by Mark A Biggs
‘You don’t frighten me,’ the man said calmly. ‘You threaten us with being known as informers, but, at the same time, you want us to be informers. You’re mad!’
‘The irony is not lost on us, but we aren’t mad, just persuasive,’ I said.
‘You don’t know what you are getting yourself into,’ complained the minder.
‘That’s exactly what we are hoping for,’ answered the Inspector. ‘The envelope please,’ he said, looking to me.
I handed him the envelope and watched as he passed it to the minder, saying, ‘The instructions are inside. You will find them very clear. I’m afraid, although we do enjoy your company, it’s time for us to bid you a good day.’
Confidently, arm in arm, the Inspector and I walked away and on towards the Place de la Concorde and the waiting Ferrari. In the excitement of the moment, I had forgotten my worries and hoped that my anxiety was over.
* * *
That afternoon there were six ‘Drive a Ferrari’ signs near their accompanying cars that we had seen while travelling on the bus. They started at the Place de la Concorde and one could be found at almost every intersection leading up the Champs-Elysées, towards the Arc de Triomphe. Although the sign said “Drive”, that was a marketing ploy; a ride in a Ferrari was what they were selling.
Our choice of car was based on its location, a place offering me the best chance of escape, once I had stolen it. Since its release, I had wanted to take a Ferrari F40 for a spin but luck wasn’t with me that day. A Ferrari California was parked on the Place de la Concorde, our preferred spot. It was attended by two men, one a dapper and handsome young man, in his late twenties. The other was a little older and larger and undoubtedly the minder.
‘There you are, Mother!’ said Inspector Axel, still holding my arm. ‘This is the California convertible. I told you we would find one here.’
He turned towards the dapper man who stood next to the sign advertising a Ferrari drive for fifty euros.
‘Do you mind if we take some photographs, with my mother standing next to the Ferrari?’
The young man glanced quickly towards the minder before saying, in a delightful French accent, ‘No not at all, you are most welcome.’
‘My mother has always had a fascination with Ferraris. My father wasn’t interested in cars at all.
‘She lives in Australia and I think at eighty-seven years of age, this will be her last visit to Paris. I thought I might treat her to a ride. She loves the open top California.’
‘I would be happy to take her for a spin. It’s a perfect day for a ride,’ said the dapper-looking man, now smiling, realising that he was about to make a sale.
‘That would be wonderful,’ I said, interrupting the Inspector and the salesman’s conversation. ‘Oh, would you mind? Could I sit in the driver’s seat?’
Then looking at the Inspector, I added, ‘You could take a photograph of me, perhaps even a little video, with the sound of the engine. Maybe, if you paid just a little more, you could film me revving the motor.’
‘Mother!’ the Inspector said, with humour and a touch of exasperation in his voice.
He turned away from me and faced our dapper driver and his minder. I could just overhear the conversation. ‘Please accept my apologies for my mother. Since I last saw her, she seems to have lost any inhibitions. Embarrassingly, she will even talk about people when they are standing right next to us. She can say the most outrageous things. She’s also becoming obsessive over certain things, like these Ferraris. She becomes both as excited and egocentric as a three-year-old. That’s on one of her good days.’
‘That’s okay and it’s wonderful that she still has such a strong passion for life. Your mother is not French, yet you are?’ responded the dapper man.
‘She’s English. My father was French. They met during the war and I was brought up between England and France. After my father died, Olivia, my mother, went to live in Australia with her sister. I stayed here, in France.
‘Would 250 Euros give her a good ride with a bit of noise?’ I heard Inspector Axel ask.
As he continued the conversation with the men, I opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat of the Ferrari while placing my handbag on the passenger’s seat.
After making myself comfortable behind the wheel I yelled out, ‘Come and take a photograph!’
As I said it, I could imagine the Inspector rolling his eyes and giving a sigh before saying something like, ‘Do you mind?’
On cue, the Inspector was standing next to me, camera in hand.
‘Not this side. Take the photograph from the passenger’s side,’ I nagged.
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘Ask that handsome young man to sit next to me, the one who’s going to take me for a drive.’
‘Do you mind?’ I heard Inspector Axel say.
The passenger side door opened and, after putting my handbag on the floor, the dapper man got in and slammed the door behind him.
‘If you will excuse me, Olivia, I will reach over and start the engine. You can give her a little rev while your son takes a quick video. Then I will take you for a nice drive around Paris.’
‘Ask that other nice man to take the photograph,’ I called to Inspector Axel from across the car. ‘So that you can be in the shot as well.’
I watched as the Inspector turned and moved, with the camera held out in front of him, towards the minder. The moment he stepped away from the Ferrari, I revved its motor to 5,000 rpm, discreetly pushed the clutch and, while smiling at my passenger, pulled back on the flappy paddle gear box which engaged a gear. Still grinning, I dropped the clutch. The traction control must have been on because the Ferrari launched itself backwards down the road with such a force that we were both thrown forward in the seats. I slammed my foot on the brake with all the strength I could muster. The car stopped as violently as we had taken off, coming to a halt just before slamming into the car behind us. Simultaneously, I had thrown my other foot onto the clutch, so that, when we came to a halt, the engine continued to run.
‘Whoops,’ I said, pulling the paddle shift the right way to engage first gear. For a second time, I revved the motor and dropped the clutch.
The Ferrari engine, with its deep-throated roar, forced us back into the seats and catapulted the car forward. Without any wheel spin, we hurtled up the road. I changed into second gear and we were gone.
‘What are you doing?’ yelled my passenger, regaining some of his composure and realising that I was stealing the car, with him in it!
Swinging the Ferrari left, we sped toward the Fountain des Mer.
‘What do you think?’ I said casually. ‘Should I go all the way around the Fountain and then up the Champs-Elysées or should I go the wrong way up the road? It’s much quicker but then again we might hit an oncoming car!’
It was a rhetorical question for I wasn’t expecting an answer. At any rate, it was a decision that had to be made before I had a chance to complete the sentence. As traffic was light, I decided to go the wrong way around, weaving in and out to miss oncoming cars, on an excessively large oblong roundabout around monument square and the fountain.
The wheels squealed and the engine roared as I flung the Ferrari off the roundabout and turned left onto the Champs-Elysées, then accelerated to 6,500 rpm before popping the next gear.
‘They will kill you for stealing the car. It’s not mine,’ said the passenger.
‘What’s happened to that lovely French accent of yours?’ I said coolly as we approached the first intersection.
To my relief, the lights were green and, with some quick manoeuvring, we easily avoided the slower vehicles and accelerated aggressively up the road. We were now out of the parkland and entering the built-up area where the sound of the Ferrari’s engine, echoing off the buildings, became pure magic.
‘That’s a nice sound,’ I said to my guest, but he didn’t reply.
Ahead I could just see the nose of another Ferrari poking out i
nto the road. I guessed that the message was out and they were ready to give chase, once we went through the intersection. The minder must have raised the alarm. For a brief moment, my thoughts wandered to the Inspector but I knew that he could take care of himself and I should concentrate on my driving.
‘You’re a real nutter, lady.’
‘I think you’ll find, young man, that the word you’re seeking is “courageous”. Now, my friend, there’s something in my handbag,’ I said, turning and pointing to it on the floor, next to his feet.
‘Watch out!’ he screamed.
I had taken my eyes off the road for only a second but, when I looked up, I could see that we were centimetres from the back of a little Fiat. Slamming on the brakes while swerving hard to the right at the same time, I managed to avoid the car by passing it on the inside, but the manoeuvre caused the back of the Ferrari to slide out. Casually I corrected the steering to counter the drift. The car responded so I hit the accelerator again and continued racing up the road. Although my heart was in my mouth after the close call, I hid any sign of fear and continued the conversation in a calm and controlled manner.
‘In my handbag, on the floor, you will find an envelope. Take it out and open it.’
The lights at the next intersection, the one where the other Ferrari was waiting, were turning amber as we raced through. A slight bump in the road lifted us out of our seats as the Ferrari left the road before crashing back down with a crunch. Glancing in the mirror I saw that we were being chased. I must have looked away for a fraction of a second too long because my attention was drawn back to the road with another yell of panic coming from the passenger’s seat.
Slamming on the brakes and dropping back two gears, I swerved onto the wrong side of the road, narrowly missing a lumbering delivery truck that had merged into the left-hand lane. Once past, I flung the car back onto the correct side of the road, much to the relief of the oncoming vehicles. This manoeuvre slowed our escape and the pursuing Ferrari came up onto our tail. Hitting the accelerator, four seconds later we are travelling at 130kph, rocketing towards the notorious Arc de Triomphe roundabout.
‘We are looking for that woman,’ I said noticing that he had opened the envelope and was holding the photograph of Claudia.
‘Keep your eyes on the road,’ yelled my passenger, distress in his voice, having seen me glancing towards him again. ‘Look, lady, I don’t know her. You are going to get us both killed. Please lady, watch the road!’
We were now two intersections short of the Arc de Triomphe and, for the first time since I stole the car, the traffic lights in front turned red as we approached.
Do I brake and try to nudge my way across the intersection, against the traffic, or accelerate and pray that luck is with me?
‘I’ve lived a good life,’ I sung aloud. ‘Hold on!’
‘No!’ pleaded my passenger.
‘Here we go,’ I shrieked, pushing my foot flat to the floor.
The intersection was over in a blur, accompanied by the sound of honking horns and screeching brakes. The infamous Arc de Triomphe roundabout lay directly ahead.
In a calm lady-like voice, hiding the sheer terror that was swirling inside, I spoke once more to my passenger.
‘Along with the photograph you will find an invitation to dinner on Tuesday night at the number 58 Tour Eiffel Restaurant, in the Eiffel Tower itself. Tell your boss to bring whatever we need to find the lady in the picture.’
‘And in return?’
‘We tell them where to find this wonderful machine. Security at the Tower is tight, everybody passes through X-ray machines. None of us will be armed, your boss and ourselves will be quite safe.’ Then in a jovial voice I added, ‘if I don’t get us both killed beforehand that is.’
After my poor attempt at humour, we arrived, mildly out of control, at one of the world’s most chaotic roundabouts.
To outrun our pursuers, I needed to traverse the roundabout at speed, but in all the traffic that was impossible. Even so, we were thrown from side to side in our seats, as I swung the steering wheel around trying to push my way through while avoiding the other vehicles. I hit the accelerator, leaping the car forward, only to slam my foot on the brake a second later. Amid the chaos, I stole a momentary glance in the mirror. We’d lost the pursuing Ferrari but had been joined by the Gendarmes, the police.
The sight of a Ferrari being pursued by police around the Arc attracted the other roundabout users to us like bees to a honey pot.
I would have thought the French, with their disrespect for authority might have shielded us from the police. No such luck. Instead, we became the target for their dented and beaten up old cars masquerading as Exocet missiles. They launched themselves in our direction, intent on inflicting damage. Maybe the French like Italians less than the police or was it their chance to play Demolition Derby with a $300,000 sports car that was exciting their senses?
One crazed Parisian, a lady with jet black hair and bright red lipstick, positioned her car in front of us for a head-on assault. We came close enough to see her satisfied smile. Just before the collision, I wrenched the Ferrari to the left and accelerated aggressively. In the mirror, I watched as she collided head-on with a pursuing police car.
My planned exit off the roundabout was to take the Avenue Victor Hugo but, in all the excitement, I missed the road. We would have to go around again!
This gave the police the opportunity to start blocking the twelve exits. When we reached the Champs-Elysées, our original entry onto the roundabout, another Ferrari was waiting to join the chase. Too intent on driving, I kept my eyes forward and didn’t notice if the car was in pursuit. We were now back at where the lady with bright red lipstick and Citroen was embedded into the front of a police car, I gave a little toot of the horn and friendly but mocking wave. Our antics had triggered more crashes and our second lap of the Arc was akin to picking a way through a minefield. We avoided broken glass and stationary cars, some on top of another, and made it back to the Avenue Victor Hugo but, by then, it was sealed off by the police.
It was a split-second decision that sent me hurtling towards the Avenue Kléber, the next exit after my target. Luckily, the police had not yet finished blocking the road and they were forced to jump for their lives as we sped off the roundabout and rocketed onto the avenue. I put my foot to the floor and madly accelerated past them, down the road at an ever-increasing speed.
‘Shall we do that again?’ I said, while lifting both hands off the steering wheel and throwing them in the air above my head and yelling – ‘Yessssssss!
‘Please lady, the steering wheel!’ came a hoarse whisper from my passenger.
Having returned my hands to the wheel, a glance in the mirror told me that the other Ferrari was giving chase. Unlike when we were going around the Arc, this time I had a chance to get a good look at the car. It was an F40 and worth a cool $1.8 million US dollars. This made me smile, because I knew that they wouldn’t dare chase us in that for long.
‘A Ferrari F40,’ I said to my passenger. ‘It’s following us. I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but I think I should have gone shopping a little farther up the road. Your California is nice, but it’s not an F40, and riding in an F40 is on my bucket list and through the streets of Paris! Can you imagine it?’
My humour again failed to meet its mark. My passenger stared mutely ahead until he noticed that I glanced across at him.
‘The road! Watch the road!’
Having left the roundabout and safely negotiated the first intersection and a pedestrian crossing by blasting the horn continuously as we approached, there was now a long straight before we reached the next major obstacle, an intersection of five roads. Traffic was everywhere but the bus lane on the far side of the road was clear for as far as I could see. Veering onto the wrong side of the road, I left the Ferrari in second gear, using its screaming engine as a warning for unsuspecting people who we were approaching. On we raced, through all the intersection
s, swerving often and leaving a trail of chaos and confusion in our wake.
Keeping up the guise of an eccentric old lady, I decided to give a guided tour of our journey.
‘My friend, you have not been the best of company. In fact, you have not been much fun at all. Let me share with you where we are heading because that’s the type of person I am – caring! I’ll remain on this avenue until we reach the Trocadéro Gardens, near the museum. I think it’s called the Cité de l’architecture et du patrimoine. You’re from Paris. Is that what it is called?’
I didn’t expect him to reply but, to my surprise, he did and spat, ‘Who cares!’
‘Oh, that’s right, your French accent was a con. You probably don’t know what it’s called anyway!’ I said with a taunting smile before continuing. ‘I hope to turn left at the gardens onto Avenue du Président-Wilson, heading up to the Pont de l’Alma bridge. I think that would be a lovely spot to cross the river.’
Maintaining my steady, composed voice, but now removing any air of sarcasm from it, I issued an ultimatum. ‘When we reach the gardens, I will give you the briefest of chances to escape. Don’t lose the photograph or the invitation.’
‘They will kill you,’ he said. ‘You’re a mad, raving old lady.’
That was the response I expected from my passenger to my generous offer of freedom.
‘You prefer to stay?’
‘No!’
The museum and the gardens were now rapidly approaching. I would need to slow and then dispose of my passenger, while avoiding my latest police pursuers. At the last moment, I chose the risky move of going the wrong way around the park. Watching me swing onto the wrong side of the road, the police yielded and did not follow. Seconds later, I came to an abrupt halt facing an oncoming bus, which luckily also stopped.
‘Get out,’ I commanded.
My guest, in his haste to escape, fell from the car and onto the road. He was still lying prostrate when I switched off the traction control and, with the door hanging half open, lit up the tyres, sliding sidewards around the bus and accelerating away, towards the bridge, in a plume of rubber-burning smoke. The door gently closed itself, unphased by my driving.
