The Black Jersey

by Jorge Zepeda Patterson

  “I don’t know if he’s the brains behind the operation, but he definitely participated.”

  “And what do you know about Matosas?”

  “It’s clear everything was about making Matosas champion. Since yesterday, we’re investigating each of the Lavezza team members and managers—without them knowing. We want to have all our bases covered the moment we start to question them.”

  “Do me a favor, commissioner. Could you tell me when Ferrara says anything else?”

  “Of course,” the detective said mechanically, and then after a pause: “Anything new on your side, sergeant?”

  “Fiona is looking at the circle of the Lavezza mechanics to find out who’s clean and who’s dirty,” I replied, trying to demonstrate my utility. “Two of them worked with her in the past.”

  “We are getting closer,” he said.

  There was a long silence.

  “Tell me something, Sergeant Moreau.” I noticed the hesitation in his question. “Is there a chance you’ll win this weekend?”

  “Why are you asking, commissioner? Are you planning to bet?” I said in a nervous, joking tone.

  “I asked to be assigned this case. It didn’t originally fall under my jurisdiction. I’ve followed the Tour since I can remember, and my father before me. In my house it was a religion. The family used to camp the night before at a summit in the Pyrenees to cheer on the French racers the next day. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said with great feeling.

  “I didn’t know,” I answered honestly, not sure whether that last sentence was about my well-being or the Tour’s.

  “I’ve been waiting a long time for a compatriot to win. In 1985, Papá and I saw Hinault enter Paris with the yellow jersey; my old man died three days later, happy. At least he was spared this long drought.”

  Because of the tone the commissioner used, I sensed we were touching on matters more appropriate to the therapist’s couch than to a police investigation. God knows what outstanding issues Favre had with his father.

  “We all want a compatriot to win,” I said, suddenly saddened by him, by me, by French cycling.

  “Indeed,” he replied. “Sleep well, sergeant.”

  I hung up the phone and I tried to focus on the videogame mission, the only thing that helps me deal with my mental fatigue. But I lost miserably, again and again. I couldn’t concentrate. The commissioner had released the snakes of ambition once more. I could picture myself in the yellow jersey at the head of the squad, responding with a warm nod to the jubilant shouts from the fevered crowds, including Favre, Lombard, and Fiona, who cheered me on the Champs-Élysées.

  Then I remembered Matosas. He’d said we’d meet at the hotel, although he hadn’t specified where or when. There was nothing that prohibited the leader of one team from visiting a rival’s room, but the positions we had in the general classification would make any clandestine meeting a major scandal. Steve was in first place, the Italian was in second, and I was in fourth.

  A call on the room phone interrupted my thoughts.

  “Hello, Marc. Could you come to the kitchen? There’s something I want to show you about your diet,” Carlo, our Genoese chef, said in his lousy English.

  “How? Now?” I said.

  “The Italian supplement you asked me about. I have some samples and I want you to try them. If you like, I’ll integrate them beginning tomorrow at breakfast.”

  “I’ll come right down,” I said, finally understanding, heading to the elevator, followed closely by my three custodians—the Sarcophagus, Quixote, and Sancho. Matosas had a real gift for intrigue, but I worried what my guards would find when they stepped into the kitchen.

  I’d underestimated Matosas. Carlo met us outside the elevator declaring there would be no crowding in his kitchen. His actual kitchen, narrow and splendid, was on the team bus, but hotel chefs frequently shared their restaurant’s space with teams that stayed more than one night, as was the current case. My shadows reluctantly agreed to wait.

  Carlo took me back to a pantry, and told me he’d wait outside. When I entered, the smell of olive oil and exotic seeds hit my nose. A small overhead lamp illuminated a pair of legs at the far end of the room. I felt a sudden panic. I’d placed myself in the ideal situation for an assassin to kill me. Why did I even believe it was Matosas who had summoned me? Carlo could be working for anyone. It was not reassuring to remember that, in the strictest sense, Giraud was our cook’s boss.

  But it was Matosas’s voice I heard in the dark. “We have to settle accounts,” he said in Italian. I wondered if I could beat him in hand-to-hand combat and felt optimistic. I recalled enough of my military police training to subdue an aggressor in my weight class. But if Matosas intended to attack me, he wouldn’t have come unarmed. As I neared, I could see his left hand hanging empty, but the other was out of range of the beam of light the lamp projected.

  “How so?” I replied in English.

  “Ferrara was arrested.”

  “I know. The bastard wanted to kill me.” Responding forcefully was perhaps not the most intelligent course of action, considering my interlocutor could’ve had a gun in his hand. But without realizing it, I’d initiated one of the proven strategies to disarm a possible aggressor: physically approaching while being engaged in an intense, emotional dialogue. In theory, that allows you to surprise him when you’re close enough.

  “Nobody wanted to kill you. We just wanted to respond to your attacks; we weren’t going to let Fonar beat us thanks to your underhandedness.”

  “Our attacks? What are you talking about?” Maybe I’d misunderstood Matosas’s response and was experiencing an episode of what Steve calls “lost in translation.”

  “Three days ago, the night watchman at the hotel where we were staying saw someone fiddling with our team bus’s engine at three in the morning. When he went to talk to the man, the guy ran. Turns out he’d filed the brakes so they’d snap on the road. The bus was supposed to take us to the starting line in Lannemezan over forty-two kilometers of potholed roads.”

  “But what has that got to do with Fonar? We’ve all suffered attacks. What about the explosion at Fiona’s trailer?”

  “The description of the guy sounds a lot like that Protex giant who follows you everywhere.”

  I stopped short: I could see now that Matosas had nothing in his right hand. His revelation changed everything. But I didn’t say that.

  “The watchman could be confused. Did he see his face? And what about Fiona’s trailer? If it’s Fonar, eliminating me makes no sense.”

  “We think it was a feigned attack to head off suspicions about Fonar. That allowed you guys to continue getting rid of rivals without anyone being under the police spotlight.”

  What he was saying made a certain amount of sense. His arguments had the additional advantage, from my perspective, of making Giraud responsible for the crimes, or most of them, since Matosas had admitted to sabotaging my bike.

  “Why are you telling me all this? Why are we down here? According to you, I’m one of the murderers, right?”

  “We don’t believe that anymore. We heard about your deal with the other squad leaders, about punishing me just for the five minutes. You kept your word, even though Steve didn’t. You’ve always been a decent guy. I don’t believe you would’ve been willing to take out so many of our comrades.” He hesitated, then added, “Besides, nobody’s stupid enough to willingly let a gas tank be blown up two meters away from their girlfriend. We also know your DS isn’t exactly in love with you. So if they were going to feign an aggression, might as well do it against you.”

  His words hurt me, but they were painfully true.

  “Then why did you sabotage me?”

  “Because we only had your bike, not Steve’s, and at that time we still believed you could be part of the scheme. We needed to hit Fonar. We
thought, with a bit of luck, you could take Steve down in the fall.”

  “Why confess it to me now? That accident could’ve killed me,” I said.

  “I want to take responsibility for what we did, but we aren’t willing to take the blame on the other crimes. We were just defending ourselves.”

  “Then tell the cops.”

  “You could help us explain our point of view; they don’t understand the rules of the road. Besides, we know the commissioner who interrogated Ferrara listens to you.”

  Our conversation was beginning to sound a lot like the one I’d had with a frightened Axel a few days before.

  “Why should I help you after what you wanted to do to me?”

  “Because now we’re on the same side,” he said in an English that took me even more work to decipher than his Italian.

  “How so?” I asked, although I was beginning to see it perfectly.

  “I’ve given it a lot of thought,” he said, returning to Italian. “The criminals want Steve to be champion. The rankings show it, and it’s confirmed by the description of the man who cut the brakes on our truck. At this point, no one can take the win from the American; Fonar is very strong and everyone else is very weak. The only way he loses is if you pass him on the mountain. And it’s obvious Giraud or Steve, or whoever in Fonar is behind this, doesn’t trust you. That was made clear with the gas-tank explosion. So they’ll probably come for you. Maybe it’ll be the guy who’s out there right now.” As he spoke he’d gotten closer, and now the light was shining on his face. His handsome Italian features were devastated: emaciated cheeks, deep circles under his eyes, drooping lips. Matosas seemed to have aged several years since the Tour began, and it was due to something even more traumatic than three weeks of competition.

  “There’s a lot of speculation in what you’re saying. Steve doesn’t need help to win the Tour. But you do,” I said.

  “I never believed I’d win it; I’m not deluded. I was content to be in the top ten. I only thought I had a chance when the big guns started to disappear. But then I became a target. And I wasn’t going to let that happen lying down.”

  “The best thing to do is tell the commissioner. As long as the police continue to believe you’re the culprits, the real criminals will have carte blanche,” I said. I wasn’t going to confess my own suspicions about Giraud to a rival, even a helpful one. “I’ll tell Favre what we’ve talked about. Some of what you say might make sense.”

  “Thank you,” he said, in Spanish this time. “And good luck this weekend.”

  We left the kitchen separately. I stared at the Protex guard, who was looking with disgust at Sancho, who sat nibbling a piece of sausage stolen from the kitchen. Matosas’s words had made a dent in my attitude. I wouldn’t turn my back on Protex’s man now. If what the Italian said was true about the sabotage to Lavezza’s team bus, then the Sarcophagus who followed me around all day was the criminals’ executioner.

  Lombard was waiting for me in my room. He jumped into investigation mode right away.

  “We didn’t find any hidden mics or anything like that. Bimeo sent some technicians over while you were running the stage. But it’s very easy to tap a cell, so better take care what you say on that.”

  “How are you, colonel? These must have been three exhausting weeks for you as well. How are you doing?” We hadn’t talked about him in a long time; all of our exchanges had to do with my preparation, my diet, my times, my rivals. It’s no surprise athletes often end up turning their obsession with performance and body preparation into a suffocating narcissism.

  “Me? Good,” he said, as if suspicious of the question. “Or rather, never better: You’re already in fourth place, Hannibal, and the yellow jersey is within reach. I knew it ever since I first saw you ride all those years ago. I knew I had a champion on my hands.”

  “I might yet become a champion, colonel, but not on the Tour,” I said.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, distrustful and confused.

  I hesitated a few moments, then decided to tell him about Snatch. It was the least I could do. I thought he’d be reassured when he found out I’d be a team leader the following year, a contender for Il Giro and La Vuelta in Spain.

  To my surprise, the idea upset him.

  “You can’t trust Steve; he’s going to cheat you. He just wants to keep you from taking his jersey. He knows you have it at your fingertips. It’s exactly what Wiggins did to Froome in 2012: He promised him that if he didn’t attack, he’d make him champion the following year. Twelve months later, he tried to betray him.”

  “Wiggins and Froome weren’t brothers like Steve and me.”

  “You still believe that? Steve is not your brother. Anything you think you owe Panata you paid a long time ago. It’s him who owes a great debt to you. Your brother”—he said it with contempt—“has deprived you of victory; worse, he’s kept France from regaining its glory.”

  I swallowed my protests. When the colonel spoke with “La Marseillaise” as background music, no argument would be heard. I thought it better to change the subject.

  “Tell me something, colonel. Where did Bimeo find the guys outside my door?”

  Lombard took a moment to process my question. He didn’t get how we’d gone from the mother country to the ridiculously mismatched men standing guard in the hall.

  “Well,” he said, rewinding his brain. “The fat one was the chief cook at a prison that Bimeo ran early in his career. But don’t be fooled; even hardened criminals are afraid of that guy. They say he poisoned someone who tried to mess with him; he disfigured another by pushing his face into a soup pot. The inmates found that out after they’d eaten the soup. The tall one is a total mystery to me, but I think he’s the boss.” He laughed, and I seconded him nervously. Now I didn’t know which of my three guards was scarier.

  “Thanks for checking my room, colonel; it makes me feel better,” I said, trying to end his visit, although he didn’t get the message until I got up.

  “No, thank you, Hannibal,” he answered, getting emotional.

  “For what?”

  “Because this Saturday you’re going to make me the happiest man in the world. After that, I can die in peace.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, you and I still have a lot ahead of us,” I said, putting an arm around his shoulders. “The best is yet to come.” There was a vulnerability about him I hadn’t noticed before. The colonel had always enjoyed a firm muscle tone, even in old age; now I realized his chest was a little less solid, and I could’ve sworn he’d shrunk a few inches.

  “It has to happen now. Next year isn’t in your hands, it’s in theirs. But this yellow jersey depends entirely on you. Don’t disappoint me, Marc, I beg you.” I had to guess the last word because it had drowned in his throat.

  I didn’t respond; instead, I extended my half-hug and accompanied him to the door. Just before we reached it, he stopped and turned toward me.

  “And don’t trust the Protex fellow, he’s a bad bug,” he said, gesturing toward the tall man in the hallway. “Better to not relax when he’s close, although Bimeo’s guards will have your back.”

  That night it took me a long time to fall asleep. Lombard’s reaction had confused me. I’d wanted him to be impressed and excited about Steve’s offer for next year. Instead, he’d put me against the wall. I wondered what Fiona would think when I brought her up to speed. But that would have to wait until the next day: She’d be trapped in committee meetings until very late.

  I resorted to reviewing the rankings in search of their somnolent power, but again and again the thought of Giraud made it hard to breathe. My intuition had been right: Everything pointed to my DS.

  What role did Steve play in all that? I preferred to think Giraud had acted behind his back to make him champion. What my friend had shared with me today confirmed there was no allian
ce between them. By going to Snatch, Steve was also dumping Giraud. And he’d never dare do that if they were involved in a crime together.

  Satisfied with my conclusion, I decided to call Favre again. I had to let him know as soon as possible about Giraud. I’d tell him about the talk with Matosas, the relationship between Protex and the Fonar DS, and my own conclusions.

  I dialed his number on the cell he’d given me, but he didn’t answer. It was 12:45 A.M. I sent a text: “It’s Giraud, not Ferrara.”

  That finally allowed me to focus on the top ten times. Well, in theory. My mind only focused on one number: 1:31. The 91 seconds that separated me and Steve. I was counting down from 91 when I got lost in dreams of yellow.

  GENERAL CLASSIFICATION: STAGE 18

  RANK

  RIDER

  TIME

  NOTES

  1 STEVE PANATA (USA/FONAR) 74:13:31 There is no human power that’ll deny him the fifth jersey.

  2

  ALESSIO MATOSAS (ITALY/LAVEZZA)

  0:38

  I thought he was the murderer, but he’s more scared than me.

  3

  MILENKO PANIUK (CZECH/RABONET)

  1:00

  The only one who might be dangerous, and only on the road, I hope.

  4 MARC MOREAU (FRANCE/FONAR) +1:31 I’m a domestique…I’m a domestique…I’m a domestique….

  5

  PABLO MEDEL (SPAIN/BALEARES)

  8:41

  He hasn’t counted in days.

  6

  ÓSCAR CUADRADO (COLOMBIA/MOVISTAR)

  12:59

  7