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LEINE WALKED INTO the director’s office and scanned the room. To her right were several metal file cabinets, all neatly labeled. To her left, a bookshelf groaned under the weight of dozens of books, manuals, and three-ring binders. A brass lamp illuminated a woman sitting behind a putty colored metal desk that looked as though it could withstand a rocket-propelled grenade.
“Ms. Yardley, I presume?” Director La Pointe rose and extended her hand.
“Please, call me Ava.” Leine shook her hand. The director was in her mid-thirties with chestnut brown hair. She stood several inches shorter than Leine’s five foot ten but exuded a presence that belied her smaller stature.
“And you can call me Blanche. Please, have a seat. I’m afraid we don’t stand on formality here.”
“Your accent—Southern France?” Leine took the chair across from her.
Blanche La Pointe smiled. “Very good. You have spent time there?”
“A bit, yes. The French accent I encountered while visiting was different than what is spoken in Paris.”
“Quite true. My uncle and aunt lived in Provence and I would often visit them on school holidays.” She typed something into her laptop and then slid it out of the way. “Shall we begin? I don’t mean to be rude, but I have many tasks that require my attention before I will be able to call it a night.”
“Of course.” Leine reached into her satchel and brought out her phone. She pulled up a recording app and turned the screen to face her. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”
Blanche La Pointe shook her head. “No. I prefer that you do. It seems that whenever a reporter fails to do this, my words are taken out of context with terrible results.”
Leine placed her phone on the desk between them and opened her notebook. “When did you first become aware children were missing from the camp?”
“Only last week.”
“When would you say the first of them disappeared?”
“We’re not sure.”
“You’re not sure?” Leine let the sentence hang in the air between them.
A look of annoyance crossed the director’s features. “These are children who were orphaned in the war and have no families to report their disappearance.”
“But surely they’re accounted for?”
Her jaw flexed and a slight tic appeared above her eye. “Of course. But this is a large facility. Sometimes what we’d like to happen and what actually does isn’t the same. Keeping track of every child is a monumental task for the amount of personnel we have. Especially the orphaned ones. They arrive with no paperwork at all. Those with families are much easier to keep tabs on.”
Leine made a note in her book and continued. “What happened to make you aware of the problem?”
The director sighed and rubbed her eyes. “One of the girls who attends the school here asked her mother where her friend was, as she hadn’t seen her in over a week. Her mother came to my assistant director to find out if she’d been transferred or had otherwise left the community. That was the first time either of us became aware there was a potential problem.”
“What steps did you take once you realized more than one child was missing?”
“We tightened security, as you can see by the entrance—”
“Is that the only entrance or exit to the camp?”
“Yes. Except for the maintenance gate, which is always locked. Only three people have the key. Myself, the assistant director, and head of maintenance.”
“And is the entrance manned twenty-four-seven?”
“For the most part.”
“Do you mean to say that there are times when the front gate is not monitored?”
La Pointe stilled, bristling at the implication. “I’m not sure I appreciate your line of questioning, Ms. Yardley. What are you suggesting?”
Leine put down her pen. “I’m trying to get to the facts. Forgive me if this is somewhat interrogatory. I promise you, the article is not intended as a hatchet piece. Subscribers will want to know the answers to these questions. You are aware of my magazine’s reputation?”
“I am. I believe the tagline is ‘Hard-hitting stories by hard-hitting journalists.’”
“Exactly.”
She tented her fingers and studied Leine for a moment. “To answer your question, once we were aware of the disappearances, we scoured the camp, interviewing other children and the families who may have had contact with the missing. We’ve searched outside the camp, and we’ve tightened security. No one enters the compound or leaves without signing in with the guard. What I mean when I say ‘for the most part,’ is that occasionally the guard at the front gate will take a quick bathroom break and leave their post without someone to take their place. At that time, the gate is closed and no one is allowed to enter or leave.”
“Are there security cameras?”
“Yes, although not as many as I’d like. Our organization is dependent on donations. We do not receive funding from Libya or Tunisia, although both governments allow us to operate with little interference.”
“I assume you reviewed the footage for suspicious activity?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“There was nothing that could be construed as suspicious.”
“If possible, I’d like to see where the security cameras are positioned.”
“I’m not sure why it would be pertinent to our discussion.”
“I worked for a company that specialized in security in another life. I may be able to suggest improvements.”
Blanche La Pointe cocked her head to one side and gave her a look. “May I ask which company?”
Leine smiled. “You can ask,” she replied, and left it at that.
When Leine didn’t say anything further, the director continued. “I’d be interested in your assessment. I’ll have the assistant director show you where they are.”
“What’s the age range of the missing children? I’ve heard conflicting reports.”
“All were under the age of ten. I’m sure you can appreciate the enormity of the problem. With no families to demand action, there is little we can do. I did forget to mention that we have instituted a check-in procedure for the children who are considered at high risk of being abducted.”
“Wouldn’t you consider all of the children in the camp high risk?”
“We rely on the families of younger children to police themselves. Trust me, they are much more effective at guarding their own children than camp personnel could ever be.”
“Have you considered alerting anti-trafficking organizations? I’m familiar with at least half a dozen that operate on Libyan soil.”
“I have not. We’re still in the evidence-collecting phase. Once I’m convinced of the human trafficking angle, I’ll alert the proper authorities. I hesitate to yell fire in a crowded theater unless and until we have concrete evidence supporting that theory.”
“Izz Al-Din is rumored to operate a training camp not far from here. Doesn’t that give you pause?”
“Why should it? They’re not interested in children so young.”
“I have reason to believe they are.”
Director La Pointe narrowed her eyes. “I haven’t seen or heard anything that points to the terrorist organization. From what I understand, their fighters have scattered to the winds and are licking their wounds somewhere near the Niger border.”
“Not exactly.”
“May I ask where you obtained this information?”
“My employer has impeccable sources.”
“I see.” She opened a drawer and withdrew a pack of Gauloises and a disposable lighter. “Would you like one?”
“No.”
La Pointe slid one of the cigarettes free and lit the end, exhaling a plume of blue smoke. She removed a sliver of tobacco from her tongue and flicked it away. “If what you say is true, then we have a much larger problem. If these children have been taken by terrorists, then how are we to save them?”
“That’s a good question. First, you would need to establish what did actually happen to them, if you can. Then, if Izz Al-Din is responsible, I can call my contacts at the anti-trafficking organization and set a plan in motion.”
“But they are terrorists. By definition, you will not be able to negotiate with them.” She took another drag from her cigarette. “This is very troubling.”
“I agree. But I believe that negotiation is not the anti-trafficking organization’s specialty.” Leine closed her notebook and slipped it into her satchel, along with the pen. “Shall we start with the video feeds?”