It seemed to me we were trying to force ourselves to see people as killers who weren’t, like a man in front of a mirror trying to tell himself the tight jacket he loves is perfect even if he has to stop breathing to wear it.
“Or it could be Giraud,” I insisted resentfully.
“Giraud will probably want to kill you at the end of the Tour, but to do so before you crown his golden boy would be shooting himself in the foot. Let’s not waste time on him,” said Fiona.
Even though I wanted to insist on my theory, I didn’t have anything to back it up. In Giraud’s case, he fit the villain’s jacket perfectly, except that the buttons were on the back. All my senses told me he was the culprit, but there was no way to tie him to the facts.
Quietly, the three of us immersed ourselves in impossible calculations. The silence magnified the knocking on the door, which startled us all, as if the murderer had come to introduce himself.
“You have to take care of yourself!” exclaimed Lombard, pushing through the door I’d barely opened. What he said had stopped being news ten days before, but he said it with such an anguished intensity that I felt it like a hoof stomping up my back. Involuntarily I looked out to the hall expecting to see a man with a scythe behind him.
“Hello, colonel,” said Fiona, somewhere between amused and affectionate. She’d had more time to get used to the old soldier’s senile outbursts than me in recent months.
Ray and Lombard greeted each other with a nod, neither of them seeming to want to look at the other. I wondered if those two had a past they preferred not to exhume.
“Damn it, you didn’t need to be so violent, not unless you want a loser to win,” Lombard said, and the rest of us were even more confused. He must have noticed our befuddled faces. “Paniuk and Medel are so bad someone had to knock down half the peloton for them to get on the podium,” he added in the same tone you might use to explain that a bicycle is a two-wheeled vehicle. The three of us nodded in silence.
“Just as you were coming in we were talking about that. That Marc’s in danger,” Fiona said after a silence that was beginning to get awkward. I noticed that Fiona was speaking to the old man more slowly and clearly than usual, as if she were addressing a foreigner. Lombard looked slightly dazed; apparently he’d forgotten what he’d come for.
“I spoke with Bimeo,” he finally said, lighting up at the mention of his friend, the Tour’s head of security. Fiona’s words had brought him out of his neural block. “Tour security will guard the hotel for the rest of your stay. I got them to agree to put another motorcycle with a camera to follow your movements exclusively. Nobody will be able to do anything to you without it being documented. And the rest of the time we’ll have you surrounded. That’s what I came to tell you,” he finished, triumphant.
“During all the stages on the Alps you’ll sleep at this hotel, right?” Fiona asked. “That’ll make it easier.”
We’d stay a total of four nights at the same hotel. The organization preferred to shuttle us to the starting and finish lines during the day so we’d get a better night’s rest.
“Bimeo is a ruffian,” Ray said scornfully. “He should be in jail and not in charge of Tour security.” I had to agree. Years ago Bimeo had left Interpol under a suspicious cloud and was almost immediately recruited by Jitrik. Once the competition started, Bimeo was the real power behind the Tour’s leadership. He coordinated logistics with the national police, the local police, the patrols, and the motorcycle cops, and he was surrounded by a handful of centurions who had his absolute confidence.
“I’m already more than taken care of by Steve’s Protex crew and the cops sent by Favre,” I said with a laugh. “If you add Tour security, there won’t be enough room in the hallway for everyone.”
“We’re not going to find the culprit by piling guards at Marc’s door,” agreed Fiona. “Any idea who it might be, colonel? Bimeo must have a hypothesis. If this thing explodes, he’ll be the first to lose his job.”
“I’ve just come from talking to him,” said Lombard. “He says these are pure journalistic exaggerations.” And then he paused when he realized that there was a reporter among us. “The Tour is the Tour and there are always accidents, traps, and bad plays.”
“Sabotaged bikes? Cyclists murdered in the bathtub? Poison?” Ray said. He was indignant.
“One hundred years ago, they’d throw tacks on the road to puncture tires, and they’d change the road signs to send rivals down the wrong path. They’ve gassed people before too,” said Lombard, now seeming completely lucid.
“That was to rob them, not to send them to the hospital. And they were fine by morning. What’s going on now is different,” said Ray. Six or seven years ago, two soigneurs were knocked out with gas that entered their room through a small tube under the door. Someone took their money, their watches, and their laptops while the two were unconscious.
“Bimeo says it’s the same motive,” Lombard replied. “The room was sacked. The poisoning was just worse because the room was smaller and the thieves miscalculated. Anyway, it’s a problem for hotel security, not the Tour.”
“Which version of you should we believe, colonel? This guy who defends Bimeo and thinks everything is a journalistic exaggeration, or the guy who burst into the room trying to save Moreau from an imminent attack?” asked Ray, with the look of a prosecutor who’s just laid out an irrefutable argument.
Ray’s words must have shaken Lombard, because he looked over at my supplements on the nightstand and became instantly distracted, the overprotective parent making sure all his child’s vitamins are in order.
“We can’t take too many precautions. There are enemies everywhere,” he finally said, returning from wherever Ray’s question had sent him. “We all have to watch out for you, Marc, because, this year, you’ll be the champion.” He flung himself in my arms so awkwardly, he almost made me lose my balance. Then he walked out of the room without another word.
The strong smell of the mints the old man chewed made my eyes water, or maybe it was just hearing him say my legal name, which he hadn’t used since my first months in the barracks.
Fiona’s eyes were also moist. “He’s sick, Mojito,” she said, but, glancing at Ray, shook her head and refused to say anything more despite my inquisitive look.
Fiona, Ray, and I parted with our assignments, all three of us troubled. We agreed to meet again in the evening, to review. By day’s end, I would have gotten through one of the four stages I needed to come out of the Tour alive. That was assuming, of course, that the danger ended in Paris.
Steve thought differently.
“I told Stevlana to meet us at Lake De Como,” he told me at breakfast. “There’s no point in her taking any risks by coming to Paris; let’s see if she listens to me.” At least he didn’t call her Stivy when he talked to me. Our teammates usually let us talk with relative privacy during meals, sitting a couple feet away. It was a rule that no one had ever articulated but that even the newest members of the team adhered to. It allowed us to participate in the general conversation but also speak more intimately. We talked in a kind of argot, mostly French but mixed with whole English sentences and sprinkled with Spanish phrases he’d learned from his Mexican nanny. His vocabulary when it came to foods and parts of the body, both male and female, was admirable.
“Why? Do the Protex people know about a threat in Paris? Did you hear about Conti?”
“I heard, bro. They’ll know more once they talk to their police contact, but they’re worried, and they want me to double up on precautions. I’m getting sick of all this,” he said, making a face and flinching slightly on his right side.
“I suppose we’re down to just Paniuk and Medel as our last suspects, right?” I asked, just to check if the Protex professionals agreed with my improvised panel of detectives.
“That’s what I said. But they said they d
on’t discount anyone. And it looks like Interpol found the link between Ferrara and the Dutch businessman who bought your bike. That’s why the whole thing with Conti is so weird. If the Italians came up with all this to make Matosas the champion, then what happened today makes no sense at all. Without Conti, Matosas is lost in the mountains.”
“So, what are we going to do?” That was the subject neither one of us had dared to bring up. Would we attack Matosas today, when his teammates were hospitalized?
“Whatever Giraud says, I suppose,” he said, wanting to avoid responsibility for whatever happened. There was no doubt about what our DS would order us to do, even if it was in bad taste. Codes of conduct, and ethics in particular, were not Giraud’s strong suits.
“You really want to beat Matosas while he’s down? The peloton helped us when you were in bad shape,” I said, without animosity but firmly. I didn’t want to let him get his way without at least first admitting we were about to do a very messed-up thing.
“Listen, if we lost time because of the bullshit the Italians pulled on your bike, it’s only fair that we recover it now. It’s not even an eye-for-an-eye kind of thing, because it wasn’t us who shot the gas under the door.” When it came to presenting an argument, my friend could be a cardinal in the Medici courts, especially if there’s a yellow jersey at stake.
“Okay, then, let’s do it like this. You lost five minutes from your fall. Let’s attack to get those five minutes back, but just those five minutes. I’ll talk to some of the other team leaders,” I said.
“How are you going to make sure it’s exactly five minutes? Are you going to talk to Jitrik about that too, like your two-minute penalty?” He said it lightly, but I felt it in my back like an ice pick. So he was hurt that I was ahead of him in the standings. I smiled and pretended it was all a joke.
“The question is, are you physically ready to take on Matosas?” I asked. “Without Conti, he can’t attack us, although Matosas is still quite a climber. But he’s already the leader. All he has to do is not lose sight of us. He’s going to be all over you.”
“Today’s stage doesn’t really lend itself to an attack,” Steve replied. “Whoever hit Conti picked the wrong day to do it. They should have waited for the weekend.” He was right about that. Today was the first lap in the Alps, but it was more of a warm-up. Matosas would have no trouble keeping up with us because there weren’t any first-rate peaks, just an ascent to the low mountains. The tough climbs were coming up on the last two days.
“It doesn’t have to be today. From what I can tell, Conti and Leandro are off the Tour entirely.”
“Paniuk is going to be the harder one to beat. He’s only twenty-two seconds behind Matosas.”
“Even without taking into consideration that he or his people could be the criminals, we shouldn’t cross Medel off that list either.”
“It’s not Medel,” he said in a confident tone.
“How do you know?”
“It was in the report,” he said, before explaining. “Protex isn’t exactly bothered by legalities,” he said, lowering his voice. He could see I was confused. “They have his phone tapped. It turns out Medel is sure he’s the next one who’ll be attacked. The conversations he’s been having with his wife back in Seville suggest he’s worried he might not make it home.”
“They could also be the conversations someone who’s afraid of going to jail might have,” I said.
“Bro, he’s terrified. He thinks they’re going to kill him.”
“Then it’s Paniuk.”
“No, there’s someone else,” he said, although he didn’t sound particularly convinced.
I had the same instinct. It was hard to imagine Paniuk in the middle of such a complex mess. He didn’t have close friends in the circuit and probably not outside it either. He was an unlikely person to be backed by a large network with a lot of muscle and resources.
But we weren’t wrong about our predictions when it came to the day’s strategy. Giraud was belligerently enthusiastic on the bus to the starting line.
“Attack with everything you’ve got, Steve,” he said with the ferocity of a coach in a boxer’s corner, although his gaze was directed at me. “Remember all the crap these bastards have been pulling on you. Fonar is much stronger than what’s left of Lavezza, and Medel and Paniuk aren’t real rivals without the Italians. I want Steve to be wearing that yellow jersey on Friday.” His eyes dared me to disagree.
I hated myself when I realized I’d nodded without thinking, having given in to the force of his scrutiny. Yet another story I wouldn’t tell Fiona that night. Then I realized he hadn’t said anything about Saturday, and neither had I. It was Wednesday. Giraud was saying that he wanted to wrap up the Tour in the next three days, before the last, terrible stage Saturday on the Alpe d’Huez. That meant I could faithfully go along with my team’s plans. Steve could sleep wearing the yellow jersey Friday night…and lose it Saturday, on the last summit. I suppose I could also be a devious cardinal.
As we squeezed together at the starting line at Digne-les-Bains, I went down the line of the peloton to talk to the squad leaders we respected. I briefly explained that from that day on, we’d be attacking Matosas to even out the time we’d lost because of his bullshit, but no more than that; if we succeeded, we’d let everything be decided on the last day. No one said anything, but I was sure they’d accept it as one more adjustment we cyclists frequently have to make in order to be fair in an organization that doesn’t guarantee fairness.
I was right. No team helped or was sympathetic to Lavezza when Fonar struck with all our might. We imposed a suicidal pace, confident in our strength. The peloton followed us, including Matosas. As the race wore on, the peloton stretched out until it broke up into small groups just trying to survive. We broke the peloton’s back when we reached the midway point and climbed Allos, a long ascent with an incline of only five percent. Under normal circumstances, most of the racers would have come out of it intact, but we’d set such an infernal rhythm that when we reached the highest peak, there were very few of us grouped together up front.
Although Matosas could be a bastard, he was a good cyclist. As we’d anticipated, he glued himself to Fonar’s last man as if his life depended on it. Steve rode as protected as any leader could be at those speeds. When there were only forty-eight kilometers left, he decided to run it like a time trial. There were very few ascents, and a couple descents, but mostly it was just long, flat stretches. On one of those smooth expanses, he sped up to an impossible pace, stood on his pedals, and maintained that posture for several minutes. I followed him as best I could, but the others couldn’t get up to such speeds. Now it was me who was following his slipstream, afraid every centimeter lost would turn into anguished meters impossible to recover. It seemed like Steve wanted to show the world he was, once more, in full control of his faculties, or perhaps he was simply infused with the desire for revenge.
My teammate had chosen the moment well; Matosas and Paniuk were riding alone and Medel had just one teammate left. All the others in the lead group were from Fonar, and they’d slowed down the moment Steve broke out. They, of course, wouldn’t be contributing to any chase our rivals mounted.
When I glanced at my power meter, I realized I was going an astonishing 65 kilometers per hour on the flat plain Steve had chosen to make his escape. In spite of being protected by his traction, I was still having trouble keeping my speed. I wondered if, after this showing, Fiona would still feel the same way about my possibilities.
Eight kilometers later, we began to climb a light but very long parapet. Giraud was thundering in our ears to go harder.
“Now you for a while,” said Steve, his voice anguished as he let up. When I went by him, I noticed the tension and pallor in his face, but he gazed at me with bright eyes, challenging me with a look not much different from the one Giraud had given me just hours
before.
I understood Steve wanted to do more than get back the five minutes stolen from us. His breakaway was a statement, a way for him to tell the world, and me, that he was the best. I limited my response to just pushing forward, as I’d done so often in the past ten years.
Soon, I began to feel fatigue overcoming me. I’d been going for several kilometers without him giving me a break, and I was now coming up on a small summit that seemed interminable. I was paying the price of having exerted so much energy in helping my partner with his brutal escape. The two times I slowed down, he simply said más. Even though he couldn’t talk, it was clear he’d decided to eliminate Matosas once and for all.
Even in those conditions, we kept gaining distance. I’d learn later that both Matosas and Medel rode below their averages. I imagined the Italian’s spirit had been broken by the morning’s events. His friend and teammate—his version of me—was in intensive care fighting for his life. And if what the report said about Medel’s phone conversations was true, then he was probably up until the wee hours the past few nights.
I was surprised we were still only five kilometers ahead when they told us we’d gotten our five minutes back. Our rivals were really underperforming. In that moment, I slowed down, and signaled Steve discreetly to do the same. I didn’t want the camera or the mics on the motorcycle ahead of us to catch on to our agreement with the other leaders.
In response, Steve leaned forward uncertainly and pointed straight ahead with his index finger, his hand never leaving the handlebars.
“Now it’s my turn,” he said, and got in front of me as if he were simply taking a turn leading. Then he stood on his pedals and sped off. I wondered if this new breakaway was an emotional reaction or a strategy he’d schemed up in the past few kilometers.
I don’t know if I would have had the strength to follow Steve, who’d raced the last thirty kilometers protected by my wheel, but I didn’t even try. I preferred to respect the deal I’d made with our colleagues. On TV, to the rest of the world, the moment would register as absolute and implacable proof that Steve was superior to his domestique.
The Black Jersey Page 22
