A Vintage End

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “All they needed to know were some points of reference along the route although I’ve an idea that these people might have been using GPS software to be sure.”

  “Impressive,” Burke said. “They tackled these pranks with military precision. They probably began their planning as soon as the routes for the races were announced.”

  “It seems likely,” Antoine said.

  “For example, in the Saint-Raphaël race, they knew exactly where to put the skeletons without being noticed and they knew how long it would take to set up that scene,” Burke said. “For the Nice race, they also had a good idea of where the riders would first encounter a good-sized group of spectators in a rural area.”

  “And where there wouldn’t be any videocams in the countryside,” Antoine added.

  “When the first decent-sized group of riders approached, someone released those fake-currency bills while everyone else was cheering the participants approaching them,” Burke said. “If there was a videocam someplace, that person would be seen.”

  “The only threat was if some spectator nearby was filming the race,” Antoine said. “If we consider that, then it would be a fair guess that the person who distributed the fake currency was in a position where he wouldn’t show up on anyone’s video. I’d say the person was right at the end of the spectators, safe and sound. And with the wind being reasonably strong, he tossed out the bills which quickly began to fly away from him.”

  “Very slick,” Burke said. “I’d even guess these people studied the wind patterns projected for that time and region. Again, we have some smart, well-prepared people here. But that doesn’t explain how they got away with releasing the faked currency right in the heart of Nice.”

  “I’ve considered that,” Antoine said. “There are videocams in a number of areas of the city, more so since Yves Vachon was killed last year by that hit-and-run driver. But sometimes a person can get lost in a crowd.”

  “But wouldn’t others nearby notice if someone tossed a bunch of fake bills in the air?” Burke said. “I mean, it happened in a big city with a lot of people around.”

  “It would be more difficult to stay undetected in Nice than it would be in the countryside,” Antoine agreed. “That’s why I think the bills were hidden somewhere and then released by some kind of remote device.”

  “How?”

  “The bills might have been in some kind of container that had a timer or a mechanism that responded to a distant signal,” Antoine said.

  “That sounds like James Bond stuff, Antoine,” Burke said.

  “It does, but that kind of capability is out there.”

  “But wouldn’t a container on the ground or someplace get some attention from security or the police?” Burke said.

  “I agree, which makes me think the container was inconspicuous because it looked like other containers. No one thought anything when they saw it. It was hiding in plain sight and in the perfect spot to be released.”

  Paul considered his friend’s theory. It made sense. It also added credibility to the notion that the anti-Yablonski group had serious intentions, and were both smart and well-equipped.

  “You know, Paul, I think the people behind these actions against Yablonski love this kind of activity with all the logistics involved,” Antoine said. “It’s almost like a group project at a university. I’d say they’re challenging themselves intellectually and are having fun doing it.”

  Then Antoine laughed.

  “Or maybe it’s the CIA trying to make Yablonski look bad,” he said.

  Burke smiled. But the suggestion about a group project seemed reasonable.

  “When we talk about their perfect timing in releasing social media posts, I get the strong sense these people understand cycling,” Burke said. “They know it enough to gauge when the leading groups reach a certain point. In fact, I think it’s likely these people cycled the various race routes themselves and maybe more than once.”

  Antoine nodded.

  “As for the videocam used by a rider, according to your theory, it had to be small, right?” Burke asked.

  “There are several top-quality videocams on the market that would do the job we’re talking about,” Antoine said. “They’re very small, weigh next to nothing and have excellent digital qualities. They’re also easy to set up for wifi and the better ones can provide GPS data.”

  “And the best place to put one would be on the helmet,” Burke said, believing that any lower would mean other riders would be blocking the view on most occasions.

  “That’s where I’d put it,” Antoine said.

  “Is there any chance of checking video of the race starts for people with helmet cams?” Burke said.

  There was a long sigh at the other end.

  “I had a feeling you might end up asking me that,” Antoine said. “Unfortunately, I haven’t had the time yet to check.”

  “But you might?”

  “Yes, I might,” Antoine said. “But I don’t think it will be before tomorrow.”

  Burke said he was fine with that.

  “I have one question for you, Paul,” Antoine said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why do you care so much?” Antoine said.

  Burke paused. He wasn’t entirely sure of the answer himself, but he did care.

  “I have a feeling that what’s happening is going to get more serious in the next two races,” Burke replied. He thought about discussing the three deaths in Arles, but opted not to tell his friend. “Maybe I’ll also produce some better blogs that will keep François off my back.”

  “That doesn’t sound like enough of a reason to be this curious,” Antoine said. “I don’t think you’re telling me everything.”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure what I’m thinking, Antoine,” Burke replied.

  There was a pause and then his friend said: “I’ll accept that – for the moment. Now, don’t you have a race to ride?”

  “I do – within an hour,” Burke replied.

  “Then go ride your race and let me get back to my job,” Antoine said. “And when this is over, whatever ‘this’ is, you will owe me. I’m thinking two bottles of cassis. No, make that three. This is definitely a three-cassis job you’ve got me on. And I’ll require some explanations as well.”

  Burke agreed and thanked his friend.

  That ended the call.

  Burke started to get dressed in his retro gear for the race. He had four hours of riding ahead of him. Given his lack of sleep, he knew he had a tough day ahead.

  But he knew he could no longer ride at the back, taking it as easy as possible.

  He needed to be up among the first groups. That way, he might see something happening around him at 2:30.

  And maybe, if he looked around, he’d spot someone wearing a videocam on a helmet.

  Chapter 31

  Burke turned the corner and saw thousands of people in the park, not far from the starting area. If anything, it was a bigger turnout than in Nice even though Arles was one-tenth the size. The spectators must have come from all over Provence and probably beyond. Were all these people really interested in old-time cycling? Or were they expecting something else?

  Burke checked in, pinned his racing number to his chest and starting walking around, pulling his bike beside him.

  Then he saw a rider with a helmet cam. His heart did an extra thump.

  Moments later, he saw a second cyclist with a helmet cam. And, seconds later, a third. Was someone handing out the damn things?

  Burke pulled out his smartphone and took a few photos, trying to ensure he got the faces and numbers of anyone with a helmet cam. If nothing else, the photos would show the size of the crowd. He sent a couple of pictures to François Lemaire to prove he was on the job.

  The atmosphere was energizing, but Burke felt something else. There seemed to be a mood of anticipation, and he felt it wasn’t solely because of the race; people were expecting the unexpected to occur.

  As h
e walked among the throng of spectators and cyclists, Burke overheard fragments of conversations. More than once he heard “Yablonski” mentioned. The gist seemed to be people were expecting the Arles race would feature another stunt aimed at the businessman.

  Burke was sure they were right.

  As he walked, he heard a half dozen languages. Besides the obvious French, he caught bits of English, German, Dutch, Spanish and Italian. He also heard a couple conversing in an eastern Europe language; it sounded like Czech.

  Then over one shoulder he heard someone curse using “calisse” followed by “tabarnac.” These words, the former meaning “chalice” and the second “tabernacle”, stopped him in his tracks. They were curses used not by the French, but by a Québecois; someone from his home province was nearby. He wondered if the person uttering the Québec curses was the person entered in all four races. If he could identify the individual, he’d start a conversation with that person and go from there.

  But he only heard made-in-France, French accents around him. That suggested to Burke that the person using the curses was from Québec, but had spent enough time in France to smooth out his accent.

  Then came the announcement that the participating cyclists needed to make their way to the start of the race. The starter would be firing his gun in 10 minutes.

  When everyone was properly placed a few minutes later, the announcer called on Bosco Yablonski to come forward.

  To Burke’s surprise, there was significant applause for Yablonski, and he wondered what the anti-Yablonski people thought when they heard that – if they were in the vicinity.

  Yablonski took over the microphone, praised the spectators for showing up and wished the racers – who totalled a record 2,650, he said – a fun day.

  Then he fired the gun.

  And the crowd cheered while the racers started pedaling.

  In about the 20th row, Burke was vigilant as he started to ride. This was the time when inexperienced cyclists, riding within centimetres of each other, could easily create a huge accident by weaving out of their lane and colliding with a neighbouring racer.

  But Burke made it past the starting line without incident.

  He was on his way, the cheers of the crowd ringing in his ears.

  He focused on keeping a straight line while watching the riders around him.

  And he wondered when the next prank would occur.

  Once out of Arles and into the flat landscape northwest of the city, the race began to stretch out. Despite his exhaustion, Burke fought his way to the front and kept up with the first main group. The pace was in the range of 35 km/h, maybe faster, and he found himself breathing heavily as he rode. There were definitely some competitive riders in the event.

  And as he rode, he kept scanning the area for a possible trouble spot.

  Burke saw thousands of spectators by the roadside, cheering madly as if they were watching a stage of the Tour de France. Their support was remarkable.

  Then the lead group pushed into Beaucaire, going past the town’s small, busy industrial area and then into the heart of the small community. If anything, the riders sped up, punching the pedals faster as they went by the crowded marina and then onto the bridge toward Tarascon. Burke groaned. His lungs were aching and his legs were burning..

  He snuck a glance to his left because Beaucaire’s castle stood majestically nearby. He recalled once reading how it had been involved in the notorious Wars against the Cathars of Languedoc in the 13th century. It had been a terrible conflict involving religion and the nobility, a combination guaranteed to create chaos.

  Burke wished he could slow down and enjoy the view, but he couldn’t because he wanted to stay near the front in case of an incident. If anything was going to happen, Burke thought it would be soon.

  As they crossed the bridge into neighbouring Tarascon and by its chateau, the leaders increased the pace even more and Tarascon quickly became a memory. No one was talking. Everyone was racing.

  And as he struggled to keep pace, Burke wondered if this would be the first vintage race without an anti-Yablonski incident.

  Chapter 32

  Burke finally lost contact with the fastest riders about 10 kilometres out of Arles. He was too tired to match their speed any longer and quickly drifted back, aware he had just enough energy to coast to the finish line. In cycling parlance, Burke knew he had “bonked.”

  As for any practical joke at Yablonski’s expense, Burke no longer believed there would be one, not at this point.

  Maybe the pranksters had moved on.

  The race finish in Arles was right by the Arena. When Burke got there, the place was pandemonium with thousands of people cheering the participants who had to finish along a narrow runway that allowed three riders abreast at most.

  Once across the finish line, Burke was marshalled into another area where he safely stored his bike; security staff were carefully monitoring the bike compound.

  Once he was free of his machine, Burke happily accepted a drink of juice and a banana from a volunteer and then started walking about.

  But it wasn’t easy to move. The area immediately around the Arena was not large enough to handle the masses today and the half-dozen lanes that fed into the area were crammed with humanity. But the organizers had obviously wanted someplace spectacular for the finish and this was definitely the place.

  With so many people, finding a spot to sit was impossible. His legs aching and his shoulders stiff, Burke wanted a hot shower and a nap, but knew he shouldn’t leave. So, he kept walking, snapping the occasional photo and taking some video with his smartphone. He interviewed a few riders who said they had enjoyed the ride and the mild conditions. He also chatted with a dozen spectators who seemed thrilled to be part of such a festive occasion. Most told Burke they were from out of town, but still from Provence.

  In another hour, as the last few cyclists rode in, the organizers began their post-race celebrations with the same announcer from the Nice event handling the master-of-ceremonies job from a small stage. He was as polished and enthusiastic as before.

  And he did essentially the same patter as he had provided in Nice.

  Then he introduced Bosco Yablonski who bounded up the stairs, shook hands with the MC and waved to the cheering crowd. He looked like he had won the lottery.

  He thanked everyone for showing up and praised the riders for their efforts. He also complimented God for providing perfect weather for the day.

  Burke groaned at that one.

  But the crowd didn’t, applauding Yablonski. If anything, Burke thought Yablonski’s popularity was higher than ever. Whoever had targeted him for the pranks had failed to embarrass him.

  But was it the same case with his business interests? Were they being affected? Burke told himself he’d check their status later.

  Then, from the top of the Arena wall, a figure popped out at the end of a rope with some kind of banner hanging from the right foot.

  And then the figure burst into flames.

  Chapter 33

  There were screams in the crowd, not many but just enough to make hundreds of people back up, creating a crush of bodies which, in turn, led to more screams. People were being pushed against the walls of houses and shops with nowhere to go. Burke thought chaos was near.

  “Please, please, do not panic,” Yablonski said, looking up at the burning figure. “There is no danger.”

  Burke wasn’t so sure about that.

  He looked at the banner which hadn’t yet been touched by the flames but would be soon. The words made him shiver: Bosco Yablonski – for all your sins was on the top part and, beneath that, was the message: Courtesy of L’Equipment Technologique Inc.

  Burke had a pretty good idea who was the power behind L’Equipment Technologique Inc. Given that all the other “Courtesy of” messages had targeted one of Yablonski’s holdings, Burke couldn’t see L’Equipment Technologique Inc. belonging to anyone else but Yablonski.

  Burke looked at the s
tage to see how the tycoon was doing and spotted Yablonski standing still, his mouth open, his eyes staring upward. He had never expected to see himself being burned in effigy.

  And then a burning arm from the figure detached itself and fell.

  Burke heard more screams as people pushed back to avoid the flames and anything else that might fall.

  The fire reached the banner and, in seconds, it was engulfed in flames.

  The local gendarmes were now asserting themselves, cordoning off an area below the figure burning from the top wall. Some officers were also ushering people down the alleys to ease the pressure on the people pressed against buildings.

  “Don’t panic,” cried one policeman.

  Burke wondered if telling people not to panic actually prompted them to do exactly that.

  Slowly, though, the police presence had a calming effect; the screaming stopped and people quit pushing themselves backward.

  When a leg from the burning figure fell to the ground, a firefighter with an extinguisher immediately put out the flames. When the rest of the figure fell to the ground, he did the same.

  Still standing on the stage by the mic, Yablonski said nothing. He had stopped looking upward or at the debris on the ground. Instead, he scanned the crowd, his face locked into a scowl.

  This wasn’t what he had expected.

  He had some security staff around him, including the muscleman Burke had faced off with in Saint-Raphaël. The tall woman who had been by Yablonski’s side in Nice and during the Arles news conference was once again by his shoulder, leaning toward him and saying something.

  The MC took command of the mic and urged everyone to stay calm and obey the police, adding it was just some stupid prank.

  Burke looked around at faces. Everyone seemed hypnotized by events. If there was someone in the crowd who knew in advance what would occur, Burke couldn’t see any indication. But he’d bet a million euros there were at least a couple of people in that crowd who weren’t surprised by Yablonski being burned in effigy.

  A few moments later, two police officers pulled the banner and remnants of the Yablonski figure from the top wall of the Arena.