“By the way, Claude, last night at dinner I studied how people eat and drink to see what it told me about them,” Burke said.
“Ah, yes, my theory on people’s eating styles and their personalities,” Claude said, testing a sauce as kitchen staff bustled around him. “There are worse ways to judge a person’s character and habits.”
“I’m just a novice, but I found it interesting and fun.”
“Remember that the more you do, the better you get. Did you learn anything?”
“Nothing that you hadn’t already mentioned.”
“Well, keep practising.”
Claude went back to work. When Burke finished his omelet, he thanked his friend and grabbed an apple on the way out.
The dining room was still empty except for the kitchen staff and servers setting up tables for the buffet. In another half hour, the room would be busy.
Going outside onto the deck, Burke glanced up and saw the castle ruins where Wilson Talbot had been discovered. In a way, Burke felt the news about the young man seemed much older than just 24 hours. He wondered where Talbot’s body was at that moment.
And he wondered what the police were thinking about his death.
Burke left the Sunna and walked the main street past the closed shops and a couple of hotels where people were probably starting to have breakfast. A few other tourists were strolling about and they exchanged nods with Burke.
It was all so peaceful.
He didn’t see any police that he could interview. The clock for his next blog kept on ticking.
Stopping at a bench, Burke phoned the police station in Krems, but that didn’t produce any result; it was too early and the dispatcher on the phone wasn’t interested in helping him connect with anyone investigating Wilson Talbot’s death.
A half hour later, Burke was back at the cruise ship. A few participants and their families were sitting on benches by the dock, enjoying the view of the river and the distant hills as the sun bathed them in its early glow.
There were still no police around.
Burke could see people filing into the dining room, exchanging a few words and then getting down to the business of having breakfast.
He wondered if he had enough time to climb to the castle ruins. Maybe the police were there.
Then he saw Thierry Delisle walking off the deck onto land and toward him. Carmen Moreau was right behind Delisle with her trusty smartphone in her hand and a bright smile on her young face.
“All set for today, Paul?” Delisle asked.
Burke noticed a couple of crumbs on the front of Delisle’s crisply pressed, light-blue shirt. “I’ve checked the bikes again and reviewed the route.”
“Good, good. Have a quick talk with Renata before you start and we’ll be ready.”
Delisle made the request sound like it was something unusual, but Burke and Renata Hable met every day before the ride to ensure they were in agreement what they would be doing and saying.
“No worries, Thierry,” Burke said. “I’ll speak with her.”
Then Delisle, without another word, turned and went toward some Sunna passengers sitting on benches.
“Does Monsieur Delisle ever relax?” Burke asked Moreau who hadn’t followed her boss.
The young woman smiled. “Even when he sleeps, I don’t think Monsieur Delisle relaxes – if he sleeps at all. I wonder sometimes if he’s going to have a heart attack. But then he’s very good at making sure everything goes according to plan.”
“I think you help a lot in that regard,” Burke said, hoping it didn’t sound like he was flirting. He had seen Moreau in action enough times to know she was smart, hard working and detail oriented. He wondered if Delisle thought the same of her. He had never heard him compliment or praise the young woman for her efforts which was a shame. Burke thought she’d be hard to replace.
Moreau smiled at the compliment and then left to join her boss who was exchanging stories with some guests, not seeming to have a care in the world.
An hour later, all the participants were on the dockside, dressed in cycling garb and holding their bikes. Family and staff surrounded them.
Renata Hable went ahead with the day’s plan, saying it would be the original one that had been postponed because of the “unfortunate circumstances we had.”
Burke thought Delisle had told her to avoid using Wilson Talbot’s name for a while to ensure people didn’t get upset.
As Hable repeated her information about the team-building value of sacrificing oneself to the greater good, the two police who accompanied the tour on motorcycles showed up. Then a police car drove up and Sergeant Karl Plaschke got out.
Burke saw Plaschke nod at Delisle who nodded in return.
So, the cop’s appearance wasn’t a surprise.
When Hable saw Plaschke, she told the gathering there would be an extra police escort to help with some minor changes along the route. Nice and simple. Nothing to worry about. But Burke was surprised that Plaschke was coming along. And studying the policeman’s face, he thought Plaschke seemed on high alert.
Glancing around, Burke thought several of the others in the group seemed equally surprised by the policeman’s appearance.
Knowing he had little time, Burke started to walk toward Plaschke; he wanted to ask the flic a couple of questions.
“We’re ready then,” Renata Hable called out. “Let’s get on our bicycles and begin.”
Burke’s time was up. He’d have to track down Plaschke later.
Chapter 12
A half hour later after cycling along the Danube and through the busy market town of Krems where their cruise ship would be spending the night, the group turned north for its first exercise of the day.
The plan was to the follow the two motorcycle cops and Plaschke along a quiet country road in a double pace line. As the group rode, the two cyclists at the front of the two lines would go straight for a few metres before the rider on the left replaced the one on the right who dropped back one spot. The intention was to make the group move clockwise like a bike chain, protecting each other from any wind and thus preserving energy.
It was a tricky task, but the group quickly got into the rhythm of the exercise, surprising Burke who had expected the riders would need a couple of hours to perfect the tactic. Maybe after a few days of cycling together, they were becoming comfortable with each other.
They covered four kilometres without incident, getting smoother and faster with every minute.
It was an impressive display, Burke thought.
Then Kendall Young cut sharply in front of Bennett Blake, prompting the Englishman to yell at the American to be more careful.
Young was so surprised by Blake’s explosion that he slowed, almost causing a crash. If Blake hadn’t been alert, the front wheel of his bike would have touched the back wheel of Young’s and that would likely have sent both of them crashing to the ground, taking several others with them.
“Calm down and get back into your pace line,” said Renata Hable who had spotted the issue in her rear mirror.
Within a couple of minutes, the group was riding once more in a perfect formation. It had been a close call.
Burke, who didn’t have the advantage of anyone protecting him from a headwind, had to work to keep pace with the group. He sometimes caught sight of Renata Hable who was riding like a pro; she might have been in her 40s but she was extremely fit and seemed to have little trouble keeping ahead of everyone.
After another 15 minutes during which the group’s average speed was probably 30 kilometres per hour, Hable motioned for everyone to stop.
Sweating and puffing, Burke was fine with her decision.
He hoped the police would stop, too, allowing him to talk to them.
They did stop, but 100 metres ahead which was too far for Burke to go without being noticed by the participants.
Hable praised the participants for their efforts without mentioni
ng the brief Young-Blake incident, and discussed the value of individuals collaborating to protect a team or organization by sacrificing themselves from time to time.
Then she talked about the day’s next task – distributing water bottles – and how the exercise would highlight the need for managers to help others meet their business goals.
“There will be a table about 500 metres ahead where Mr. Young and Ms. Kimura will collect three water bottles each and distribute them over the following two kilometres,” Hable said. “Not everyone will get a bottle, but don’t worry, we’ll make sure everyone gets enough water throughout the day.”
Burke knew about the table and the water bottles. Carmen Moreau would be there, adding another chore to her grocery list of daily duties.
He glanced at Kendall Young who looked a little nervous at the upcoming task. Then he glanced at Hoshiko Kimura who exuded confidence despite barely moving. Burke had only talked to her twice, but had been impressed by her accent-less grasp of English and by her calm, serious demeanour. Short, petite and maybe 35 with bobbed hair, she was also very attractive. On the bike, despite her small stature, she was a powerhouse, one of the best riders among the participants.
Hable explained how the group would let Young and Kimura go ahead and collect the water bottles. The group would then increase the pace, passing the pair. After that, Young and Kimura would catch up and distribute the water bottles as everyone continued riding at a 25-km/h clip.
Hable explained the process of passing over the bottles. The rider with the water would pedal up beside another cyclist, hand over a bottle and then move onto another person. The key was to keep in a straight line and not wobble. In five kilometres, two other riders would take over the task of ferrying water bottles.
“Everyone ready?” Hable asked.
The participants indicated they were.
And then they began, riding slowly.
As an ex-pro cyclist, Burke knew plenty about distributing water bottles to teammates. In fact, as one of the domestiques or workers on every team he had been on, Burke had spent much of his energy in races distributing water and food to more talented riders. It had been hard, thankless, exhausting work, but it had helped pay the bills and, when one of his teammates occasionally won, he had felt a sense of satisfaction in helping achieve the victory.
He also recalled how some riders would discard their empty water bottles close to the wheels of competitors, a breach of cycling etiquette that usually produced curses and threats. He remembered one cyclist in particular, a small Italian who excelled in the mountains and who was probably the least-liked rider in the peloton during Burke’s time. The Italian was known for causing accidents by elbowing a neighbouring rider, but more often his weapon was a water bottle tossed onto someone’s path.
However, the Italian did his water-bottle trick one too many times, throwing it in front of a husky Aussie who took a nasty tumble on a mountain stage. The Aussie, who was a true hard man, hadn’t been injured beyond some road rash, but he had been angry enough to catch up to the Italian after the race finish, grab him by the throat and dangle him over the edge of a cliff. To the Italian’s shock, no one rushed in to stop what was happening. Only when the Italian pissed himself did the Aussie release him. Not surprisingly, the Aussie was ejected from the race and banned from competition for six months, but it was well known that many riders in the pro peloton had expressed their gratitude by providing him with all kinds of wine and beer. Burke had shown his approval by buying the Aussie and his wife dinner at a good restaurant in Nice a few months later.
That was back in the pro peloton. Now Burke was about to see how his little group of amateurs managed the task. When the exercise began, he watched with admiration as Kimura eased through the small peloton, handing out one bottle after another without any problem.
Young, however, was another matter.
The American took his attention off the road ahead and almost collided with Eric Chapman. Fortunately, Chapman had been alert and turned at the last moment to avoid a crash.
Burke could see Young was clearly anxious about the task. He was struggling to hold his line and it seemed like his handlebars were shaking.
Just when Burke thought he’d ride up and try to either calm Young down or tell him to forget the exercise, Young reached across to Bennett Blake with his second water bottle.
The only problem was the German participant, Dietrich Beck, was between them.
Burke had no idea why Young was trying to reach across so far – it was clearly a risky manoeuvre – but the American was set on getting the bottle to Blake.
When Blake saw what was happening and how close Young was to producing a multi-bike pileup, he yelled at the American to get away. He added a couple of curse words for impact.
Young reacted by jerking his bike to the left.
Although there was no one on that side of him, Young went too far and cycled off the road, onto the gravel shoulder and, a moment later, tumbled sideways onto grass and dirt.
As crashes went, it wasn’t terrible, but Burke thought there was a good chance of some lost skin for the American.
Stopping quickly, Burke could see gashes on Young’s legs where small stones had ripped the skin. The wounds would be painful but not debilitating.
“What happened?” Hable said, stopping her bike beside Burke.
He quickly told her. Hable put aside her machine and checked out Young who was sitting on the grass, looking surprised and embarrassed at the same time. She said a few quiet words to him and then grabbed the small first-aid kit she had in a back pocket of her jersey. She quickly disinfected the wounds and applied a couple of bandages. Then she helped Young to his feet.
“Incidents, painful ones, can happen on the road just as they do in the boardroom,” Hable said to the group. “We learn from our mistakes, we adjust and we move on. In this case, we’ll take a 10-minute break before proceeding.”
The rest of the group moved away a few steps, almost like they didn’t want to catch whatever had taken control of Young to make him do something so stupid and dangerous. When they were out of earshot, Young turned to Hable, saying the accident had been his fault. “I should have known better but Bennett looked thirsty. I was just trying to help him out, nothing more, and look what happened. I’m sorry.”
Burke was surprised to hear Young blaming himself with such enthusiasm. He wouldn’t have guessed the American had it in him.
“No need to feel bad, Mr. Young,” Hable said. “We’re fortunate it wasn’t worse. Just take it easy and keep a sharper focus on what you do when you’re riding. Now, let’s check those wounds again.”
As she examined her handiwork on Young’s leg, Burke moved away from the pair, joining a handful of other riders. Bennett Blake was dominating the discussion, reviewing the incident with disgust in his voice for Kendall Young. So much for teamwork, Burke thought, wondering if the two men had many dealings with each other in the business world. If they did work on projects together, the relationship looked like it was about to get more challenging.
Hable and Young came over.
“I think we’re ready to start riding again,” she said. She turned to Kendall Young. “Are you feeling OK, Mr. Young?”
“I’m good to go.”
But Burke thought the American was still shaken. And maybe a little frightened.
Chapter 13
As they rode, Burke watched Kendall Young closely to ensure he had recovered from his tumble. All bluster and bravado at the outset of the trip, Young was subdued and looking weak on his bike. Every pedal stroke seemed like an effort and his head was bobbing like a pigeon looking for a snack.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Young?” Burke said, riding up to the American.
“I’m fine. I expect I’ll be stiff later, but there’s nothing to worry about. I just wasn’t paying enough attention. It could have been a lot worse.”
“Well, I’m glad you
’re OK.”
Burke slipped back to his usual spot behind the pack. He saw Young was keeping up with the group but the effort was taking a toll. As for the other cyclists, they were giving him a little extra space. No one was talking.
After a few kilometres involving other participants distributing water bottles, Hable changed the next group exercise to single-file drafting with each rider taking 30 seconds at the front to break the wind for the followers before drifting back. It was simple stuff, but Burke thought the group lacked energy. Everyone started to slow and then slowed even more, so much so that Hable dropped back to check if everyone was OK. She urged them to increase the pace at least a little, but they barely responded. Kendall Young’s crash had definitely shaken them.
“Look over there,” said the Aussie Roger Langford, pointing to a small clutch of trees where a half dozen old caravans were parked. Two dozen people, mostly women and young children, were visible.
Burke saw heads swivel.
Langford glanced over his shoulder at Burke. “Roma or refugees?”
Burke couldn’t be certain, but he expected they were Roma. From the look of the site, they hadn’t been there too long, maybe a day or two. They definitely didn’t seem settled. “Probably Roma.”
“Yes, they’re Roma,” said Ingrid Froon, who was from Amsterdam and, like Renata Hable, tall, blonde and athletic looking. She was also a superb rider. “Their flag is off to the right.”
Burke spotted a flag divided into two horizontal sections, blue on top and green below, and above them was a red wagon wheel. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen one before. Obviously, Froon had or had read about it.
Some of the children in the camp spotted the cyclists and a couple of the older ones broke into a sprint, racing toward the riders and yelling welcome.
“They just want money,” Bennett Blake yelled. “Ignore the little buggers.”
Deception On the Danube Page 5