A Vintage End

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  Peter nodded and left.

  “It’s time to relax now, Paul,” Ginny said, dropping her backpack onto the table and pulling out her digital SLR camera with some kind of telephoto lens.

  “That’s quite the camera,” Rousseau said.

  “Peter bought it for me for my birthday – and for this trip,” Ginny said. “I love photography and this camera is all I could ask for.”

  “You’re lucky,” said Rousseau who, as Burke knew, was a photography buff.

  As Rousseau and Ginny chatted about the various features of her camera, Burke looked around.

  Despite the police presence and the strong security at various venues, Burke thought it was almost as if the explosion had never occurred.

  Chapter 61

  Burke was on his second 1664 Blanc and feeling slightly less tense. Every few minutes, he excused himself and checked social media, but the only vintage-race posts focused on the party mood at the finish line.

  Then Burke saw he had a new text. It was from Madame Benoit. It said:

  “I’ve been investigating. The dead widower had a telescope in his greenhouse to look at the stars – and other things. Neighbours say he was nosy and could sometimes be belligerent. Interesting, yes?”

  Burke could see Madame was leading him someplace and then he saw where. The old man had possibly had his telescope pointed away from the stars, seen something he shouldn’t have and gone out to investigate. He ended up dead as a result.

  Maybe.

  In the background, a gypsy jazz band, complete with accordion, two fiddles, two guitars and a singer with a funky, throaty voice, started to belt out a tune that belonged to an era long ago or so Burke, usually a non-music enthusiast, thought. Whatever period they were focusing on, they were outstanding and the music helped calm Burke even more.

  There was a brief interruption in the music and the MC introduced the mayor who thanked the crowd and urged people to stay around for the post-race festivities.

  There was no mention of an explosion. Or of all the police hanging around.

  Then it was back to the music.

  A few minutes later, the crowd erupted into applause. Burke had no idea what people were cheering for and then he spotted a handful of cyclists crossing the finish line, looking haggard but pleased at their efforts.

  Burke spotted Bosco Yablonski, with a security ring of six husky individuals around him, chatting with the mayor and the MC to the side of the main stage. It seemed Yablonski would be addressing the crowd soon.

  Scanning the area, Burke saw several gendarmes with walky-talkies stuck to their ear. The crowd may be relaxed, but the police weren’t. Burke expected Yablonski’s appearance would be the final opportunity for trouble. After that, the series of vintage races would be over, and Yablonski would return to his businesses and projects although there was always the possibility that the attacks on his character in social media would continue.

  A few minutes later, the band took a break and the MC took control of the mic with a couple of announcements. Then he introduced Bosco Yablonski who took to the mic with a wave to the crowd which greeted him warmly. The man’s history was proving irrelevant to people although it was a different matter with the stock markets, Burke thought.

  Yablonski kept to his standard script, thanking the riders, the spectators, the host community and the other sponsors.

  “I would also like to announce that the success of these vintage races has been so great that the main sponsors are intending to support another series of races next year,” he said, his voice increasing in volume with excitement.

  The crowd erupted into applause.

  Burke was surprised. He had expected Yablonski’s reaction to the end of this final race would be relief and a self-promise to never engage in such an activity again.

  Now there would be races next year.

  The crowd’s attention was on the stage. However, Burke thought there might be a few in the audience looking elsewhere.

  “Ginny, do you mind if I borrow your camera for a minute or two?” he said. “I’m not going to take any photos. I just want to look around using your lens.”

  “Sure, go ahead, Paul,” said Ginny, punching the ON button on her camera and pointing to a ring on the lens. “This is the focus.”

  Burke looked through the viewfinder and made some adjustments for clarity. He was amazed at how strong the lens was; it captured individuals 200 metres away and made them appear as if they were five metres away.

  Slowly, he scanned the crowd, noticing that virtually all the spectators in the beer gardens and beyond were watching the activities on the stage.

  Most of the gendarmes were also looking at the stage.

  Then he stopped when he saw someone who looked vaguely familiar: a young man, mid or late 20s, tall, thin, wearing a grey toque and dark wraparound sunglasses, beige linen shirt, brown slacks. He was on the phone but not talking much.

  “André, look at the guy standing on that concrete block by the bike rack over there,” Burke said, handing his friend the camera. “Does he look familiar?”

  Rousseau took the camera and searched for the individual. When he located him, he studied the face and frame.

  “He looks a little familiar, but the beanie and the sunglasses make it tough to know for sure,” Rousseau said. “Who do you think it is, Paul?”

  “Christophe Talbot.”

  Rousseau looked through the camera viewfinder again.

  “I think you might be right,” Rousseau said.

  He kept looking through the camera.

  “Now this is interesting,” Rousseau said. “Someone has just joined Talbot and he looks familiar. I’ve seen him before, but I can’t remember exactly where.”

  Burke wanted to take control of the camera, but he resisted the impulse since Rousseau was close to recalling the other individual.

  “I know who it is,” Rousseau said a moment later.

  He held the camera out to Burke.

  “In the first race that ended in Saint-Raphaël, do you remember that guy who was complaining to the organizers that the police were ruining his chances of winning? I’m sure that’s him beside Talbot.”

  Burke looked through the camera and saw the same slender, pinch-faced person who had howled at organizers about how the skeleton scene was disrupting the race and his chances for victory. Like Talbot, he was dressed casually without any hint of cycling garb.

  “You’re right, André,” said Burke, still watching the pair through the camera.

  As Burke watched, the two men exchanged a few words and then Talbot spoke rapidly into his cellphone.

  Burke saw them look to the right of the stage where the giant tent was busy with sponsors, other special guests and organizers.

  Then Burke caught sight of a young man dressed in the uniform of the catering company walking out – with a cellphone in his right ear. The man moved quickly, nodding a couple of times and mouthing a few words.

  “André, I think something is going to happen,” Burke said, still watching through the camera as the man from the catering company started to go down a side street.

  He handed the camera to his friend, pointing to the disappearing man.

  “I think that guy in the uniform of the catering company is part of our anti-Yablonski group,” Burke said.

  “I see him,” Rousseau said. “Damn, he’s gone into the crowd.”

  “Can you follow him?” Burke said.

  Rousseau got to his feet instantly.

  “I’ll do what I can and call you,” he said, handing the camera to Burke.

  And Rousseau was gone.

  “What’s going on Paul?” Ginny asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I believe we’re about to have another incident,” he said.

  Chapter 62

  Trusting his new friends, Burke explained what he was thinking. After he finished, Peter asked if they could help.

  “Can you stay here and watch those two men over there wi
th your camera?” he said. “I want to get close to them, maybe even have a chat, but I could lose them in all this activity.”

  “Give us your cellphone number,” Ginny said, taking control of the camera and nodding at her husband who took out his cellphone and punched in Burke’s number.

  “Thanks,” said Burke, turning to leave.

  “Good luck,” Ginny said.

  However, Burke hadn’t gone more than a few metres when he was distracted by a commotion to the side. He looked back and saw two uniformed medics with medical bags jogging toward the VIP tent. A few steps behind were another pair of medics, also rushing.

  He watched as three security people, two men and a woman, blocked any more access to the tent.

  “I wonder what’s happening?” he heard one spectator say to her companion. “It certainly doesn’t look good.”

  Moments later an EMT vehicle, with its lights flashing, pushed its way through the crowd toward the tent. A second EMT van, coming from another street, moved in behind the first.

  Several gendarmes showed up by the front of the tent, moving people farther away to give access to the two EMT trucks.

  Suddenly, the crowd, including those at the beer gardens, went silent although more than a few people hauled out their phones to take photos or video.

  The only sounds were from the EMT vehicles and some muffled voices inside the tent. Then Burke heard yelling and even a scream.

  He turned back to see where Yablonski was.

  Yablonski was being escorted off the stage by several of his security, a couple of them on phones. The MC was still standing by the mic, the mayor at his shoulder, neither saying a word.

  Then the mayor took charge, urging the crowd to allow the EMT personnel to have access to the VIP tent, an order which seemed unnecessary to Burke since it was clear the gendarmes had already cleared enough space.

  Burke wondered about something and pulled out his smartphone. A moment later he was accessing various social media. On at least two, he saw:

  “People were told about supporting Yablonski. Here is the consequence.”

  It had been posted seconds earlier which told Burke that someone in a position to see the VIP tent had done the posts.

  He looked up to where Talbot and the Saint-Raphaël racer had been. They were gone. He scanned the crowd and spotted them a few metres away, pushing their way through the crowd in an obvious rush to get away.

  Burke tried to close the gap on them, but it wasn’t easy since no one was leaving the area and most people were actually surging forward for a better view of what was happening at the VIP tent.

  If anything, the distance between the two men and Burke was expanding.

  Behind him, Burke heard the mayor say: “The small problem in the VIP tent will be handled soon so please relax and we will be returning to our festivities in a minute.”

  Burke glanced over his shoulder at the stage where the MC looked totally lost and where the mayor was urging the musicians to return to the stage and play.

  He wondered how Rousseau was doing.

  Then he heard an ambulance siren. And then another one.

  Whatever was going on was only getting worse, Burke thought.

  Chapter 63

  Burke kept pushing through the crowd, but it was a lost cause. There were simply too many people to make any passage an easy one.

  Burke heard his cellphone ring and he grabbed it.

  “They’re heading south, away from the main street and downtown,” said Peter.

  Burke thought his new friends were the type of people you could rely on in a crisis.

  “OK, got it,” he said, almost yelling. “Can you stay on?”

  “I’ll stay on, Paul,” Peter said.

  Burke headed in the direction Peter had told him, waving his hand in the air to emphasize his location to them. More than once, he heard someone curse his lack of manners.

  Behind him was another siren.

  He was almost out of the throng.

  “They turned right at the next corner where you are,” Peter said.

  Burke wondered how Peter was managing to get such a good view and he glanced back, seeing Peter standing on his chair back at the beer gardens, one arm waving in case Burke needed further direction. To others around Peter and Ginny, it probably seemed some strange illness had taken control of the lanky Englishman, Burke thought.

  Burke kept pushing and elbowing until he was through the bulk of the crowd.

  He didn’t see Talbot and the Saint-Raphaël racer.

  But he trusted Peter and Ginny and so he started running in the direction Peter had told him.

  He turned the corner and saw a dozen people walking toward him, obviously attracted by the sirens and the possibility of seeing some kind of disaster in the making.

  Talbot and his friend were gone.

  But Burke kept running, glancing at every street corner to see if he could spot them.

  Finally, as he approached the river, he gave up. He was soaked in sweat and panting. And he was frustrated.

  He cursed. He had been so close. Of course, he wasn’t sure what he would have done if he had come face to face with them.

  And then, to Burke’s shock, he saw the two men he had been chasing, standing on the far side of a slightly battered white van no more than 50 metres away.

  And looking directly back at him.

  Chapter 64

  Burke didn’t know if he should run at them or run from them. Or if he should start yelling for the police.

  “What’s happening, Paul?” came an insistent voice on his phone.

  Burke had forgotten he was still connected to Peter.

  “I’ve found them,” he said. “Or they’ve found me. I’m not sure which.”

  “Where are you?” Peter asked, the urgency in his voice obvious to Burke.

  Burke told him where he thought he was.

  “We’ll get hold of the police and tell them where you are,” Peter said. “Stay on the line. Don’t do anything silly.”

  There was that advice again, Burke thought. Everyone seemed to think he’d be happy to rush right into trouble.

  And, when he thought about it, that’s exactly what he had done.

  Now trouble was coming at him.

  “Are you looking for someone, Monsieur?” said the thin racer from the Saint-Raphaël event.

  “I am, but I seemed to have lost him,” Burke replied, trying to sound casual.

  “But now you’re here and talking to us,” the thin man said and Burke couldn’t help noticing how dark and intense the man’s beady eyes were.

  “Well, maybe you can help me,” Burke said. “He’s middle-aged, husky, balding. Have you seen him?”

  Claude’s image was the first one that had popped into his head.

  “We saw no one like that,” the thin man said, continuing to advance, although slowing his pace.

  Behind him was Christophe Talbot, leaning against the car, his hands in his pockets.

  Burke felt his heart thump.

  “Or is it that you are following us?” the thin man suggested, stopping five metres from Burke.

  “Why would I do that?” Burke asked. “I don’t know you.”

  “Are you sure about that, Monsieur Burke?” the man said.

  Burke thought they were likely responsible for the threatening emails.

  “I thought you’d be smart enough to keep away,” the young man told Burke.

  Burke could only shrug in response. He had no backup plan. If it came to some kind of brawl, it would be two against one. He was fit, but they were, too – and younger. They were also desperate.

  Burke thought they might also have a weapon or two with them.

  Talbot took his hands out of his pockets and began approaching.

  Burke thought about his promise to Hélène to stay safe and sound. That promise was about to be broken.

  And then he thought about all the police in Vaison, but not one officer was nearby at
that moment.

  He was alone. And vulnerable.

  “It would have been good for all of us if you had just gone onto writing about other matters,” said the thin man.

  Burke remembered the adage that “the best defence is a good offence” and so he tried to show no fear or worry.

  “You’re the ones behind the attacks on Bosco Yablonski,” he said. “You’re the ones who exploded that bomb in Arles, burned him in effigy and threw tacks on the course that ended in Nice.”

  Neither man in front of him said anything.

  “And you’re the ones who killed that cyclist by the canal,” Burke added.

  The thin man’s face scowled in anger.

  “That wasn’t us,” he said. “The victim was one of us, a friend, a colleague in our project.”

  Burke wondered about the words “colleague” and “project.” The two young men didn’t sound like street toughs, but they did speak like well-educated individuals.

  More importantly, though, Burke wondered about their denial that they had killed the cyclist. In his mind, the victim had likely disagreed with the others, maybe threatened to call the police, and an argument had gone wrong, resulting in murder. The group had fractured and someone had paid the ultimate price.

  “We didn’t kill Éric, but we know who did,” said Talbot, now standing beside his thin companion.

  “OK, who did it?” said Burke, no longer feeling as afraid as a moment before.

  “Bosco Yablonski,” Talbot said.

  “He did it, Yablonski, by himself?” Burke said incredulously.

  “Or one of his thugs,” the thin man said. “Money can buy you many things including individuals ready to do your dirty work for you.”

  “Do you know that for a fact?” Burke said.

  “It’s what we believe, but we might have trouble proving it,” Talbot said. “That’s why it’s a shame you didn’t take the hints and do some decent research and point out what Yablonski is all about.”

  Burke couldn’t believe he was discussing Bosco Yablonski in the middle of a deserted street in a town beset by chaos not much more than a half kilometre away.

  But he wanted to keep the two men talking. And he wanted to know what they would say.