A Vintage End

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  It was a friendly group to be locked into and Burke enjoyed exchanging some banter with those nearest him.

  Then came an explosion 250 metres ahead and by the left roadside.

  Burke and his mini-peloton instantly jammed on their brakes, several uttering oaths as they saw a few flames and then a ball of smoke quickly arise, covering most of the road.

  Burke was sure no cyclists had been in the immediate area of the explosion. He was fairly confident no spectators had been, either; this was a stretch with fewer fans.

  Which was lucky, Burke thought.

  Or maybe that was the plan.

  “Is this what we were expecting?” wondered André Rousseau.

  “It looks like it,” Burke said. “Too coincidental to be otherwise.”

  The smoke rose, providing some vision of the road far ahead.

  Burke could no longer see Talbot. Maybe the young rider had turned the tree-lined corner and not heard the explosion which hadn’t been overly loud.

  Somehow, though, Burke doubted that was the case.

  “Call the gendarmes!” someone yelled.

  Several riders dug out phones and started tapping in numbers.

  Burke, however, decided on another plan of action.

  He rode ahead, not quickly but steadily, his eyes examining the site where the explosion seemed to have occurred.

  “What are you doing?” someone yelled out at him.

  “I’m OK,” he called back.

  And he continued riding, Rousseau a half-wheel behind him..

  When he was 25 metres away, he stopped. The smoke had cleared and there were no more flames, just some embers; the ground was scorched around a small metal box.

  Burke turned to Rousseau.

  “André, can you follow our guy Christophe Talbot?” Burke said to his friend. “I think he’s involved in this.”

  Rousseau nodded and took off, taking a wide berth of the disappearing smoke.

  Burke got off his bike and walked closer. He was sure the danger was over, if there ever had been any.

  “What is it?” someone called from behind.

  Burke looked over his shoulder. A handful of other riders had followed him, their curiosity dominating any concerns about a further explosion.

  “There was some kind of explosive device in that box there,” Burke said.

  In the distance, he could hear the wailing of a police siren.

  He hoped Rousseau would be able to stay close to Christophe Talbot.

  Chapter 59

  The first gendarme car stopped and two uniformed officers jumped out, instantly urging everyone to keep their distance from the explosion site.

  Burke moved back a couple of paces, but kept within good sight of the area.

  “Is anyone hurt?” a gendarme asked.

  “Everyone is fine,” said one of the riders.

  There were now about 100 riders near the site, most off their bikes, a few taking photos and video. No one was passing by, partly because the gendarmes had blocked the road with their car and partly out of curiosity. In fact, the only rider who had pedaled past the site was Rousseau.

  “Please move farther away from the area,” the gendarme said. “We need to contain the scene.”

  As he pushed the riders back, the other gendarme started to ask questions of some cyclists. Burke moved away and pulled out his phone.

  He snapped a couple of photos and added some video. Then he sent them off to François Lemaire, adding “More to come” with the visuals. The entire process took a minute.

  Then he went onto various social media, hoping he would have no issue accessing it. To his surprise, he didn’t. He spotted a posting on a couple of social media sites: “You were told. No support for Yablonski. Danger is the result.”

  Burke checked the time: 2:37. It was the same general time as the earlier social media posts from the anti-Yablonski bunch.

  So why was that?

  And then Burke knew that the explosion was not meant to hurt anyone. It had been designed to create chaos with the social media posts adding fear. The plan seemed to be working. Burke expected that word of the explosion had spread quickly. It was also probable the explosion had been heard in Vaison; the black smoke from it was likely visible as well.

  Burke wondered how the anti-Yablonski people, if the stunt was theirs, could have guaranteed no injuries. Then it occurred to him only one person had been in a position to ensure that – No. 22, Christophe Talbot.

  Burke thought about how, after his phone conversation, Talbot had shot ahead and had ensured no one was near him. Then the explosion had occurred.

  Maybe after detonating the roadside device, Talbot had taken a few seconds to send out the social media posts. With no one near him, he could have done so without being seen.

  A second gendarme car rushed in and stopped. Inspector Bonnier was first out and marched to within 10 metres of the blast area.

  Burke tried to get close enough to hear the conversation between Bonnier and one of the first gendarmes on the scene, but he couldn’t manage it. He watched for a few seconds as the two flics talked and then Bonnier moved close to the destroyed box.

  When Bonnier got within a metre, Burke knew the inspector felt there was no further danger.

  A third gendarme vehicle showed up, this one an oversized van. Two more gendarmes came out of the back, dressed head-to-toe in protective gear that made them look twice their size. Burke thought they had to be the local bomb squad.

  He watched as the two bulky figures moved beside the box, taking a reading with some kind of odd-looking metal detector. They examined the site, snapped some photos with a tiny camera and then one of them, with thick gloves, lifted the box.

  “It’s probably some stupid stunt,” said a cyclist standing beside Burke. “Maybe some kid pulling a prank.”

  “Maybe, but don’t forget the car bombing back at the Arles race,” said another rider. “I bet this is related.”

  The first cyclist shrugged and kept watching the bomb experts.

  Bonnier, after some cursory poking about the scene, walked away a few steps. He pulled out his cellphone and made a call.

  Then he spotted Burke.

  Moments later, after ending his phone conversation, Bonnier approached Burke.

  “Monsieur Burke, you’re always around when there’s trouble to be found,” Bonnier said.

  Burke shrugged. He could sense riders gathering closer to hear the conversation. Why was a bike rider talking to a flic at a bomb scene?

  “I was just riding when the explosion happened, Inspector,” Burke said.

  “Would you come with me over here, please,” Bonnier said, making it more a command than a request.

  Burke followed, feeling two dozen eyes on his back. Bonnier led him to the gendarme car he had arrived in.

  “Now tell me what you saw,” Bonnier said.

  Burke did.

  “That’s it?” Bonnier said. “No one was nearby?”

  “I didn’t see anyone,” Burke said. “I came to the scene a couple of minutes after the explosion.”

  “Monsieur Burke, I see you’re thinking about something that’s related to our little explosion out here,” Bonnier said.

  “I believe you’ll find the device was activated by some kind of electronic means,” Burke replied. “And I think the person who set it off didn’t want anyone injured.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “He made sure no one was in the vicinity,” Burke replied.

  “How could he ensure that was the case?” Bonnier said. “And how do you know it was a ‘he’?”

  Burke had nothing to lose so he told Bonnier about No.22 and how the young man could be involved.

  Bonnier listened and then pulled out a notebook, making a few notes.

  “And if you really want my opinion, I doubt this explosion is the end of the day’s activities,” Burke said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think this is
a distraction, nothing more,” Burke said. “If we accept there could be some kind of connection between the murder of the Arles cyclist and the people after Yablonski, why expect that an explosion in the middle of the countryside that didn’t damage anything and didn’t hurt anyone would be the end of the matter?”

  Bonnier was obviously giving Burke’s remarks considerable thought.

  “Maybe this little explosion was the work of someone who has nothing to do with Bosco Yablonski,” Bonnier said.

  But Burke could see the flic didn’t believe that.

  “Maybe, but why set off this explosion and not take credit?” Burke replied. “I think this was a diversion.”

  “To cover up what?” Bonnier asked.

  “I don’t know, but I think we’ll find out soon.”

  Bonnier frowned, but said nothing.

  Burke spotted a couple of dozen cyclists starting to weave their way through the gendarme vehicles and back onto the race route.

  “I’m going to finish the course like everyone else,” Burke said.

  “Maybe I’ll see you later,” Bonnier said. “In fact, I think it’s essential we talk later.”

  Bonnier got Burke’s cellphone number and then moved away to phone someone.

  Back on his bike, Burke pushed off, almost colliding with a cyclist trying to get ahead in the standings. The cyclist snarled at Burke, but Burke didn’t care. His mind was elsewhere, wondering what was coming next.

  He went a few metres past the explosion area and pulled out his phone.

  He dialed André Rousseau.

  And got no answer.

  Chapter 60

  Burke approached the finish line in Vaison-la-Romaine about an hour later, never having spotted Christophe Talbot again, but having seen two gendarme vehicles roaring past him toward the explosion site. Besides the enormous crowd that hadn’t dissipated at all, there were at least a dozen parked police vehicles helping to clog the scene. It was like an obstacle course to get past the finish line. And when he went through, Burke had the feeling a dozen gendarmes were studying him – and every other rider.

  Getting off his bike to walk, Burke felt someone grab his right arm and turned to see Sylvie Côté with two gendarmes beside her.

  “Bonnier told us about that cyclist wearing No. 22 that you think may be involved in the explosion,” she said, almost yelling to be heard. “But we haven’t seen him cross the finish and our people on the road haven’t seen him either. Are you sure you have his jersey number correct?”

  “Absolutely,” Burke said.

  Côté frowned.

  “After the explosion, I never saw him again which was a bit strange,” Burke said, leaning into Côté’s right ear. “There were a couple of long stretches where the road backtracked a bit and where there weren’t any trees so, even if he was two or three kilometres ahead, he should still have been visible.”

  “Is there any chance he somehow got behind you and hasn’t crossed the finish line yet?” Côté said.

  “Not likely,” Burke said.

  “That means he didn’t complete the course.”

  Burke was thinking the same – and wondering where André Rousseau was.

  “He must have turned off onto one of the country lanes that had lots of trees,” Burke said. “Otherwise, I would have spotted him.”

  “Damn!” Côté said.

  And then Burke remembered seeing a helicopter floating over the race course earlier, probably with a camera operator from a TV station. He reminded Côté about it, but could see the Nice flic had already considered it.

  “That’s a real long shot,” she said. “He would be tough to identify from that height and the ‘copter might have been elsewhere. But if you can give us a description of his jersey and the colour of his bike, it might help. Nothing to lose.”

  Burke gave her the information.

  Côté said something to one of the gendarmes, nodded at Burke and then left, one of the uniforms following her.

  Burke pulled his cellphone and tried Rousseau again.

  This time his friend answered.

  “Where are you?” Burke asked.

  “Fifty metres away and walking toward you,” Rousseau said.

  He gave Burke directions and, a minute later, they met in a corner not far from the compound where racers could safely leave their machines.

  “Did you stay with him?” Burke asked.

  Rousseau shook his head, looking frustrated.

  “I caught a glimpse of him maybe a kilometre ahead, going around a corner by a row of trees and that was the last I saw of him,” Rousseau said. “He was standing on the pedals, going full gas.”

  “Isn’t the road straight there?” Burke said, recalling the route.

  “Completely which is why I was surprised that I didn’t see him,” Rousseau said. “Either he was too far ahead or he took some side route. I stopped a couple of times at crossroads to see if he had detoured, but I couldn’t see him. That kid can really ride.”

  Burke was disappointed, but not in his friend. Rousseau was in his mid 40s, extremely fit, and he would have given everything to catch Talbot. The young man was either a cyclist with a turbo engine or he had a secondary plan to get off the race course – or both.

  Burke patted his friend’s shoulder.

  “We’ll figure it out,” he said and then he told Rousseau about the explosion site and Daniel Bonnier.

  “I agree there’s more trouble coming today,” Rousseau said.

  The two men opted to put their bikes into the security compound which was under the control of four burly security staff who were diligent in checking their race IDs.

  Then they went to mingle in the crowd.

  Many spectators – and some racers – were joking, swapping stories and taking group photos and videos like they didn’t have a care in the world.

  “People are in a good mood,” Rousseau said. “The explosion seems to be of little concern.”

  However, Burke thought the security people and the police looked especially focused. They obviously had plenty of worries.

  Burke nodded.

  Both men listened carefully to the conversations around them, but they heard nothing surprising.

  They decided to discuss their next step at the beer gardens which were quickly filling.

  “Good race?” someone asked in a familiar voice.

  Burke turned and saw his new English friend Ginny. Beside her was her husband Peter. Both were smiling.

  “It was except for some explosion that occurred just in front of us,” Burke said.

  “So, you were close,” Peter said. “We heard no one was injured.”

  “That’s true.”

  “We heard a large popping sound and saw lots of smoke,” Ginny said. “It definitely caught everyone’s attention.”

  Burke introduced Rousseau who shook hands with the couple.

  “We thought it might be more interesting – and maybe a little safer – to watch the race instead of riding in it,” Ginny said. “It seems it was a good decision.”

  “What happened here after the explosion?” Rousseau asked.

  “A couple of police cars roared off toward the smoke,” she replied. “Then we saw a few more gendarmes here. Other than that, we haven’t noticed anything, have we, Peter?”

  “It’s still like a giant party although you can see the gendarmes are more tense,” Peter said.

  “No announcements at all about the explosion?” Burke wondered.

  “The MC was telling everyone about the schedule of events after the race when the explosion went off. He stopped talking for a moment, and then he made a joke about crazy farmers and went on with his announcements,” Ginny said.

  Burke felt his phone vibrate, indicating a new text. He excused himself and pulled his phone from his jersey.

  It was Hélène who had heard about the explosion in the news and wanted to know if Burke was OK.

  His first thought was the media were clearly pa
ying attention to anything involving the vintage race in Vaison-la-Romaine. With his second thought, Burke texted Hélène that he was fine and no one was injured. He hoped she would stop worrying, but he doubted it. He also admitted to himself it was nice to have someone concerned about him.

  He took another minute to text François Lemaire that he had been within 250 metres of the explosion. He said a police bomb squad was examining the site for clues, and mentioned the police presence at the finish line had increased since the start. He figured the newsman might have some use for the information. He added he would send another text if anything happened.

  Lemaire replied within seconds: “Let me know immediately if anything more happens.”

  Burke turned his attention back to Ginny, Peter and Rousseau.

  “We’re thinking about going to the beer gardens,” he said. “Want to join us?”

  “Great idea,” Ginny said. “We’ve been standing around for a long time and a beer would be nice.”

  As the foursome walked to the gardens, Burke kept a lookout for Côté, Sauvageot and Bonnier, but didn’t see any of them. At the entrance to the beer gardens, two burly security men sporting the uniforms of the Marseille security firm asked to do a cursory check of their bags. Ginny had a shoulder bag and Peter had a small backpack. They exchanged a puzzled look and then agreed. The guards completed the check within 10 seconds.

  The gardens were already busy with more than half the 400 seats occupied and lineups growing at the beer tent.

  Burke, Rousseau, Ginny and Peter grabbed chairs at the end of a table about 15 metres from the busy VIP tent.

  “I’ll get some beers,” Peter said. “Any preference, Paul and André?”

  Burke saw a Kronenbourg 1664 logo on the tent and Kronenbourg dripmats all over the table.

  “If you can get a 1664 Blanc, that would be great,” he said, believing the citrusy wheat beer would be the perfect post-race beverage. “If not, anything wet will do.”

  “Me, too,” Rousseau added. “Thanks.”