Silenced in Spain

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “It was fine,” Burke said. “Nothing to worry about. They’re done with me, too.”

  “And you’re done with them, right?”

  Burke recognized she knew about his tendency to get involved in investigations. “I’m only interested in covering the Vuelta,” he said.

  Godard looked at him for a few moments and then nodded. “OK, now come with me and let’s go over what happened today and what will occur tomorrow.”

  She led him to the same room where they’d met before. This time, though, it was just the two of them. Not even Monique Chan was around which surprised Burke. The young intern was usually never farther than Godard’s shadow.

  As usual, Godard wasted no time in pleasantries, getting right to her analysis of Burke’s performance. She said he’d done a good job in providing an insider’s viewpoint, but that he occasionally drifted and needed to be prodded by Menard to stay focused. Burke couldn’t disagree.

  “If you can avoid those small mental lapses, you’ll be doing exactly what you need to do,” she said.

  Burke said he’d try.

  “Don’t try, Paul, just do,” she said.

  Burke nodded.

  Then she discussed how everyone would be getting to Tarragona. In Burke’s case, he’d have to check out by 6 p.m. which was an hour away. A van would collect him and Menard, and deliver them to their hotel. The trip would take 90 minutes at most.

  “There’s another soirée in Tarragona tonight for our sponsors and we want you there,” she said. “It’ll be the same deal as what you did at the castle here in Peῆíscola. So, check into your hotel, clean up and get to the event. It starts at 8:30.”

  “I was hoping to review the route this evening,” Burke said.

  “Get up early and do it tomorrow morning. Tonight, your presence is required at the function. Here are the details.”

  She handed him a single page of paper. It provided where the soirée would be – the Roman Amphitheatre which was a stone’s throw from the sea. Burke had visited it several years before and been impressed by its scale and how well-preserved it was. Whoever was organizing the evening events for the Vuelta sponsors was using some spectacular venues.

  “Your hotel is only a half kilometre away,” Godard said. “So, you can walk to the event. And don’t forget to wear your nametag on the right side.”

  “Should I wear a toga?” Burke said, trying to add some humour to the conversation.

  “Ah, yes, the famous Paul Burke humour,” Godard said. “I’ve heard you occasionally try it on for size. Just don’t use it tonight, OK?”

  Burke nodded. “I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

  Godard finished by saying there would be a broadcast briefing the next morning at 9 at the hotel restaurant.

  “Otherwise, I’ll see you tonight at the event,” Godard said. “And don’t be late. People will want to talk to you.”

  Burke had doubts about that. “Will there be anyone there who was at our evening party here in Peῆíscola?” he wondered.

  “Actually, I expect maybe a third of the Peῆíscola crowd will be in Tarragona. Quite a few are following several stages of the Vuelta. Having our events in such places as the Templar Castle and the Roman Amphitheatre is quite an attraction for them.”

  “And what’s the plan for Girona?” asked Burke, wondering if there would be another big event on his final night with the Vuelta. He was worried if he’d have enough clean clothes for his extended stay in Spain.

  “For Girona, we’re having another get-together by City Hall in the Old Town and not far from where they did some filming of the Game of Thrones.”

  Burke had never watched the TV series, but thought he’d give it a try. He expected the guests at the Girona event would be pleased by the venue.

  “That should be popular,” he said.

  “That’s the idea,” Godard said. Having crossed off another task on her to-do list, she stood. “We’re done. Get yourself checked out and I’ll see you in Tarragona at tonight’s sponsors’ party.”

  “Are you staying at the same hotel?”

  “We all are. And, by the way, it has a laundry service in case you need to use it.”

  And then Godard marched out. For her, Peῆíscola was in the past and he sensed so was Colin Bothwick.

  But he wouldn’t be forgetting Bothwick. Not for a long time.

  Chapter 13

  The black Mercedes SUV picked up Burke sharp at 6 p.m. The driver, a husky, no-nonsense type, lifted Burke’s luggage into the back like it was a feather and placed Burke’s bicycle alongside it. The driver then ushered Burke into the back seat where he saw Nico Menard sitting and smiling.

  The driver sliced through the traffic and they were quickly on the N-340. Burke would have preferred the secondary road that hugged the coast, but that way would take too long, probably double the time. It was a shame, though. The coast from Peῆíscola to Tarragona was stunning with long sandy beaches, spectacular cliffs, appealing towns and a national marshlands park that was home to hundreds of species of birds.

  The traffic on the highway seemed busier than usual, especially with trucks, many of them with Vuelta-related signage. Burke figured as many as 500 vehicles were part of the Vuelta daily parade. Many brought barriers and banners for setting up the next day’s stage while others transported team equipment and TV-related gear. It was like a small army on the move and it would take hours to get everything from one community to the next. Burke expected many of the 2,500 workers involved didn’t get much sleep for the Vuelta’s three-week period.

  “Do you have to be at the soirée tonight, Nico?” Burke asked as the SUV sped by the picturesque town of Vinaròs.

  “Suzanne has commanded me to be there,” Menard said. “And she must be obeyed. But to be fair, Paul, I don’t mind. I get to meet some interesting people and to have some fine food in a wonderful setting. So, no complaints from me.”

  Burke thought he’d try to adopt Menard’s positive attitude for the event.

  “Look, Alcanar,” Menard said, pointing at a sign indicating a small community to the right.

  Burke knew about Alcanar as did most Spaniards and many others. It was where in 2017 terrorists had blown themselves up with a homemade bomb. It was part of a joint terrorist attack that included a van killing 13 and injuring 100 along the famed La Rambla in Barcelona.

  They watched as the innocuous community disappeared from view. They shared a look but said nothing. What could words do? Terrorism was part of the modern world. And terrorist attacks were becoming more commonplace, Burke thought. The world was changing quickly and not for the better.

  Fifteen minutes later, Menard nudged Burke with an elbow and pointed out his right-side window. “That’s the Ebro River Delta,” he said. “Last year, my wife and I spent a week there in spring. She’s an avid bird watcher and she had been pestering me for years to have a vacation there. So, I finally relented and now I’m a keen birder like she is. Life is full of surprises.”

  The Delta was flat, but there was still enough light that Burke could see massive rice fields and canals cutting through the land. He made a mental note that the area might be worth a trip at a later date.

  A half hour later, the SUV drove by the tourist town of Cambrils. It was a pretty, sleepy community with beautiful beaches and well-maintained houses and apartment buildings. It was a popular spot for Spanish vacationers.

  “It’s still hard to believe what happened here,” Menard said.

  Burke nodded.

  During the same joint terrorist attack in 2017, there had been a seaside shootout in the town. Five terrorists died. And the world suddenly heard about Cambrils.

  “My family comes from here,” said the driver who had been quiet up to that moment.

  “Cambrils?” Burke said.

  “Yes. My grandfather fished out of here and my parents still run a small café at the west end of town,” the driver said in heavi
ly accented French. “I left when I was 18, but I come back for visits.”

  “It was terrible what happened,” Menard said.

  “The people here still wonder if it will happen again,” the driver said. “I can’t blame them for thinking that way.”

  And then the inside of the SUV became silent.

  A few minutes later, after turning off by a massive petrochemical plant, they pulled up outside a four-star hotel overlooking a long sandy beach and the Roman ruins of Tarragona. As he was getting out of the van, Burke saw two porters hurrying to meet them.

  The porters carried the luggage and Burke’s bike inside.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Burke said, reaching inside for his wallet, intending to tip the driver.

  “There is no need for that, Monsieur,” the driver said, smiling for the first time. “But thank you anyway.”

  “Do you stay the night here?” Burke asked.

  “No, I’ll drive back to Cambrils and stay with my parents. But I’ll be back tomorrow to take you both to Girona.”

  “In that case, what’s your name?”

  “I’m Felipe Garrido.”

  Burke reached out to shake hands. The driver hesitated a moment, looking surprised by Burke’s gesture, and then gripped the outstretched hand. Then Menard stuck out his hand and they shook.

  “A pleasure, Felipe,” Burke said in Spanish. “I hope you enjoy your visit with your parents. And thanks for driving us.”

  “It was my pleasure, Seῆor.”

  “Please call me Paul. And this is Nico.”

  The driver hesitated once more and then nodded, saying “Paul, Nico.”

  He left a moment later and Burke and Menard went inside the hotel which was busy with scores of people either checking in or moving their luggage to their rooms. Burke expected a lot of Vuelta people were staying here. It was definitely an international crowd with at least a dozen languages being spoken.

  A hotel clerk came over and told Burke and Menard she’d look after them. It seemed she was tasked with handling the French TV crew members and had been anticipating their arrival. Five minutes later, they were checked in. The clerk also arranged for Burke’s bike to be placed into a secure locker.

  “Want to walk together to the soirée, Paul?” Menard said. He looked at his watch. “It doesn’t begin for another 45 minutes or so.”

  “That sounds like a good idea, Nico. Let’s meet here in half an hour.”

  Menard agreed.

  They went to the nearest elevator, took it to the fourth floor and went to their separate rooms.

  Burke’s room in Peῆíscola had been better than nice. But his Tarragona room was several notches better with a kitchenette, a sitting area, a king-sized bed and a balcony view of the sea and coast that was nothing less than spectacular. Burke pulled out his smartphone, and took some photos and video. He doubted he’d ever stay in a better hotel and wished he could share it with Hélène.

  After quickly unpacking, Burke showered and dressed in beige linen trousers and a navy blue, short-sleeved shirt. He doubted he’d get cold even though the amphitheatre was by the sea. The forecast was for a low temperature that night of 24 Celcius.

  He was down in the hotel lobby a few minutes early. The place was still busy, maybe even busier. A number of people, however, weren’t checking in but seemed to be waiting for taxis. He wondered if he’d be seeing many of them at the Vuelta party at the Roman Amphitheatre.

  “Monsieur Burke, it’s nice to see you again.”

  Burke turned and saw José López standing beside him, looking as regal as he had at the Templar Castle in Peῆíscola. They shook hands with López adding the slightest of bows.

  “Are you attending the evening celebration tonight at the ruins?” the older man asked.

  “Yes. I’m just waiting for my colleague and then we’re walking there.”

  “Would you mind if I join you?”

  “I’m sure that would be fine.”

  Menard appeared a few moments later and agreed to López accompanying them for the trip to the ruins.

  “Then let’s set out, gentlemen,” López said in French, motioning for either Burke or Menard to lead. “And if it is acceptable to you both, I’d like our conversation to be in French. It’s good practice for me.”

  Menard, whose grasp of Spanish was shaky, agreed and thanked the Spaniard. Burke said he was fine to stay with French.

  Menard led them outside and onto the promenade which was already busy with walkers, some apparently going toward the ruins, but most just enjoying a pleasant Spanish evening. A gentle breeze cooled everyone, but not enough to prompt them to put on jackets or sweaters. And although it was getting into twilight, there were still people on the beach and a few even in the water, enjoying the final vestiges of a perfect end-of-summer day.

  “I listened to some of your broadcast on my phone,” López said. “You were both superb although I must admit there were occasionally some words I didn’t quite catch.”

  “Where did you watch the race from?” Burke asked.

  “I was with some of the other regional sponsors in a hotel suite. We had a wonderful view of the final half kilometre. Very exciting indeed. It was also extremely well catered.”

  “Well, we’re just lowly members of the media and so we have to get by on scraps,” Menard said with a grin. “Our lot is a poor one although maybe not tonight.”

  “But, Monsieur Menard, you’ve been in the media for so long.”

  “I do it for the fame, not the fortune.”

  And they all laughed at that although Burke figured Nico Menard earned a substantial salary and got plenty of perks.

  When they reached the entrance to the Roman Amphitheatre, they were greeted by a towering young man dressed elegantly in a black tuxedo. He checked their identities against a list on his mini-tablet, handed them cards with their seat numbers at designated tables and then, with a winning smile, waved them toward the ruins.

  Burke went under a stone passageway and into the amphitheatre. He took a couple of steps and stopped, stunned by what he saw. He could feel Menard react the same beside him.

  Burke had been impressed by the layout inside the Templar Castle back in Peῆíscola, but this event was on an entirely different scale. There were tables with cava and tapas, but the difference was each table had a massive ice sculpture of some Roman figure on it. Burke was amazed the organizers would not only consider adding such a touch, but make it happen in such heat. Then there were the dining tables which were decorated with shiny baby-blue tablecloths, a bizarre touch until Burke noticed how the table clothes seemed to be reflecting the stars above. It was astonishing. As for the stage, it had the standard musical instruments but the difference was it wasn’t new, but almost 2,000 years old and in prime condition. Finally, three dozen colourful banners strategically placed around the amphitheatre fluttered in the breeze. Burke thought everything was over the top, but somehow it all worked.

  “I’ve been to a lot of special events, but this is incredible,” Menard said, gawking at the setting.

  López looked at his companions and said, “Some of my fellow sponsors from Tarragona were telling me they had something special planned. Now I understand.”

  Burke estimated there were 250 people milling about, cava glasses in hand, everyone in a good mood. They didn’t have to go far to eat something because at least 20 servers dressed in black tuxes and black dresses strolled around, ready to offer guests a variety of tapas.

  “Seῆor?” Burke heard someone ask him.

  He turned and saw a tall, dark-haired woman holding out a tray of flutes filled with cava. He wasn’t a big cava drinker, but occasionally he’d indulge. This seemed a good time and he took a flute, thanking her. Menard and López did the same, watching her glide away.

  “The organizers certainly have a lot of money to spread around,” Burke said.

  He had never seen anything like thi
s at the Tour de France although, as a racer, he hadn’t been invited to anything that didn’t involve the actual competition.

  “They’re not doing this at every stage though, Paul,” Menard said. “Some of the initial stages were pretty basic, just racing and moving onto the next stage. It’s only when we hit the coast that we started to get these types of soirées. Peῆíscola was actually the first big-time show.”

  “That’s because the real money showed up at Peῆíscola,” said López. “When we get to Girona, you’ll see an even bigger show.”

  “And when the race finishes in Madrid?” Burke said.

  “It’ll make what we see here seem like a distant memory.”

  “Why’s that?”

  López crooked an eyebrow. “All this is a little bit about racing, but a lot about wheeling and dealing.”

  Burke wanted to know if López was making any deals, but he didn’t ask.

  “I can see, Paul, that you’re wondering if I am involved in some of that ‘wheeling and dealing,’” López said. “Well, the answer is I’m meeting all kinds of people who might be useful to my interests, but I’m really here because I’ve had a lifelong love affair with cycling.”

  Burke nodded. They chatted a few more minutes and then separated, going in different directions to mingle. Burke felt slightly more at ease than in Peῆíscola. Maybe he’d be completely relaxed by the time they reached Girona.

  For the next hour, he talked with area politicians, business people and even a famous pop singer. The conversations invariably started with what they thought about the race and then expanded onto other interests. Most of the people Burke encountered were masters of small talk. For him, it was an effort requiring concentration. But, gradually, he was getting better at it. To his surprise, almost everyone wanted to know who he thought would win the overall race and what the biggest surprises were so far in the Vuelta.

  After leaving one group, Burke strolled about, enjoying the atmosphere, the sense of bonhomie, of good times ahead.

  “You look like a man enjoying the evening, Monsieur Burke,” came a voice that was slightly familiar.