Chef Andres was sentenced to three years for his activities. Burke thought he got off lightly and must have given up others to get a better deal. But the story didn’t suggest that.
Two of Calderόn’s thugs were given 10 years for manslaughter for what happened to Bothwick. The chef’s two other thugs each got six for attempted murder. No name was given for the intended victim, but Burke was sure he was the one.
As for Inspector Alejandro Chávez, he got three years for helping smugglers bring in their boatloads of illegal goods. There was no mention of his shooting at Burke.
Several other persons were given sentences of two to four years for their involvement. Burke didn’t know any of the names.
Even with plea bargains, Burke had expected stiffer sentences.
He wondered about Wendy Klassen. And started digging.
He got nowhere.
A week later, he got a text from Mateo Ochoa with a link to a story that Burke should check out. The article was from an American newspaper and said Wendy Klassen, wife of publishing giant Tim Fritz, had pled guilty to tax evasion. The court heard that she had been the victim of an unscrupulous financial advisor who wasn’t named.
Her sentence was 10 months of house arrest. A mitigating factor in her sentencing was a number of her businesses had gone bankrupt as part of the advisor’s scheming. In short, she’d lost a ton of money and wouldn’t be getting it back.
Burke doubted there’d been an unscrupulous financial advisor. The more he considered it, the more he believed the FBI, working with Interpol, had made her a deal: Give us the other big names, have most of your assets taken over and you’ll get a sentence that won’t put you behind bars until you’re an old woman. Fight us on any of that and you’ll be ancient before you’re free again.
That was enough for Burke. He shut off his computer and went to the kitchen and pulled a 1664 Blanc beer from the fridge. He opened it, poured it into a tall glass and went into the living room, sitting on the couch.
He took a sip. The citrusy, unfiltered beer was marvelous. He took a second sip. Even better.
Then he thought how Wendy Klassen, Alejandro Chávez, Chef Andres and his thugs had escaped the kind of sentences Burke believed they deserved. Once cornered, they’d turned on each other but mostly on others and it had produced benefits for them.
Would the international investigation into food fraud put an end to that criminal activity? Burke doubted it. There was too much money to be made. Someone would always be ready to take the risk, regardless of police efforts. And so it would go on and on.
But Colin Bothwick and José López wouldn’t be around to see it.
They’d paid the ultimate price.
Burke held up his glass and said, “Here’s to you, Colin, and you, Seῇor López” and took a long pull on his beer.
Author’s note:
Food fraud around the world is a massive issue with some reputable estimates saying it represents a cost of $13 billion to $18 billion (Cdn) a year. The fraud involves misrepresentation, substitution and dilution of food products.
Why? Since the global marketplace has expanded over the years and as people’s interest in trying different foods grows, the chance to make a great deal of money by illegal means has become attractive to many individuals and groups.
Not surprisingly, law-enforcement agencies and governments are responding, but it’s going to be a long, complicated fight. The criminal organizations are employing sophisticated systems to elude police.
This novel mentions terrorist attacks in 2017 in Cambrils and Barcelona. They did take place. Thirteen people were killed along Barcelona’s famed La Rambla (Las Ramblas to the locals) boulevard by a terrorist driving a van while five terrorists died in a gunfight with police in the seaside town of Cambrils. (The terrorists were killed within steps of my local bakery when I stayed in Cambrils.) Two more terrorists died in the village of Alcanar when the bomb they were making exploded.
As for the political unrest in Catalonia over independence, it’s been going on for many years, usually without violence but occasionally with clashes between opposing sides and involving the police. At the time of writing, the violence has diminished and one can only hope it stays that way as both sides work on a peaceful solution.
One of the communities featured in Silenced in Spain is Girona. It’s one of Europe’s most beautiful small cities with a lovely natural setting, an elegant city park and stunning structures on both sides of the river that divides the community. It’s also exceptionally popular with cyclists, both professionals and amateurs, because of the different terrain that’s within easy pedaling distance. However, if you’re a walker, you’ll find Girona equally appealing; its Old Town is one of Europe’s finest.
That brings me to the Vuelta a Espaῇa. It’s one of the three largest cycling races in the world, the others being the Tour de France and the Giro d’Italia, and lasts three weeks with the racers covering a total distance of about 3,500 kilometres. The Vuelta lacks the international appeal of the Tour and the Giro, but it’s equally as difficult and attracts the best cyclists in the world. If you get a chance to watch a stage in person, take the opportunity. You won’t forget the experience.
Look for the sixth
Paul Burke mystery:
The small, white car darted in front of Paul Burke and sped out of the roundabout. If Burke hadn’t been sweating enough before, he was drenched after the near-miss.
He walked quickly to the far curb and stopped for a moment to slow his heartbeat. The people of Guadeloupe were generally polite, generous, funny and kind, but behind the wheel they drove like they were candidates for a Grand Prix race. This last motorist was a prime example.
Burke set off again. He had only another block to reach the parking lot where all the TV trucks would be and where he’d be providing colour commentary for the third stage of the eight-stage Tour de Guadeloupe bike race.
It was a good gig and one he’d never expected. Three months before while relaxing at home along the French Riviera, he’d gotten a phone call from one of the Tour of Guadeloupe’s main organizers asking if he could work as a “special guest commentator” for the upcoming race, all expenses covered with a nice wage on the side.
When Burke had questioned why he was getting the offer, the organizer had said the people of Guadeloupe, which was part of France despite being in the Caribbean, were cycling enthusiasts who knew his name from not just his racing days, but his blog. They also knew he’d been involved in several murder investigations connected to different bike races, including the world’s most famous one, the Tour de France. He had name recognition and that would be good for the broadcast.
Since he hadn’t anything on his schedule, Burke had accepted, especially since he could blog from the island.
The only aspect of the trip that had concerned him was he’d be in Guadeloupe during the height of the Caribbean hurricane season. He’d endured one hurricane years before in Mexico and never wanted to re-live the experience. But the organizer had assured him that Guadeloupe, for some strange reason, was rarely hit as hard by hurricanes as other nearby islands.
Now, as he walked toward the parking area in the southeast town of Saint-François, he thought about the morning’s weather report which had predicted an approaching tropical storm might morph into a hurricane – and possibly within 48 hours. But when he looked around at the shops and houses in this part of Saint-François, he saw no one displaying any urgency. They were just going about their daily routine in this pleasant, quiet coastal community of 12,000.
Or maybe, Burke thought, they hadn’t heard the weather report.
Burke followed the sidewalk which passed by the far end of Saint-François’ golf course, the only one on Guadeloupe. He noticed a handful of golfers strolling down a fairway, looking like they didn’t have a care in the world beyond their upcoming approach shots. Maybe he really was worrying about nothing.
When he rea
ched the parking lot, Burke stopped and ran a handkerchief over his forehead. He had been in warm places before, but this was a whole new level of heat and humidity. He doubted if he could sweat any more profusely.
“Good morning, Paul.”
Burke turned to see Freddy Napoule, the race organizer, heading his way, his usual grin firmly in place. For someone who had countless tasks to handle on a daily basis, the 50-something Napoule remained calm throughout every task and every problem. Burke liked his company and admired his expertise. The Tour de Guadeloupe was a model of efficiency, largely due to the man before him.
They shook hands and Burke was about to ask Napoule about the weather report when Napoule’s administrative assistant Jean Dupuis trotted over.
“Freddy, something’s happened,” Dupuis said, looking worried.
Napoule’s smile weakened a bit. “Tell me, Jean.”
“Two of the racers on the Venezuelan team are missing. They went out for a warm-up ride this morning and haven’t been seen since.”
“Maybe they took a wrong turn and got lost. I’m sure they’ll be here in time.”
Dupuis nodded. “I hope so and so does their team manager. He’s getting a little anxious.”
Burke spotted a tall, broad-shouldered woman in her 30s wearing beige slacks and a blue polo top with an insignia of some kind approaching.
“Freddy, I have some news for you,” the woman said, stopping a metre from the small group.
The insignia on her shirt said S.W. Security over crossed swords. Above was a nametag: Elodie Morel.
“What now?” said the race organizer.
“It’s something we should discuss in private,” she said.
Napoule gestured toward his assistant. “Jean has already told me about the missing Venezuelan racers.”
“Well, Freddy, they’re not missing anymore,” Morel said.
“OK, where are they?”
Morel glanced at Burke and Dupuis, and then shrugged. She looked back at Napoule. “They’re dead.”
“What? They were only out on a warm-up ride.”
“They were found in a mass of seaweed in a bay three kilometres from here. They were definitely dead. And they were definitely the Venezuelans.”
“Damn!’ Napoule said.
About the author:
Photo by Lynda Kavanagh
D’Arcy Kavanagh, shown above along the shoreline of Peῇíscola in Spain, is a former journalist and journalism instructor who has spent decades touring Europe, mostly by bicycle, and writing about his travels for magazines and newspapers. Silenced in Spain is his fifth novel featuring ex-pro cyclist and blogger/columnist Paul Burke. He is busy working on Burke’s sixth mystery, Torment in the Tropics.
Silenced in Spain Page 28
