Page 20 of A Life Imagined
“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—anOintersected 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.”
