Chapter Sixteen
B elkov had told Mathias that Filip Zabawski was a connoisseur of expensive cognac.
Mathias had a feeling that wasn’t all the man had a taste for.
In exchange for freeing one of his prized laborers, Zabawski would want more than a few bottles of top-shelf liquor.
Sure enough, once Rayan had gone into the silo to look for Farhan, the Pole turned to Mathias with a shrewd smile.
“How about this: I’ll give him to you for twelve thousand. I need to recoup the cost of getting him here and what we stand to make from him on-site. I would charge more, but out of respect for our mutual friend, I’m willing to give you a discount.”
Mathias had done many things in his time, but negotiating the purchase of a person was not one of them.
He nodded vaguely as though they were discussing interest terms on a loan.
Despite having a reputation for never accepting an offer outright, his counteroffer tasted foul in his mouth.
Am I really going to stand here and haggle for Farhan’s life?
“Sounds fair,” Mathias said, breaking his own rule. Fortunately, he’d taken precautions. He had at least twenty grand on him and another eighty hidden in the truck.
“A friend of the Bratva is a friend of mine.” Zabawski raised his foul-smelling cigarette to his lips. His eyes caught on something, and Mathias followed his gaze to see Rayan helping someone to their feet. “Looks like you’ve found your man.”
Thank Christ . It hadn’t all been for nothing. Now if they could just get him out of here.
“Not sure what you want with that one, though. The Arabs don’t bring in much. Is he from a good family? Some of them have relatives back home who will pay. Not often, but sometimes you get lucky.”
Mathias felt a rising distaste for the Polish gangster. He wasn’t a saint by any stretch of the imagination, but profiting off the backs of people like these—displaced and defenseless—required a certain kind of stomach.
“I have my reasons,” he replied.
In the silo, several men had gathered around Rayan and Farhan and were engaged in an increasingly tense discussion. One of the men had a hand on Rayan’s arm and appeared to be imploring him urgently.
“Thought you said it was just the one,” Zabawski observed.
“I did,” Mathias muttered. He strode toward Rayan, stepping around the people haphazardly strewn across the floor.
Rayan looked up when he appeared, his face lined with concern. “They’re all from the camp. They were taken together. They want to come back with us.”
“No,” Mathias said in a sharp whisper, conscious of the attention they were drawing. “We got what we came for.”
But Rayan remained fixed in place, his lips pressed together.
“What do you want me to do, cram them all in the back of the truck?” Mathias asked. The men were watching the interaction intently, their lives hanging in the balance. “I’m not here to fuck with Zabawski’s business.”
“It’s not a business,” Rayan hissed. “You know damn well what this is.”
Mathias glanced over at Zabawski and his lackeys waiting by the door then at the sea of faces staring back at them. I’m not seriously considering the logistics of smuggling a truck full of people across Europe…
“How many are we talking?”
“Including Farhan, four.”
The plan was to fill the cargo box with furniture from his vendor in Krakow. There were certain pieces that lent themselves to hiding a grown man—but four?
“He’s going to want payment for each one.” Mathias’s voice was barely audible. “Twelve a head.”
“I’ll pay it.”
Mathias looked at Rayan, and the man stared back, entirely serious.
“I could throttle you right now,” Mathias said.
“Throttle me later.”
The cash Mathias had on hand would be just enough to cover Zabawski’s cost per head and a truckload of whatever his vendor had available to disguise their questionable cargo.
“Bring them out front. I’ll take care of Zabawski,” Mathias said.
It was a tough sell. The ?obuzi head wasn’t too pleased about the prospect of losing four workers from his hard-won stock.
In the end, Mathias threw in his Rolex, peeled still warm from his wrist, to sweeten the deal.
They departed on their return journey to France with three more people than they’d bargained for crouched in the truck bed.
He and Rayan sat in tense silence as Mathias drove back along the bumpy gravel driveway and up to the main road.
He made it several meters down the road before his fury got the better of him.
Mathias pulled over onto the shoulder, got out of the cab, and stalked beside the truck, reaching into his jacket for his cigarettes.
The passenger door slammed, and Rayan appeared, watching as Mathias unsuccessfully tried to coax a flame from his lighter.
“You realize this got infinitely more dangerous,” Mathias snapped, rolling his thumb over the striker.
“It’s risky enough for the groups that do this for a living, let alone us out here winging it.
One man, maybe you could plead ignorance—try to frame it as a stunt.
Four? We’ll be nailed for running a human trafficking ring. ”
“I know.”
Fucking thing’s jammed. He shook the lighter and tried again.
“I’m not going to jail to appease your good conscience.
Running into the ocean so you don’t drown, coming out here—enough.
” He hit the striker once, twice. Still no spark.
“Build your fucking residence center—hell, start a new camp in our backyard. You are far more useful to the cause when you’re not putting yourself on the line.
Because I won’t have you throwing your life away.
I need you more than they do.” He closed his hand around the busted lighter and slammed it into the side of the truck. “Goddamn piece of shit!”
They stood, their breath pluming white in the night air.
In the distance a bird called, breaking the silence.
Rayan stepped forward and prized the lighter from his fist. Then slowly, methodically, he flicked his thumb against the striker, again and again, refusing to give up until the flame burst to life.
He leaned in and held the lighter to the unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of Mathias’s mouth.
Mathias took a pull and exhaled a welcome lungful of smoke.
“You’re right.” Rayan slipped the lighter into Mathias’s breast pocket. “I want you to fly back. I’ll drop you off at the airport in Rzeszów—”
“What are you on about?”
“This was my idea. I don’t want you shouldering any more risk.”
“I already agreed. I don’t go back on my word.”
Rayan’s expression grew conflicted. “I shouldn’t have pulled you into this.”
And Mathias couldn’t help but think of all the situations he’d pulled Rayan into.
Every time he had forced the man’s hand, forced him to act against his better judgment.
He reached out and placed his index finger on Rayan’s forehead, right between the eyes.
“Five years ago, this is where my skull would’ve blown open if it weren’t for you. ”
Rayan blinked. Then he took Mathias’s hand and brought it to his right shoulder, just below the clavicle. “And I would’ve bled out if not for you.”
Mathias gave him a tight smile. “All right, then. Let’s get this over with.” He took one last drag on the cigarette before flicking it down at his feet and moving toward the truck.
“Mathias.”
He stopped and turned.
Rayan was staring at him, his mouth a hard line. “This is it. No more crazy crusades.”
Mathias shook his head with a snicker. “I told you, you’re a useless liar.”
They reached Krakow by dinnertime. Mathias parked the truck in the alley behind a row of brick storefronts, one of which belonged to his vendor, Jan Gorelik. Gorelik was an antique-furniture collector of some acclaim, and Mathias had commissioned several pieces from the man for a client in Geneva.
While it was well past closing time, Mathias had called ahead, and Gorelik had agreed to meet him at the store.
Rayan would take their passengers out for food and supplies in the meantime.
They had no idea how long it had been since the men had last eaten, and it was still a decent drive to the border.
It would give them a chance to get comfortable before the journey ahead.
Mathias stood guard as Rayan helped the four men out of the truck. Back at the silo, they’d appeared gaunt and ghostly, but in the fresh evening air, their eyes were bright with relief.
“I’ll let you know where we end up,” Rayan said when Mathias finished locking up the truck. Then he set off with their charges on foot.
Mathias walked around to the service entrance behind the shop and knocked loudly on the door.
Gorelik himself answered. He was a short man with sleek black hair and a matching mustache.
He moved in a manner that was both curt and precise, and as soon as he’d ushered Mathias into the store, he swiftly turned and locked the door behind them.
The key thing he needed from Gorelik, besides a haul of furniture he’d have to enlist Elise to palm off, were customs and import papers for all the pieces he loaded into the truck.
Arriving at the border without the correct paperwork was a good way to get the truck inspected—or worse, its contents seized.
“I must admit, Mr. Beauvais, I was a little surprised to receive your somewhat unconventional request. But as a valued customer, I’m more than happy to oblige. Now, what was it exactly that you were after?”
Mathias’s tired eyes raked across the elaborately staged pieces that filled the showroom. “I’ll take everything on this side,” he said, indicating to a full bedroom suite and an enormous vintage cupboard that took up half the wall.
Gorelik pushed his glasses higher up his nose and made a humming sound between closed lips. “I see. There’s a matching blanket chest in storage that goes with the bedroom set.”
“I’ll take that too.”