A Vintage End

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  Burke read on.

  “It might be difficult to contact at least one of them by anything but email since he’s Canadian like you and might be back home,” the dean wrote.

  “Tabernac,” Burke said to himself.

  “The other two are from France, one of them from the Alsace region, so they might be open to other methods of contact beyond email,” the dean wrote.

  “Tabernac,” Burke repeated.

  He punched in a response thanking the dean and asking if the Canadian in question was Christophe Talbot. He suggested he knew Talbot.

  “Tabernac,” he said a final time.

  He saw he had another email. It was from Antoine Pastore.

  His tech friend had sent it in the early hours of the morning. In it, he said he had identified more Bosco Yablonski holdings. Besides the ones they already knew about, Yablonski was either full owner or a major shareholder in companies dealing with the production of asphalt, the making of industrial carbon drill bits, food services, catering and specialized overseas delivery services.

  “There are probably more, but that’s all I could find in the time I had,” Antoine wrote. “I’ll look again when I get the chance.”

  It was a wide-ranging business empire, Burke thought.

  “I also looked into the market value of his companies and, as far as I can see, he’s losing money,” Antoine said. “When I did some comparisons, I saw his companies started to lose share value right after the first vintage bicycle race. His shares took another tumble after the Nice race and they dropped again after what happened in Arles. I can’t say how much he’s lost, but it would be safe to say he’s dropped a few million euros in value.”

  Burke thought people might be supporting Yablonski in person at the races, but others weren’t being so generous and were showing their concerns by dumping Yablonski stocks.

  Antoine finished with: “Yablonski is being hurt much more than we thought by these allegations, Paul. Whoever is after him is doing some serious damage.”

  A sleepy-looking André Rousseau shuffled into the room.

  “Did you get any responses from your emails last night?” Rousseau mumbled.

  “Funny you should ask,” Burke said. “Grab a coffee and I’ll tell you.”

  Rousseau got his coffee and Burke told him about the national TV show and then the emails. As he related the information to Rousseau, Burke noticed his story was doing a better job of perking up his friend than the coffee.

  “Today promises to be interesting,” Rousseau said. “I’m glad I’m here.”

  “I hope you can still say that at the end of the day,” Burke said.

  Chapter 57

  The weather, as predicted, was mild, windless and cloudless. Perfect conditions yet again for a vintage race.

  The crowd downtown was enormous. It was like everyone in Vaison and all their out-of-town friends had shown up. The starting area was surrounded by spectators, probably 100 deep, which made moving about almost impossible.

  If ever there was a “sea of humanity”, Burke thought this was it.

  Tiny little Vaison had tripled overnight.

  Burke and Rousseau found a spot on the stairs of the Tourist Information Office where they could watch the action without being run over. Leaning their old bikes against a concrete wall a metre away, they sat.

  While Rousseau relaxed, Burke pulled out his smartphone and took some photos and videos which he fired off to both Lemaire and Antoine back in Antibes.

  Then Burke joined Rousseau in studying the scene before them.

  Riders, many dressed in old-time garb, were beginning to ease their way toward the starter’s area, while spectators visited, snapped photos and cheered the cyclists.

  Behind the starter’s area, the stage was busy with several workers doublechecking the sound equipment for the band that was going to play after the race. The master of ceremonies from the other races was also there, going over some clipboard notes with a couple of others.

  Burke didn’t see Bosco Yablonski anywhere.

  But Burke couldn’t miss the police presence in the area and especially close to the stage. There had to be a dozen uniformed officers within 25 metres of the stage and every single flic seemed on high alert as if expecting something to happen.

  “If someone is going to try something, he has to be nuts,” Rousseau said. “Every flic in the northern part of Provence must be here.”

  Burke spotted Julien Sauvageot and Sylvie Côté climbing side by side up to the stage, both talking on cellphones. They went to a back corner and, still on their phones, began scanning the crowd.

  Burke glanced around, but didn’t see Favreau and Bonnier. He expected Favreau would be on the streets or in some police vehicle, co-ordinating a possible response to anything bad that might occur. As for Bonnier, he was probably looking for the nearest TV camera.

  Burke also spotted two dozen security staff, most of them near the various tents and especially the large one.

  Were there any videocams set up to record the scene?

  Burke looked around once more, but couldn’t see any stationary ones that had appeared overnight. He did see three TV crews from different stations. One crew had its gear mounted on top of a van while another crew had erected a portable stand to handle the camera and a reporter. The third crew were stationed right in front of the stage with one staffer roping off the small space from nosy spectators.

  With a few minutes left the race start, Burke texted Hélène saying how much he missed her and how popular the Vaison event was. He got a response almost immediately from Hélène saying she missed him and relating how she had put Uncle Claude to work in the café kitchen at his request.

  Burke saw he had another text.

  It was from Antoine who said there was a new social media post threatening participants in the Vaison-la-Romaine race. As before, Antoine had snapped a screenshot of it and attached it for Burke.

  It read: “The countdown is beginning. Stay safe. Boycott Yablonski’s race.”

  Burke logged onto a couple of social media sites, but didn’t see the post. It had probably been brought down. But he did see a few other follow-up posts which either ridiculed the person making the threat or said they were looking forward to whatever might happen. Burke shook his head at the people who were anticipating some excitement; they might get more than they bargained for.

  He showed Rousseau the text from Antoine and mentioned the posts he had just read.

  “Social media can bring out the weirdos,” Rousseau said.

  A few minutes later, the MC took to the mic and told the crowd the race would commence in 15 minutes, adding that all participating cyclists needed to get into line by the starter’s point.

  Burke and Rousseau grabbed their bikes, and joined the slow-moving mass of riders, managing to get into the first 100. Glancing back, Burke saw riders positioned 10 abreast and as far back as an entire street.

  He and Rousseau checked their neighbours to see if anyone was wearing No. 22, but had no luck. Maybe they would spot the rider once the race began. If that happened, Burke would try to start a conversation.

  The MC continued with various announcements, telling people about the post-race beer gardens, the vendors’ tents and the on-stage band that would be playing. He urged everyone to have a grand time, but to be respectful.

  Then he introduced the mayor who came out beaming like he had won the lottery. And maybe he and his community had, Burke thought. A lot of people had shown up for the race and a lot of money was being spent.

  The mayor thanked just about everyone he had ever met, doing so at breakneck speed, before turning the mic back to the MC who announced that the major sponsor for the series of four vintage races had some words to say.

  Bosco Yablonski walked up the stairs onto the stage and over to the MC. He waved to the crowd which responded with hearty applause.

  “He’s got courage,” Burke heard one rider say.

  “He’s probably g
ot an entire army of security nearby,” another cyclist said.

  Burke saw his favourite muscleman at the back of the stage. The familiar lanky figure of Josette Martel, Yablonski’s special projects expert, was there, too, her face pinched with concentration even from a distance. There were two others in their group, both sporting dark suits, no ties and the kind of fitness that doesn’t come from working in an office.

  Yablonski stuck to his usual script, thanking the crowd, the riders and the community. He praised the other sponsors and the race organizers.

  “I also want to stand here and say I will not be going anywhere,” he said in a clear reference to the protests against him. “I am proud to be French and proud to be here on this special day, the final of our four vintage bike races. Let the racing begin!”

  The applause was even greater and Burke could see dozens of spectators taking photos or videos of the scene.

  The MC assumed control of the mic.

  “Riders, please mount your bikes,” he said in a booming voice.

  Normally, that would be an easy task, but Burke found it tricky. There was so little free space that all the swinging legs meant more than a few bumps and knocks which, in turn, produced the occasional oath and “Sorry.”

  Burke heard no Québec curses.

  The riders were getting squeezed together, not a good thing for the start of a bike race. Burke thought if one rider collided with another in such close quarters, dozens would go down in a massive pile.

  The starter took over the mic, saying he would count down from 10 and fire the gun to begin the race.

  Then he started to count, going at such a glacial, overly dramatic speed that Burke heard several riders urging the starter to speed up before cyclists started to tumble like dominoes from waiting too long.

  When the gun finally went, the lead car moved and the procession began.

  Thankfully, Burke thought, no riders decided to go on a breakaway from the outset. If anyone had, the repercussions could have been nasty.

  Burke focused on keeping his line as the massive peloton, cheered on by thousands of fans, pedaled along the main street of the Old Town, across the ancient bridge and then left onto a new road which allowed the riders to grab more space and increase speed.

  “With these narrow roads, this is the most dangerous start yet,” Rousseau said to Burke’s right.

  “I hope nobody decides to turn it into a race at this point,” said Burke, keeping his eyes alert to all the motion in front and to the side of him.

  That’s when the aggressive riders took over, standing on the pedals to distance themselves as quickly as possible from the crowd.

  Burke thought it was silly to consider winning such an event and, in truth, there was no trophy or title for the individual who crossed the finish line first. But lots of cyclists were competitive and, for them, it was a race to be contested and, ideally, won.

  “Let’s separate ourselves from the crowd,” Rousseau suggested.

  Burke agreed. If they punched up the pace, they soon wouldn’t have so many riders so close to them. And that would be a safe manoeuvre since non-professional cyclists didn’t normally have the bike-handling skills to operate in a tight group.

  It took about two minutes to separate themselves from most of the participants.

  When Burke looked down at his odometer, he saw they were going along at 35 km/h, a quick pace under any conditions and especially on an old bike. But the speed felt good and Burke and Rousseau had no trouble keeping to it.

  After the first hour and two visits to hilltop villages, they had covered 30 kilometres and were among the top 25 riders. The first half dozen riders were long gone, probably two kilometres ahead, pounding the pedals like they were racing a stage of the Tour de France.

  The crowds along the route were in the thousands and their applause was enthusiastic and non-stop.

  It may have seemed to most people like a great day, but Burke still thought there was trouble ahead someplace.

  “What do you think so far?” he asked Rousseau.

  “Good event,” Rousseau replied. “But I’m watching carefully. The day is still young.”

  The police obviously thought so as well because several gendarme vehicles traveled back and forth along the route. Burke hadn’t seen that type of police presence during the first three races.

  Half way through the race, Burke thought he saw a No. 22 pinned to someone’s red jersey. It took several seconds before he was close enough to be sure.

  The rider was indeed wearing No. 22.

  Burke also thought the rider’s helmet, which had a small camera attached to the top, looked somewhat familiar from the previous day on the Ventoux.

  Nodding to Rousseau to indicate what he was going to do, Burke positioned himself just behind the rider who seemed to be cycling alone on a blue-and-white Motobécane circa 1960 or 1965. It was a classic unit and Burke could see it had been carefully maintained. It also resembled the bike he had seen on the Ventoux. Only the rider’s jersey was different.

  Burke decided on his next step.

  “Tabernac,” he said, waving an exasperated hand at a cyclist on his other side.

  The cyclist, who had done nothing wrong, reacted by looking puzzled and then frowning. His final move was to get away from this stranger with the odd curses and so he rode to the far side of the road and then increased his pace.

  Burke had seen what he wanted to – how No. 22’s head swivelled around at hearing “tabernac.”

  Burke punched his pedals a bit so he was abreast of No. 22.

  “Some people need lessons on how to ride a bike,” he grunted.

  “I guess so,” answered No. 22, keeping his attention on the road ahead.

  Then the young man’s curiosity got the better of him and he asked where Burke was from.

  “Québec, Canada,” Burke replied.

  “Me, too,” No. 22 said. “Where in Québec?”

  “Montréal,” Burke said, deciding to stick to facts.

  “That’s my hometown, too.”

  The young man glanced again at Burke. He wore dark wraparound sunglasses which hid his eyes, but Burke sensed the young man recognized him.

  “Is this your first vintage race?” Burke asked, hoping his questions wouldn’t set off alarm bells.

  “I rode in an earlier one,” he said. “That one was fun, but this one has been better.”

  Burke noticed the young man rode with perfect posture and a steady cadence. He was clearly experienced and, if he had indeed climbed to the top of the Ventoux the day before on that old 10-speed bike, he was definitely fit.

  Burke pointed to the small computer locked onto No. 22’s handlebars.

  “Is that a Garmin?” he said.

  The young man looked down and then nodded.

  “It’s the Edge 500,” he said. “I got it last year.”

  “I’ve thought about getting a Garmin,” Burke said. It wasn’t true, but maybe it would help relax the man beside him. Besides, Burke was curious about the young man’s knowledge of electronic devices. “One of these days, I should invest in one.”

  “It’s a quality unit.”

  “I’m trying to get more tech-like,” Burke said.

  The young man paused for a moment and then said: “It’s easy once you start and the rewards are considerable.”

  “Are you a techie, no offence intended?” Burke said with a smile.

  Another pause and then No. 22 said, “I enjoy checking out the latest gadgets, that’s all.”

  Ahead on the left came another gendarme car with a uniformed officer driving.

  Burke spotted the passenger in the front seat. It was Inspector Daniel Bonnier who, upon seeing Burke, gave a slight wave.

  Burke groaned inwardly, wondering if No. 22, or Christophe Talbot as Burke thought he really was, had caught Bonnier’s gesture. He snuck a sideways glance. His cycling neighbour was just staring ahead, but Burke had a sense Talbot had noticed. Maybe the young
man would think the cop was just nodding at any and all cyclists, but Burke knew that was a forlorn hope.

  “Are you just traveling around France and heard about the races?” Burke asked.

  Talbot looked over to Burke. Burke hoped he seemed sincere or, at least, like some cyclist killing time on the road by chatting with the closest person.

  “Just visiting,” Talbot said.

  Burke glanced around. They were alone with the closest cyclist, who was André Rousseau, being about 15 metres behind; the race was clearly stretching out the riders.

  “Sorry, I have a call,” Talbot said to Burke, pointing to the Bluetooth in his right ear.

  And with that, he sped up, leaving Burke in his wake and unable to hear anything.

  Burke considered staying close to Talbot, but that would have sent a strange message. Then he wondered why Talbot hadn’t slowed down to talk or why he hadn’t just pulled to the side of the road. Why pound the pedals?

  Burke wondered if the phone call was a cue to do something or be somewhere at a pre-arranged time.

  Rousseau caught up to Burke and asked how the conversation had gone. Burke told him.

  Within a minute, Talbot was 200 metres ahead and riding even faster. Burke decided they should let him get ahead by about a half kilometre and then keep pace with him – if they could. It was likely the young man was fitter and faster, but as an ex-pro Burke figured he and Rousseau, an ex-pro mechanic and serious cyclist, knew how to harness their energy better. Still, it wasn’t going to be easy if Talbot kept pushing the speed.

  “That boy has good legs,” Rousseau said. “I wouldn’t want to race him for real.”

  “He is strong,” Burke said. “I just wish I knew what the voice on the other end of the phone said to him to get him going so fast.”

  Chapter 58

  A half hour later, Burke saw the outline of Vaison-la-Romaine to his left as the race route did a western loop around the community. Ahead, at about 400 metres, was the figure of Christophe Talbot who, over the last couple of kilometres, had slowed slightly.

  Burke and Rousseau were no longer alone. With them were about 15 other riders, several wearing old Vaison-la-Romaine Cycling Club jerseys. They ranged in age from mid 30s to maybe 60 and clearly had some serious conditioning since they rode effortlessly while enjoying several conversations at once.