The Black Jersey

by Jorge Zepeda Patterson

  That night, we fell asleep with me as the little spoon, and her holding me. She said it was because that was the best position to protect me from any attack; I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. It took me a long time to stop thinking about Fiona and take up the litany of the rankings.

  GENERAL CLASSIFICATION: STAGE 17

  RANK

  RIDER

  TIME

  NOTES

  1 STEVE PANATA (USA/FONAR) 69:06:49 A fifth jersey looks inevitable.

  2

  ALESSIO MATOSAS (ITALY/LAVEZZA)

  0:38

  Is he looking for me to save me from the cops or to kill me?

  3

  MILENKO PANIUK (CZECH/RABONET)

  1:00

  The hermit. Could he be the killer and I just can’t see it?

  4 MARC MOREAU (FRANCE/FONAR) +1:31 I may not win the jersey but I could be on the podium.

  5

  PABLO MEDEL (SPAIN/BALEARES)

  7:43

  The Spaniard is out of the competition, unless something crazy happens.

  6

  ÓSCAR CUADRADO (COLOMBIA/MOVISTAR)

  12:59

  7

  LUIS DURÁN (SPAIN/IMAGINE)

  14:36

  8

  SERGE TALANCÓN (ROMANIA/ROCCA)

  15:48

  9

  ANSELMO CONTI (ITALY/LAVEZZA)

  18:12

  10

  ROL CHARPENELLE (FRANCE/TOURGAZ)

  18:46

  Stage 18

  Gap—Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne, 186.5 km.

  Before I was fully awake, the summit at Glandon filled my mind. We didn’t race it every year, but I always thought of the peak with affection, because it had been the key to Steve’s first Tour win, part of a successful defense against the Batesman team.

  Remembering the Brits made me squirm. I’d never again see Fleming pedaling between those lethal gaps. Now that he was dead, I thought of my fierce competitor’s kind face, the meticulous way he checked his bike before getting on it, and the funny way he held his head as he rode, like a bobblehead on a taxi dashboard.

  I wondered if he’d had someone like Fiona, someone who made him believe he could be more than a domestique. I compared Fleming’s merits against his leader’s: Stark was a superb climber, though he often faltered on the time trials. I don’t think Fleming ever considered the possibility of replacing him, even in his wildest dreams; he personified the very essence of a domestique. He was probably rolling over in his grave knowing his death had denied Stark any chance of winning the race. Then again, maybe Fleming would have said the same thing about me.

  I tried to empty my head of these thoughts and concentrate on the day before me. Our goal was simple: to keep Steve on top of the rankings, which meant ensuring that Matosas and Paniuk didn’t get to the finish line before him. Medel wasn’t a real threat anymore; he’d have to make some kind of historic comeback to catch up. I assumed Giraud would instruct us to race relatively conservatively today. There was no need to waste Steve’s energy.

  I thought once more about how disappointed Fiona would be when my teammate won; my coming out alive in Paris would have to be enough. If she loved me, that should be enough. I ran my hand over the space on the pillow where her head had been, idly searching for one of her red hairs; she’d snuck out of the room early in the morning after giving me a kiss on the shoulder. I spotted a tiny curl that was unquestionably hers and wished with all my might it was already Monday so I could make love to her unhurriedly, and without fear. But there were still four days and almost 550 kilometers left. Hopefully, there would also be a few arrests.

  “Hey, bro, I just talked to the Protex guys,” Steve said as soon as I sat down next to him at breakfast. He was solicitous and cheerful, well aware I was irritated by his bullying on the course the day before. I hadn’t responded to any of the messages he’d sent yesterday.

  “What did they tell you?”

  “The cops have been interrogating Ferrara all night long,” he said, “about the incident with your bike.”

  “Yeah, I knew that yesterday,” I responded dryly but without hostility.

  “They’re convinced it was the Italians behind all these incidents.”

  “Who’s convinced, the police or Protex?”

  “Both. Given all this, Lavezza hasn’t got a shot anymore. I won’t be taking off the jersey until after Paris,” he said triumphantly. I stayed quiet, as if cutting up fruit and pouring milk on my muesli were as demanding a task as deactivating a bomb. “I’ve been thinking about your career, brother,” he added. I froze, as if paralyzed by a decision about which cable to cut on the bomb. In general, we talked about his career, not mine.

  “This is my fifth yellow jersey, but I’ll need another one to break the record. I’ve been thinking about not competing in any other races this coming year and strictly concentrating on the Tour,” he said. Steve’s dream was to one-up cycling’s four greats: Anquetil, Merckx, Hinault, and Induráin had each won five Tours and were never able to do any better. The sixth win was seen as a curse, always out of reach. Only Lance Armstrong had managed to get seven, but his wins were all taken away when it was confirmed he’d been doping. Steve wanted to be known as the greatest of them all.

  “That’s your career we’re talking about,” I said.

  “The two go together, bro.” He was very animated now. “If I don’t do any of the other races, I can make sure you’re the team leader. Lombard is right about that: Without me in the way, I’d bet my life you win them all.” He paused for a moment. “At least one of the two big ones, I’m sure.”

  “Seriously?” I forgot about the muesli, the bomb, and yesterday’s betrayal. To win Il Giro, the most important Italian race, or La Vuelta, the most important Spanish race, wasn’t the same as winning the Tour, but they were the next biggest things in cycling. It meant leaving the anonymity of the domestiques and entering the pages of history. I hadn’t been offered such a gift since my mother gave me a bike and Fiona slipped into my bed. Then I remembered there was an obstacle. “Giraud won’t accept that.”

  “Giraud won’t be here next year,” he whispered, leaning over my plate.

  “I’d heard the rumor, but I didn’t realize it was true.”

  “Giraud won’t be here, but neither will we. The guy behind Snatch, that Silicon Valley health company, is a huge cycling fan and he wants to put a team together. Obviously around me.” Only coming from Steve would such an immodest declaration sound, not vulgar, but natural. “The money men want my opinion about a couple of candidates for DS. Basically, I’m picking the guy. And whoever it is, I’ll make clear to him he’ll only have my support if he promises what I just told you.”

  “Il Giro,” I said, exhaling heavily. To win it, and on the Italians’ home turf, would be like a punch with a white glove after the attacks on the trailer and on my bicycle—although pronouncing the words made me pessimistic again. “Hey, and where are we going to get the teammates to win all that in just one year? The mechanics and the assistants?”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll have an insane budget. The Snatch guy is obsessed with the possibility of an American making history with six Tours. He’s going to open his wallet. The Batesman and Fonar budgets are peanuts compared to what they’ve be
en talking about. We can hire a dream team, if we want it. They just asked me to keep it clean. I promised I’d pee more transparently than a baby,” he said with a laugh.

  “I don’t know if we’ll be ready for Il Giro; next year Stark and Cuadrado will come with everything they’ve got after losing here,” I said, giving the matter more consideration. “We’d only have four months of competition to create a totally new team before going to Italy in May. It might be better to bet on La Vuelta in August.”

  Steve looked at me for a moment and then spoke as if the truce were over.

  “Don’t get confused, Marc. We’ll be in Il Giro and the Spanish Vuelta only to get the team used to three-week competitions. Snatch will be focused on winning the Tour and my sixth yellow jersey.”

  “You assume it’s already won this year?”

  “You don’t?” he asked.

  “The danger’s still out there.”

  “The police and Protex are sure it was the Italians. My friends have Paniuk and gang wired: They can’t watch Netflix without us knowing what episode they’re on, and I don’t see who else could take my jersey. Do you?” Once again, the intensity of his gaze made me think his question came from a long time ago, from back when he was left behind in those demanding climbs during our training in Gerona.

  And what he said about surveillance bothered me. Since when did Protex spy on rivals? Was it after the attacks, as an investigative tool to protect Steve, or had they started before that? Were they spying on me too? Was he aware of the conversations Fiona and I had behind his back? My restlessness turned into a chill. Maybe that explained his generous offer to make me leader for some important races: He was trying to neutralize any possibility that I’d attack him on the Alps.

  “No, sorry. This murderer’s got me a bit paranoid,” I said, backtracking. “Hey, does Giraud know anything about Snatch? I get the impression he’s more agitated than usual.”

  “He doesn’t know anything. Only Benny and now you. Not even Stevlana,” he said, as if that meant anything. She didn’t seem to be aware of much besides her own image in the mirror. “Although he knows the Fonar owners want to make a drastic change. Poor Fonar; they don’t know just how drastic that change will be.”

  Steve’s comment about Fonar seemed a bit ungrateful to me. As far as I knew, they’d been generous to him for years with all kinds of perks and privileges, some of them quite unusual. If his plans were finalized, we’d end up destroying Fonar by taking the best of its cyclists, mechanics, and assistants. A hell of a move.

  If the moment came, would my bro do the same to me? Or was I being unfair? I wasn’t on top of the details of his negotiations. Maybe there were recent tensions that justified his leaving the squad. And, anyway, wasn’t I considering betraying him by abandoning him at the foot of Alpe d’Huez?

  I shook off those thoughts and we both turned to the day’s race. We reminisced about our climb to Glandon four years ago and ended by high-fiving with an enthusiasm that was more pretend than real.

  My mind went back to the conversation with Steve about spying on Paniuk. A twinge made its way into my sternum. I wrote a quick text to Lombard: “Do you have a way to check my room for microphones or cameras? I’ll leave the key with Axel.” As soon as I sent it, I realized I’d just made a mistake; I probably was being spied on, but setting Lombard off on this mission was probably not a good idea, seeing as the old man was becoming increasingly unstable.

  I appreciated the call of the road. I’d spend the next five or six hours focused on the race.

  Only Paniuk and his Rabonet team could threaten us at this stage. The Czech had never been so close to a yellow jersey, nor would he ever be again. So for him, third place would be like drowning within sight of the shore. He’d do anything to get back the minute he’d lost in the general classification.

  But once we began, Rabonet was no match for Fonar. Again and again we responded to their attacks, which were more uncomfortable than dangerous. Their domestiques were overeager and didn’t have the legs to climb Glandon. When we got to the middle of the ascent, I placed myself at the head of Fonar, increased my speed, and quickly left the entire Czech team behind except for Paniuk.

  Matosas and Medel accompanied Fonar without attempting anything. I noticed a couple of looks from the Italian but I couldn’t figure him out. I remembered the appointment we’d scheduled for that evening and asked myself again what revelations he’d offer. It was clear that his plans no longer included the yellow jersey; perhaps he was just trying to save himself a spot on the podium. Medel didn’t seem like a threat anymore either. He was the most obviously tired of all the leaders.

  We reached the finish line in a group of ten riders, four of them from Fonar. Radek, my erstwhile ally, took flight a kilometer from the finish line but no one chased him. He could burn himself out today if he wanted to in exchange for winning the stage; he was 52 in the rankings, almost two hours behind the leader in the general classification. The rest of us had to save energy for the mountains on Friday and Saturday, before arriving in Paris.

  I was happy for Radek. With his two stage wins, he seemed to have forgotten his old grievances. Or that’s what I believed.

  The bus ride back to Gap was long and tedious. Today we’d hit the 3,000-kilometer mark for the Tour, and our bodies showed the ravages of each and every one of them. In the third week of competition, our muscles begin to consume the little fat we have left. More than one racer could be cast in a film about refugees or extermination camps. Except for some extraordinary reason to celebrate, like yesterday, at this point in the competition the mood on the bus is funereal. Each person is locked in his fatigue, with his demons, thinking about what he did or didn’t do on the road, hoping that the massage waiting at the hotel will ease the small pull that could become a sprain.

  I was anxious about my meeting later with Matosas. It’s one thing to listen to a confession from Axel, and another to have a tête-à-tête with someone you’ve considered a murderer the past two weeks. I thought it would be useful to know something about Ferrara’s interrogation before my meeting with the Italian.

  So while Axel worked on my body in his hotel room, I sent Favre several texts without response. Perhaps the commissioner had given up on his relationship with Sergeant Moreau, his “man on the inside,” after my poor performance as a detective. In all honesty, when I took stock of the information I’d passed on to him, I didn’t find anything that would justify dedicating one more minute of his time to me.

  But when I returned to my room, a motorcycle officer—judging from the helmet in his hand—was waiting for me while talking to plump Sancho Panza. Favre’s man looked like he’d been cut out of a recruitment poster for the French police, especially next to Sancho: He was at least six feet tall, with an athletic build, perfect teeth, and a pleasant but manly face. My bodyguard must have been telling some very funny stories, because the cop was laughing loudly. He got serious when I walked up, and asked to talk privately with me.

  “The commissioner says he received your messages and he needs to speak with you urgently, but he can’t come right now.” The poster boy ceased being a heartthrob the minute he used his voice. His vocal cords corresponded to those of a thirteen-year-old, which explained why, even with that impressive figure, he was just a messenger. There was no way a criminal would take him seriously.

  “I need to see him. Could he get free a little later?”

  “Oh for sure!” he said in a key higher than what could be reached with a stretched arm on a piano. After a pause, as if my question had reminded him of the other part of the mission, he added: “He asked me to give you this.” After looking in two different pants pockets, he took an envelope from his jacket. I guessed the voice was not his only problem; that splendid, broad forehead had a purpose that was more aesthetic than functional.

  It seemed the commissioner didn’t trust his
envoy too much either because in the envelope I found a long explanatory note and a cellphone. Unlike his laconic digital messages, on paper Favre had a flowery script and the eloquence of a nun with a lot of free time. He explained that his people had detected a spy network on cells and emails aimed at different members of the circuit and he asked me to take precautions about what I said or wrote digitally. He begged me—those were his words—to call him from the cell I now had in my hands at the preprogrammed number as soon as I was alone.

  I walked the agent to the door, in case he couldn’t find it himself. Sancho gave me a sardonic look, and I thought I’d have to update my prejudices; in case of emergency, it was clear to me I’d rather be in the fat man’s hands than the poster boy’s. I went back to the room and called Favre from my new phone.

  “Ferrara has confessed,” said the commissioner abruptly.

  “To everything?” I asked excitedly.

  “No, just to sabotaging your bicycle. He says the Dandy is an imbecile because he sold the black market bikes for a pittance. Through an intermediary he began to buy them from Fonar without the team’s knowledge, to resell.”

  I waited for the rest of the revelation, but the commissioner went silent.

  “And when did he decide to undo the tube and exchange the black market bike for one of mine so I would break my neck?”

  “He hasn’t told us that yet. He had no choice but to confess about the Dutch intermediary because we showed him the record of his payments. But he’s about to break, and once he admits the attack against you, the rest will come like water.”

  “So you’re convinced Ferrara is responsible for everything?”