A Vintage End

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  When he was done, Burke realized not one story had contained a quote from Yablonski, any family member or anyone in his organization other than a public relations spokesperson. He definitely didn’t want the spotlight, although his sponsorship of the vintage races had given him some publicity. Burke recalled Yablonski’s aggressive posture on the stage back in Saint-Raphaël and wondered how the tycoon would react if there was another incident on the following weekend. He expected it wouldn’t be a pleasant response.

  The other puzzle involved the connection between Yablonski and Oradour-sur-Glane. Burke couldn’t see anything linking the two.

  Then he checked social media for any new mentions of Yablonski. He saw several, but they were innocuous.

  Next, Burke tackled Oradour-sur-Glane. He knew the basics of that horrific event, but it was time for the details.

  He read how a high-ranking Waffen-SS officer was reported to have been captured by the Resistance back in June of 1944. The Vichy Regime brought the information to the notice of the occupying Germans. The Vichy French said the captured officer was being held in the village of Oradour-sur-Vayres.

  The captured officer was the commander of the 2nd SS Panzer Reconnaissance Battalion. His 200-strong battalion, looking for revenge, immediately went to Oradour-sur-Glane, having confused it with nearby Oradour-sur-Vayres. They ordered the townspeople and anyone else there into the village square. The village was then looted. Then, having separated the men from the women and children, the Germans began shooting the males of the community. One survivor said the Germans initially shot the French men in the legs so they would die slowly. Then the Germans, who had locked the women and children into a barn, set that building on fire. Anyone who got out was machine-gunned.

  When they were done, the Germans had killed 642 people.

  Then they had razed the village.

  As for justice, several trials of the German soldiers were held, starting in 1953 with the final one taking place in 1983. One trial resulted in 20 convictions. However, several of the convicted men argued they were from the Alsace region of France – which borders Germany – and had been forced into the German military. As a result, they were given amnesty which, in turn, prompted great anger in the Limousin area where the massacre had occurred. Another 45 German soldiers who were convicted served prison terms that ended five years later in 1958.

  The final trial in 1983 resulted in a German platoon leader being convicted in Berlin. He was given a life sentence. He was released in 1997.

  Burke shook his head. So few had been punished for so many murders.

  But what did Bosco Yablonski have to do with Oradour-sur-Glane? He still couldn’t see anything connecting the two.

  Burke kept reading and learned how, after the war, General Charles de Gaulle had ordered the village ruins to be untouched as a memorial. Another village by the same name was built nearby.

  Then he read a couple of stories about how French President François Hollande and German President Joachim Gauck had come together in September 2013 to commemorate the massacre almost 70 years after the tragedy. The event was part of a long-time Franco-German reconciliation.

  He read how, at the Oradour-sur-Glane memorial, Gauck had met with some witnesses and descendants of victims, saying he did so with a “mixture of gratitude and humility.”

  Then Burke recalled the evening news showing the two national leaders holding hands at the memorial and appearing sombre.

  He expected they had been sincere. Or he hoped they had been.

  Burke still had no idea why someone would link a Second World War massacre with a vintage bicycle race.

  Chapter 10

  The panel show that evening was going at its usual speedy clip – a new topic, some quick discussion, another subject – when the host, Jean-Marc Chouinard, moved onto the growing popularity of vintage bicycle races. He turned to Burke and asked if he expected an incident similar to the Saint-Raphaël event.

  Burke felt Chouinard’s eyes drilling into him and thought the host was looking for something different from the usual banter.

  “Hopefully, last week was just someone’s bad idea of a practical joke,” Burke said, going for a dull response.

  Chouinard wasn’t satisfied, saying: “Come on, Paul, I know you were in the race last week and I know you confronted the organizer, Bosco Yablonski. That tells me you believe it was more than a practical joke. Tell us what you think might happen this weekend.”

  Burke had never really liked Chouinard and this exchange wasn’t improving matters.

  “I can only guess there will be a stronger police presence than there was last week,” Burke suggested.

  “So you’ve talked to the police in Nice about this weekend,” Chouinard said.

  “I asked a question or two,” Burke said.

  “Do they anticipate a similar situation to what occurred with the two skeletons last week – with the target being Monsieur Yablonski?” Chouinard said.

  “They’re just being cautious,” Burke said, thinking he sounded a bit like a spokesperson for the Nice police. “Beyond that, they had nothing to offer.”

  “Well, I look forward to the race this weekend and, if anything happens, I’m looking for a full report from you, Paul,” Chouinard said.

  Burke barely managed a smile in return.

  A minute later, the show ended.

  As Burke removed his lapel microphone, Chouinard leaned toward him.

  “In all sincerity, Paul, keep an eye out next weekend,” the host said. “We could use a little something special on the next show. Understand?”

  Burke wasn’t sure if Chouinard was being encouraging or threatening. Either way, Burke wasn’t amused and he just nodded in response.

  On his way home after the show, Burke thought about Chouinard. The host truly wanted a second act to what had happened at the first vintage race. Burke suspected a lot of other people had found the skeleton scene mildly amusing and hoped for a repeat this coming weekend.

  As he pulled into the village parking lot, Burke decided he would ride the course for the upcoming race in the next day or two, and see if there were any spots for another skeleton-type scene. He expected the police and organizers had already checked out the route, but he wanted to see for himself.

  Back in his apartment, he drank a glass of water and thought about everything that had happened with the Saint-Raphaël race.

  When Hélène came home just after midnight, Burke saw she was exhausted.

  “It was a very, very busy night,” she said, flopping onto the couch.

  She looked at him.

  “Why are you up so late?” she asked. “You’re usually in bed by this time.”

  “Just thinking,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “Lots of things,” Burke said. He stood and held out his hands to her. “But now I’m just thinking I’d like to go to bed and hold you – nothing more.”

  Hélène smiled and took his hands, letting him pull her up.

  “Good, because I haven’t the energy for anything more,” she said.

  But it turned out she did. And Burke did, too.

  And when they were finished and Hélène was sleeping in his arms, Burke let his mind drift back to the route for the weekend race out of Nice.

  He knew there would be another incident. He’d wager half his life savings, which weren’t much, that there would be a follow-up to the skeleton scene.

  Someone wanted to damage Bosco Yablonski.

  Burke wondered why.

  Chapter 11

  The next day, Burke took out his road bicycle and cycled the route for Saturday’s race.

  The course wasn’t long, but it did have some climbs which would make it tough on many participants. A couple of the hills would probably force many riders to get off their machines and walk.

  As for hiding spots for anyone pulling a stunt like what had happened at the Saint-Raphaël race, Burke couldn’t identify any areas that would work
. There were just too many villages and towns along the way as well as farmhouses right by the roadside.

  Back home after his reconnaissance ride, Burke wondered if he was indeed wrong thinking the Nice event would be marred by something. Maybe the prank in the first vintage race would be the only one.

  But over the next few days, he could not shake off the notion that the upcoming race was going to have a problem with anti-Yablonski protestors.

  The morning of the big race was flawless: sunny, in the low 20s, no wind. The Mediterranean was a milky turquoise. Behind the city, the jagged mountains were sharply etched. The Riviera could not have looked better for the event.

  And a lot of people were out enjoying it, too, with several thousand strolling the Promenade des Anglais where the race would start and finish. The vendors’ displays were getting plenty of attention. So, too, was a playground for youngsters that had been erected near the finish line and was being used by dozens of children. Beside it was a small BMX course where teenagers and riders in their 20s were showing off their bike-handling skills to the pleasure of a few hundred onlookers.

  Having left their bikes locked inside a huge participants’ compound guarded by several security staff, Burke and André Rousseau joined the mass of people walking up and down. Although dressed in cycling apparel that was circa 1965, they were hardly out of place because hundreds of others, maybe even more, were dressed similarly. In some ways, they were conservatively attired since dozens of people had donned gear more appropriate to 1910 – goggles, cloth caps, bulky sweaters and shorts that extended below the knee.

  Burke smiled at the scene, thinking of his good fortune to live in this region of France.

  “I never get tired of La Prom,” he said, using the locals’ affectionate term for the famous walkway.

  “Same for me,” said Rousseau who had been born and brought up in Nice.

  “I just hope the day goes without incident,” Burke added.

  “Do you think it will?” Rousseau asked.

  Burke paused and shook his head. “No, I think something will happen. I believed it earlier this week and I’m more convinced now.”

  “Why are you more convinced now?” his friend asked.

  “Because the media spotlight on Yablonski has increased, for better or worse, as the days have gone on and I think whoever did that skeleton routine will want to see the spotlight increased even more,” Burke said. “There’s something serious behind what happened at last week’s event. That’s why I think we’ll see more of the same today.”

  “Do you still think it’s a small group behind it?” Rousseau said.

  “More than ever,” Burke said. “I’ve thought a lot about what happened last weekend and I still think we’re talking about four individuals. For example, a lot of planning had to be done before last week’s race, and it had to involve more than a single individual. Think about the two skeletons which looked like they had been dug up recently. One person might have been about to dig up one body without being noticed, but two? Not likely. So, again, we have to talk about at least two people.”

  “I’ll accept that,” Rousseau said.

  “And then there’s the matter of moving the skeletons onto the roadside and setting them up in special poses,” Burke said. “One person could do it but would need a few minutes of undisturbed time. Since it was along the race route, that road would be getting vehicles coming fairly soon. The chances of one person getting seen or caught would have been very high. So at least two people set up the scene with two others keeping a lookout, one in each direction. That way, the chances of getting caught would be significantly lowered.”

  “Maybe,” said Rousseau.

  “These actions we’re talking about show a lot of skills, too many for a single person,” Burke said. “Consider those two skeletons. I don’t think you can just go into some graveyard and dig up bodies. Someone had to figure out where it could be done with the least chance of discovery. So, they needed someone who could do some research and was cunning. Then you have those German uniforms. Someone had to get them without acting suspicious because you can bet that Yablonski has people looking into the matter. Then someone had some idea about how to work a story for the mainstream media and to work with social media. Finally, you have someone who’s good enough with computers to hack into two different websites without getting caught.”

  “That’s a lot of skills involved,” Rousseau agreed.

  “If I was to bet, I’d wager that behind last week’s mess was a small, well-educated group in their 20s. And since they’re working together and need some space to haul stuff, they probably travel together in a van. Finally, since they needed time to plot the Saint-Raphaël stunt and then to carry it out, they’re either unemployed or students or people with flexible jobs – or maybe on vacation time.”

  “You’ve given this a great deal of thought, Paul,” said Rousseau, smiling at his friend.

  “Some but I expect my conclusions are pretty much what the police have figured out, too,” Burke said.

  “I wonder if Yablonski and his people have the same ideas,” Rousseau said.

  “It wouldn’t be surprising if they do,” Burke said. “I have the sense Bosco Yablonski doesn’t like to look foolish.”

  “On the other hand, maybe it’s just a one-time prank,” Rousseau suggested.

  “It could be, but I don’t think so,” Burke said. “There’s too much time and planning involved by whoever did it. Besides, there’s something darker and deeper behind it. That reference to the Second World War suggests a past incident that someone wants dug up.”

  Rousseau stared at his friend.

  “You know, a year ago you wouldn’t have been talking about any of this stuff,” Rousseau said. “You would have been mainly interested in getting your next pastis.”

  Burke smiled at Rousseau. It was true. A year before, he was just trying to do as little as possible.

  “A lot has happened,” Burke admitted. “And you’re right. I’m not the same man.”

  “I expect you’re still evolving, too,” Rousseau said.

  Burke laughed at the remark.

  “We’ll see,” he said.

  They turned back toward the tent with their bikes. The start was approaching quickly.

  “Let’s see what the day brings,” Rousseau said.

  “I hope it’ll be a quiet one,” Burke replied.

  But he suspected it wouldn’t be. And if it wasn’t, he wondered if he’d somehow get involved. He smiled at that notion. Maybe more excitement was coming his way.

  Chapter 12

  Burke and Rousseau were struggling up the hill toward Èze Village when they saw small pieces of paper being blown around on the road ahead of them.

  As they got closer, Burke thought the paper looked like currency.

  It was almost like it was raining money.

  Then he noticed some riders ahead were stopping and grabbing at the bills being blown around. The few dozen spectators in the area were also similarly occupied.

  Had Yablonski’s people come up with some stunt to give themselves some positive PR?

  Burke couldn’t believe it.

  He stopped his bike and reached down for one of the bills. It looked like money from a distance although not like any euro domination.

  Then he saw what it was.

  A German reichsmark – a 100 – that obviously dated back to Hitler’s day because of the swastika underprint in the middle of the note. The special feature was a circled portrait of Bosco Yablonski, added to the front left side of the bill, with his name underneath and, around his profile in very small type, the words: Courtesy of Yablonski Printing Inc.

  “What the hell?” Rousseau said, examining another bill which was precisely the same as Burke’s.

  “You said it,” Burke replied.

  The currency was obviously fake; the paper had the same feel and look as if it had been printed using a computer and standard bond paper.

 
; Burke looked around. No one was riding. All the cyclists and the spectators were grabbing the fake money. People were comparing what they held and virtually everyone was looking puzzled.

  “Now we know what the day is bringing,” Rousseau said.

  Burke took out his smartphone and snapped a couple of photos. Maybe he’d send them to Lemaire later.

  Then, with nods of agreement, he and Rousseau started riding again, a handful of Yablonski bills stuffed into the back of their cycling jerseys.

  As they went slowly through Èze and by dozens of spectators, Burke could hear all kinds of jokes being made at Yablonski’s expense.

  After Èze, they cycled over the spectacular viaduct and then got ready for the descent going toward Nice. This promised to be the easiest part of the day’s ride and maybe the most scenic since the road offered panoramic views of the coastline far below.

  They had gone about a kilometre when a few riders before them started swerving all over the road. A couple went right off and onto the dirt shoulder and then fell, wiping out several spectators.

  A moment later Burke heard a pop from his front wheel and instantly knew he had a flat tire.

  Going 15 km-h on a flat, straight road and then getting a puncture wouldn’t normally be a problem for anyone. Riding downhill on a curve at almost 40 km-h and getting a blow-out was another matter.

  Always a good bike handler, Burke gripped his brake levers and kept his bike fairly straight as the front wheel threatened to skid out of control.

  He felt a bump behind him and an instant later he was going onto the dirt and out of control.

  He had a flashback to the last time he had gone off the road and had almost died.

  Spectators scattered before him.

  Thankful that the road was closed to non-cycling traffic, Burke bumped along the rough ground, feathered the brakes and took aim at a small, thick bush. When he ran into it, he was ready to be tossed over the handlebars, but that didn’t happen. Instead, he stayed aboard, somewhat like a cowboy on a bucking horse.

  He didn’t fall and he wasn’t hurt.