus,” Rayan muttered as he stared out at the sea of faces.
He stepped inside, leaving Mathias by the door with the ?obuzi head, and began walking through the maze of people, searching for anyone who might resemble Farhan.
He passed a cluster of men playing cards then stopped when he thought he heard his name called.
He looked over, and there was Farhan, half rising from his seat on a flattened piece of cardboard.
“Rayan, is that you?” Farhan whispered in Arabic, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Rayan was overcome by a flood of relief. He couldn’t believe their luck. After two days spent tearing through the haystack, they’d found their needle.
He reached for Farhan’s hand and pulled him to his feet. “We’re here to take you back.”
There rose a chorus of murmurs from several of the men seated around them.
“There are others, from Calais, with families at the camp,” Farhan said. “Can they come too?”
The other men began to stand, and Rayan was gripped with a sudden panic.
“Please,” one man pleaded. “We want to go back.”
“My wife is there, and my son,” another said.
Rayan’s pulse hammered in his throat. He glanced over at the door to see Zabawski deep in conversation with Mathias. What the fuck are we supposed to do now?