A half hour later, he was outside, studying the sky. It seemed the morning weather forecast would be right; cool, cloudy with a storm rolling in during the afternoon. He hadn’t been sure about bringing his rain gear, but now he was glad he had, tucking his rain pants into one back pocket and his rain jacket into another. The third pocket held his wallet and smartphone which he could use for making notes, shooting photos or video, or just contacting someone.
His plan was to follow the race route as much as possible, checking it for spots that could be used by the troublemakers behind the Saint-Raphaël and Nice stunts. If the opportunity arose, he’d also chat with people along the route.
Using his Cannondale racing bike, Burke rode across the bridge into the bedroom community of Fourgues, a sleepy village that made a startling contrast to busy Arles. From there, he headed west toward Saint-Gilles, another quiet community.
To his surprise, there was little traffic on the secondary road and so Burke allowed himself more time to study the scenery. The region was flat but still pretty with lush farmland, twisting canals and old homes that dated back two centuries.
He didn’t spend any time in Saint-Gilles. It was a nice enough town with an interesting old church, but that was about it. Besides, he wanted to cover the day’s distance before the rain came.
Instead of taking the main road out of Saint-Gilles to his next destination, Bellegarde, Burke detoured onto a series of country lanes that soon had him lost and checking a map on his phone. The route on Saturday would go through the same area, but it would be marked by then so riders wouldn’t get confused about the race course.
But Burke didn’t mind getting lost. He was now riding through classic wine country with one domain after another offering free tastings and, of course, bottles of their product for sale. With vineyards and beautiful country gardens by the roadside, there was plenty to see even though the terrain remained flat.
And because the road surface was also smooth, he could roll along at a decent clip.
As he rode, he heard not just birdsong but also the continuous clicking of cicadas, a distinctive sound he enjoyed although he knew it drove some people into the foulest of tempers.
The day was going well.
When he made it to Bellegarde, he faced significantly heavier traffic, especially from trucks. Next up was Beaucaire, maybe a half-hour ride away by the main highway. However, the race route promised a couple of country roads instead and Burke followed them, taking his time to enjoy the scenery and study places for incidents.
While there were clutches of trees here and there, Burke doubted there was much of a hideaway for anyone planning something for the race.
So, what would happen?
Burke tried to consider various scenarios, but came up with nothing that seemed realistic. He didn’t have the imagination. But he kept thinking, hoping his brain would conjure a situation that was possible and in keeping with the skeleton and currency stunts. When he considered the furniture tacks, he produced possible follow-ups: marbles tossed onto a road, dogs let loose as riders went by, and bikes that had been fiddled with before the start of the race.
Burke thought back to the Nice race and considered the possibility that the anti-Yablonski incidents had been undertaken by individuals working separately. After all, how does someone who goes to all the work of reproducing thousands of fake reischmarks with someone’s face on each bill then get involved with tossing tacks onto a road? The first stunt, however silly, had some panache to it and was aimed at embarrassing someone. The tack prank lacked style and was aimed at hurting people.
But Burke struggled to accept that two different groups or individuals were targeting the same races sponsored by the same individual. It was too coincidental. In his mind, the individuals behind the reischmarks and the tacks were connected. But considering the two widely different approaches in Nice, how were the perpetrators getting along these days?
Burke wondered if the whole anti-Yablonski deal wasn’t just overblown idiocy being pulled off by a few individuals with too much time on their hands. Part of him said it was. Then he thought about the swastika, the reischmarks, the suggestions of a connection between Yablonski and an infamous massacre, and he knew the minds behind what had been happening had serious intentions and weren’t done yet.
He was still pondering the matter when he pulled into the outskirts of Beaucaire. He had both cycled and driven through the town of 16,000 on other occasions, but had never stayed overnight. He told himself he should do so one time because it was an attractive community with a marina right by the Old Town and a dozen cafés with good reputations. It also had a large, old château near the Rhône.
He pedaled beside the marina and then over the bridge to Beaucaire’s neighbouring town of Tarascon which was about the same size as Beaucaire, if a little more shopworn.
Burke stopped by Tarascon’s château. While Beaucaire’s château was impressive, Tarascon’s structure, which was right at the river’s edge, was positively magical, a beautifully preserved castle that seemed like it belonged in a fairy tale.
He crossed the street from the entrance to the château, leaned his bike against a tree and then planted himself at a chair at one of the cafés facing the castle. The perfect spot for lunch.
Burke watched the server, an attractive young woman with a snake tattoo coiling up her left arm, put a notice on the café’s chalkboard. It told potential customers about Saturday’s vintage bike race and how the café was the perfect spot to watch the participants pedal by.
When she was finished, she took Burke’s order for chickpea-flour crêpes and a small glass of rosé. The crêpes came quickly and they were marvelous. Burke had grown up on homemade Québec food which had been tasty and filling, but he had come to understand France was on another level when it came to cooking. The world could be coming to an end and the French would still argue about the best ingredients for the perfect cassoulet. Some stereotypes were indeed true, Burke thought.
Burke was enjoying a coffee when he looked to the side and saw a man reading a regional newspaper. He hadn’t checked the news that morning and so when he spotted the face of Bosco Yablonski on the paper’s front page, he told himself he needed to catch up.
The headline said:
Tycoon promises safe, fun event
It didn’t sound like hard news, but it could prove interesting. Burke quickly finished his coffee, paid the bill and then rode a couple of blocks to the nearest news agent’s where he saw three newspapers featuring different poses of Bosco Yablonski. He bought all three, went to a nearby park and began to read.
The stories had the same basic information: Saturday’s race in Arles would be the most popular one yet. The route would lack hills but participants should be prepared for wind and maybe a little rain. There would be more celebrations at the finish. There would also be more vendors showcasing their wares. Yablonski said it was unfortunate some people were targeting him for no good reason, but vowed he would not be dissuaded from his efforts in promoting vintage bike races. He said additional security was being provided not for him, but to stop anyone from creating chaos. He also said he had the support of the communities where the races were taking place.
On the surface, it seemed harmless stuff, but Burke had the feeling Yablonski had moved in front of any possible trouble, portraying himself as a good guy and as a victim whose only wish was to celebrate old-time bike racing with the masses. If something happened on Saturday, he wouldn’t look bad and might even get sympathy.
If nothing else, it showed Yablonski was open to portraying himself differently and to accepting advice from his PR handlers. It also showed Yablonski wasn’t going to be bullied and wasn’t worried about his past being dug up; there was either nothing nefarious he feared or, if there was, it was buried so deep no one would find it without a great deal of work or luck.
As for the people behind the anti-Yablonski incidents, Burke thought they were getting the exposure they wanted,
but their plans to humiliate the tycoon weren’t being successful. Maybe it was time they released whatever information they had about Yablonski instead of trying to prod the media or others into finding out whatever dark secrets lay in the businessman’s past. Of course, as Antoine had told him, there was the matter of libel; if the people after Yablonski didn’t have irrefutable proof, they’d be looking at paying major defamation damages since the French judicial system often doled out serious punishment to those who libelled someone.
Satisfied he had gleaned enough from the newspapers, Burke mounted his bike and headed south. At the turnoff to the pretty village of Fontvieille, he studied the increasingly ominous clouds and opted to head back to Arles. He still wanted to do a quick tour into the Camarague region if the weather allowed.
Within 45 minutes, he was back in Arles but he didn’t stop there, taking the Route des Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer into the beginning of the Camargue. He didn’t plan to ride long, just enough to get a sense of where the route would go.
For Burke, the Camargue was familiar territory. He had spent a couple of short holidays in the region, enjoying its unique scenery and wildlife although he had been plagued by the country’s most ferocious mosquitos who had attacked Burke’s fair skin with brutal enthusiasm.
He was about 15 kilometres south of Arles when the first raindrops hit. Burke immediately stopped and donned his rain pants and jacket. Seconds later, the clouds opened and he found himself in a deluge.
He turned back for Arles but had to go slowly since the rain was torrential. Within minutes, he found himself riding through rapidly expanding puddles.
Then the rain got worse.
Burke could barely see because the rain was bouncing off the road and rebounding almost a metre up. The puddles had graduated to small lakes and Burke had to reduce speed yet again.
And still the rain increased.
Burke looked for shelter and found some under the roof of an abandoned shed. He stood there, damp from some rain that had snuck past his jacket collar and cold from the temperature which had dropped 10 degrees in minutes.
He remained there for a quarter hour and then realized the conditions weren’t going to improve. If anything, they looked like they would worsen. Chilled to the bone, Burke knew he had to get moving again.
Back on the bike, he pedaled with great care, aware there was motor oil floating in the water that covered the road surface. It would be easy to take a bad tumble and, out there and alone, he could find himself hurt and going into a hypothermic state.
As he cycled, he saw how some Camargue horses – they were the traditional white – were huddled under an enormous plane tree and looking as miserable as he felt.
Then he noticed how the water in the roadside canal was flowing with enormous speed and threatening to breach the canal banks and spread onto the road.
The Camargue was about to start flooding.
It took almost an hour for Burke to get back to Arles. By then, he was shivering, his hands were numb and his teeth were chattering. He thought he had never been colder, even during some of those nasty Montréal winters of his youth.
He locked up his bicycle in Madame Benoit’s small garage and entered the house.
“Monsieur Burke, you are soaked, and look so cold,” the old woman said, greeting him at the back door. “Get out of those wet clothes, take a shower and come into the sitting room where I will have some tea – and maybe something stronger – for you.”
Burke nodded and mumbled his thanks. The he retreated to his room and did as Madame had advised. When the first drops from the shower hit his skin, Burke felt his entire body tingle. Moments later, he was starting to feel human again. The warm shower was heavenly.
And so, too, was the tea in the sitting room. Beside it on the tray, Madame Benoit had provided some calvados. Normally, Burke would have shied away from the apple brandy, but he was still seeking warmth so he took a sip and immediately felt better. The calvados was slightly sweet and had become smooth with age.
“Do you mind if I join you?” Madame said as she entered the sitting room with another tray, this one with cheeses and biscuits.
Burke welcomed her. Together, they drank tea, sipped calvados and munched on cheese. The room was warm and comfortable. A radio in the background played soft music.
“I don’t think this rain will stop for a long time,” Madame said.
Burke agreed. He had lived in the south of France long enough to know a rainstorm could last up to three days.
“I remember the flooding we had back in 2003,” Madame Benoit said. “Many houses were damaged. I think the overall cost was in the millions and millions. The worst part was several people got caught in the storm and drowned. It was terrible. I’ve never seen rain like it – until maybe today.”
Burke remembered the 2003 storm although he hadn’t been in the area. The scenes on TV had been shocking. But then France often had serious flooding; every year, it seemed one region or another faced catastrophic damage as a result of terrible rainstorms.
“Did you hear that, Monsieur?” the old woman asked Burke as she pointed to the radio.
The music had stopped and an announcer was discussing the severity of the storm and urging people in the Arles region, including those who lived as far as Beaucaire, Tarascon and even Nimes, to stay inside because of flooding that was starting to occur. The announcer continued:
“We also have a report from police that a body has been found in a canal south of Arles. The person has not been identified and police are not releasing details about the accident. Again, the public is being urged to remain indoors and stay in communication with authorities through radio, TV and social media.”
Burke shook his head. One person was already dead from the flooding.
And it was just going to get worse.
Chapter 19
Instead of going out to dinner, Burke accepted Madame Benoit’s offer to stay inside and dine with her. He didn’t put up much resistance. The rain was coming down with frightening intensity, and, with the possibility of flooding, it was likely most of the cafés in Arles would be closed; the owners would want to do whatever they could to protect themselves and, besides, it was a safe bet there would be no customers moving about in such weather.
“While I start making our meal, why don’t you see what you can find on social media about the storm?” Madame Benoit suggested, nodding to her computer in the corner. “Or you can use your tablet. I have a strong wifi signal here.”
Burke smiled and agreed.
He had learned from his first visit to Madame’s chambre d’hôte six years before that the old woman – to his surprise – employed technology in a way that would impress a 20-something techie. She had designed her own website which she managed herself, taking bookings and posting tidbits of information about the community. She also had a strong social media presence for her business. Then there was her smartphone which was always on her person. To her customers, she was not just someone who provided comfortable accommodation, hearty meals and a gentle welcome; she was someone who could help them with a technology problem and, more than once, Burke had seen her come to the rescue of someone trying to sort out an issue with a phone, tablet or laptop. As the old woman once told Burke: “If you don’t keep learning, you start to die.”
Burke sat at her computer which looked new. The monitor kicked in and he was impressed by its size and by the definition of the images that appeared. This was a unit that would impress even Antoine Pastore back in his Antibes office.
“Tell me if you find something interesting,” Madame Benoit called from the kitchen.
Burke said he would.
A minute later, he was looking at all kinds of social-media posts about the storm: reports of damage, warnings of road closures, predictions of more flooding. People weren’t panicking, but they were concerned about the seriousness of the storm.
Burke decided to check the city’s website for any official warnings.
He was stunned. The person who had hacked into the Saint-Raphaël website was obviously back at work, this time using the Arles website to target Yablonski.
A moment later a second message appeared on the screen: “The real reckoning will soon come for Yablonski.”
“Find anything?” came Madame’s voice from over his shoulder. She leaned down to see better. “Well, that’s interesting.”
Burke looked at Madame.
“I heard about someone hacking into the vintage race website and also into the Saint-Raphaël site,” the landlady told Burke. “I’ve been curious to see if whoever was responsible for those hacks would try to get into our city site. Now we know the answer.”
“You’d think the city would have taken extra precautions,” Burke said.
“They probably did, but the people who manage our local website obviously didn’t have the same skill level as the person hacking into these sites,” Madame said.
They both watched the screen for further anti-Yablonski messages, but nothing happened. And then, after another five minutes, the website disappeared, obviously taken down by someone alerted to the hack.
“I wonder how long that first message was up,” Burke said. “We know the second was up for just over five minutes.”
“I don’t think for long,” Madame said. “If they had been up there for much longer than what you saw, there would likely have been several posts on social media about the website being hacked.”
That made sense to Burke who hadn’t seen any before he had gone onto the city site.
“You were just lucky to be at the computer at the right time,” Madame continued.” Is there anything on social media about the city’s website being hacked?”
Burke checked social media and, sure enough, there were a couple of dozen posts dealing with the anti-Yablonski comments on the Arles website. Most of the comments asked what was behind the Yablonski accusations. A few targeted the city website for not being secure enough.
A Vintage End Page 9