Burke figured all the answers would only come out in court. Or maybe not.
“Why the lesser charge for Talbot, Belcourt and Holz for poisoning those people in the VIP tent?” Burke asked.
“Aggravated assault remains a serious charge, Monsieur,” Sauvageot said.
The policeman looked over Burke’s shoulder. In turn, Burke glanced back.
The impromptu news conference on the steps of the gendarmerie was over and some of the journalists, ever curious, were approaching them. They’d be there in seconds.
“Maybe they didn’t put anything really bad in the food,” Côté said in a lower voice. “Maybe just some oil or something.”
The journalists arrived.
“I can only say, Monsieur, that if you want to complain about how the vintage race was patrolled, you should take it up with Inspector Bonnier,” Sauvageot said in a loud voice for the benefit of the newcomers. “He was the one who was out there on the course.”
He nodded at Côté and the two left.
Burke smiled at how Sauvageot had put the focus on Bonnier, ever the media chaser.
Behind him, Burke heard one reporter tell another: “They were only talking about yesterday’s race course.”
The journalists and camera people started to go in different directions.
“What was all that about?” Rousseau said when Burke came over to him.
Burke gave his friend a short version of his conversation with Côté and Sauvageot.
“That answers some questions,” Rousseau said.
“If it’s acceptable to you, André, let’s go down to the river and you can do your Steve Spielberg thing and film another blog for me,” Burke said.
Rousseau smiled.
“Tomorrow, I’ll be selling bicycle tires and heart monitors and, if I’m lucky, a bike or two,” he said. “But this morning, it’s all about the camera – and murder and attempted murder. You know how to provide a guy with an exciting time, Paul.”
They walked to the river and filmed a quick blog with Burke relating that Bosco Yablonski’s special projects specialist, Josette Martel, was facing an accessory-to-murder charge. He also suggested an old man’s use of a telescope had been vital in breaking the double-murder case, providing only the briefest of explanations. If he got in trouble with the flics or Clément Marignac, that was life. But he doubted he would.
He concluded by saying the four-week-long affair involving the vintage bicycle races and Bosco Yablonski might seem like it was over – but it was far from it.
“Let’s go home now, André,” Burke said after they finished filming.
Chapter 79
His eyes closed, Burke held Hélène in his arms like he never wanted to release her. If he did, the outside world would creep back and, while it wasn’t such a bad place for him, the last few days had taken a toll.
“I have missed you, too, chéri,” she whispered into his ear.
Finally, he let her go and they went into the living room, sitting close to each other on the couch.
“Tell me what happened,” she said. “I’ve followed the stories in the news, but tell me about what really went on.”
A half hour later, when he was done, Hélène draped an arm over his shoulders.
“And you were safe throughout all this?” she said.
“I thought for a moment I might be in trouble, but I wasn’t,” Burke said. “I remembered my promise to you. I also had André around and he was invaluable – and a good protector.”
“André is a good man,” Hélène said.
They sat quietly for a few moments. Then Plato jumped up beside them, nuzzling Burke’s arm. He responded by rubbing the dog’s caramel-coloured ears.
“You know you’ve been in the news, Paul,” Hélène said.
“I did an interview with my Nice TV station,” he said.
“I saw it,” Hélène said. “It’s been replayed a couple of times. You were good. Then there’s your video blog, the one you did by the river. I was at the café earlier, just before you arrived home, and I heard some people talking about it.”
“What did they say?”
“That what’s being reported is probably just the tip of the iceberg.”
“There’s truth in that,” Burke said.
It was early afternoon and Hélène had to get back to the café to help with the lunch crowd.
“Uncle Claude will be there, too, chéri,” she said as she got ready to leave. “Maybe you can drop by and say hello. I know he’d like to see you.”
“How is he working out?” said Burke, happy to change the topic.
“Very well,” Hélène said. “But I can see his brain is working on something. He hasn’t told me what, but I expect he will soon.”
When she was gone, Burke thought about going for a ride, maybe into the hills behind the village. He could lose himself up there, thinking about nothing but the landscape and the road ahead.
Then Plato nuzzled his arm again.
Forget the ride. He’d take his dog for a walk around the village.
And so, postponing unpacking till after the walk, he leashed Plato and left the apartment.
They hadn’t gone more than 50 metres when Monsieur Laboissière, a retired gent in his late 70s, motioned for them to come over. Burke was fine with doing so since the old man was always pleasant and invariably had something unusual to say.
When they got close, Burke noticed Plato eyeing the colourful flower pots lining the tiny front yard. If he could, the small dog would like nothing better than to sneak a few squirts onto the closest flowers. So, as Burke looked directly at his neighbour, he shortened the leash so Plato couldn’t get into any mischief.
“You’ve been a busy man, Paul,” Monsieur Laboissière said.
Burke shrugged and said he had been out of town at a bicycle race.
“I know,” the old man said with a smile. “We all know. You have been on TV and in the newspapers and online, I understand.”
“It has been an eventful last few days,” Burke admitted.
Taking advantage of his master’s momentary distraction, Plato was pulling toward a pot containing daisies and getting ready to hoist a leg. At the last second, Burke nudged the small dog gently with the front of his foot. Plato looked disappointed.
“I don’t know this Monsieur Yablonski, but I think he isn’t going to be a happy man in the near future,” Monsieur Laboissière said.
“Why?”
“I think he is about to lose some of his business empire,” the old man said.
“That could be.”
“No one wants to be associated with anyone who might have a connection to the Nazis or to war profiteering, even if those suggestions prove to be false.”
Burke agreed.
“Two weeks ago, I had stock in two of his companies. I don’t any longer. I sold out because I thought the shares would drop in value and do so quickly. And they did. Today, they’re worth half what they were.”
“I hope you didn’t lose much, Monsieur,” Burke said.
“My timing was good,” Monsieur Laboissière said. “I have since re-invested the money, this time into lithium because of all our new-age battery use – and so far I’m doing very well.”
“I’m glad,” said Burke, making a mental note to talk later with the old man about the stock markets.
They chatted a few more minutes about other matters and then Burke, tired of trying to keep Plato out of trouble, said he had to go.
“I look forward to your next adventure, Paul,” Monsieur Laboissière said.
Then they wished each other a bonne journée.
Had the vintage bike races been an adventure, Burke wondered. They had been exhausting, frustrating and frightening, but an adventure? Not for a moment. Not when people had been killed and others were looking at years behind bars.
Thirty minutes later, after covering most of the perimeter of the village, Burke took Plato to the Café de Neptune.
No
t surprisingly since the weather was sunny and mild, the terrace was jammed with only one, small vacant table.
Burke caught Hélène’s eye and she smiled in recognition, adding a wave at Plato whose tail wagged at the sight of her. Then she nodded toward the inside of the café.
Burke tied Plato to a small post at the side of the café entrance; it was Plato’s personal spot with a small blanket and a tin dish filled with water, ready for him or any other visiting pooch.
Burke went inside and instantly spotted Claude, whose face was red with effort, working simultaneously on several dishes. Beside him was Hélène’s main chef of the last few months, Manon, a young woman with great skills, especially with desserts.
“Ah, Paul, you’re back,” the big man said, coming out from behind the counter and embracing Burke. “You’ve been busy, I hear.”
“I have and I hear you have been, too,” Burke said.
Claude shrugged and then returned to his spot back in the open kitchen.
“One of these days, I will tell you what I have been up to and what I plan to do,” he added. “For the moment, though, I must return to assisting the magical Manon here.”
Manon, for her part, grinned, leaned over and kissed Claude on the cheek.
Burke smiled and said they would catch up later.
Then he collected Plato who was reluctant to depart because he was getting a back rub from a new customer.
On the way home, Burke looked around.
He wasn’t in Saint-Raphaël with its beautiful beaches, in Nice with its lovely Old Town, in Arles with its majestic Arena or in Vaison-la-Romaine with its ancient stone bridge and Roman ruins. He was in the quiet old village of Villeneuve-Loubet.
But no one was getting killed. No limos were blowing up. And people weren’t being rushed to the hospital.
It was pretty and tranquil, and it had Hélène and Jean and Monsieur Laboissière and other good people.
It was home.
And it was perfect.
Chapter 80
Two days later, Burke grabbed Plato and quietly left the apartment, careful not to wake Hélène who had worked late the previous night.
Outside, Burke sensed the start of summer. The official beginning wasn’t for a few more weeks, but there was warmth in the air that, at not quite 7:30 a.m., didn’t require him to wear a jacket. The sun was also well up, bathing the village in brightness and telling every bird in the area it was time to sing at full volume.
Plato knew where they were going and led the way, pulling at the leash in a bid to get Burke to speed up.
A couple of minutes later, they were at Jean’s newsagent’s shop.
“Coffee, Paul?” Jean asked, ready to grab two cups of a fresh brew.
“Only if you’ll join me, Jean,” Burke replied.
He let Plato off the leash and the small dog romped over to greet Jean who greeted the animal with enthusiastic rubbing of the ears. Then Jean excused himself to pour two coffees. He was back within a minute.
“Have you heard the news, my friend?” Jean said, placing their coffees on the nearest table and dropping onto one of the small steel chairs.
“What news?” Burke said, sitting opposite the newsagent.
Jean reached over to one of the mobile newspaper stands and grabbed two national newspapers.
“Your friend Bosco Yablonski got taken over, at least virtually all his holdings did, sometime yesterday,” Jean told him, pointing at one headline that said: Hostile takeover surprises Yablonski. “It wasn’t announced until last evening. By then, business journalists all over Europe were on the story.”
Burke had known the value of shares in Yablonski’s various companies had tumbled the last few weeks, costing him millions and potentially making him vulnerable, but he had never expected to read a headline of such scope.
“A German-Chinese consortium bought out his parent holding company at less than half value,” Jean said. “They caught Yablonski when his shares were so low that he couldn’t react fast enough and he lost majority power. It seems they were waiting and waiting. Then they pounced. He’s done.”
“A German-Chinese consortium?”
“I know it’s a strange alliance, but it sounds like it had been in the works for months and Yablonski’s recent issues on the stock market were the perfect catalyst to do something,” Jean said. “Apparently a few of Yablonski’s holdings were of considerable interest to the consortium.”
Burke knew Jean had probably read half a dozen stories about Yablonski that morning; his friend usually opened the shop at 6 and spent the first hour not just stocking the shelves with publications, but checking out the latest news as well.
Two locals came in, greeted Burke and Jean, petted Plato and bought a couple of newspapers.
“So, Yablonski got taken over,” one of the locals said. “I just saw the news on TV. The business commentator was calling it one of the biggest deals in this part of the world for a long time.”
“His business empire is gone,” Jean said.
The two left to go to work and Jean sat again.
Burke was scanning stories for any comment from Yablonski. The only official remark came from Yablonski’s new head of communications who said: “This was a dawn raid that we will be challenging in the courts. It is unacceptable in so many ways that we can’t list them all right now. Rest assured, we will be looking after the welfare of our shareholders and the future of our company.”
“Jean, what’s a ‘dawn raid’?”
“It’s when a company sets out to buy all the available shares of another company at the current market price as soon as the market opens,” Jean said.
Burke nodded, trying to understand the takeover process.
“It seems the Germans and Chinese starting buying shares slowly at the start of the market day and then, when it looked like another usual day, they went full throttle. Within a few hours, they had control because Yablonski’s shares were low and they had somehow figured out people wanted to sell those shares – and fast,” Jean said. “At least that’s how I understand it.”
Burke thought back to Monsieur Laboissière’s story.
“Do you think Yablonski can really challenge it in the courts and get back his holding company?”
“I don’t know, Paul, but I can’t see the Germans and Chinese doing this without being prepared to win in court if it gets that far,” Jean said.
“I don’t see any comments from Yablonski in these stories,” Burke said.
“You won’t,” Jean said. “He apparently is incommunicado.”
“Screwed, too.”
“Oh, yes, definitely screwed.”
Chapter 81
Three days later, it became official: Bosco Yablonski had lost his empire. He had no legal defence against what had happened. He had been caught out and there was nothing his high-priced lawyers could produce that would change that fact. When the German-Chinese consortium held a news conference to announce not just the takeover but its plans for its new holdings, it seemed likely the various Yablonski companies would be divided among consortium interests. Within a few months, anything that was once owned by Bosco Yablonski would be barely recognizable, at least in terms of ownership and management.
Burke was about to head out on an afternoon bike ride, the first of the week, when his cellphone rang.
It was Claude asking if they could get together for a chat.
“At the café or here?” Burke asked.
“Let’s try someplace else,” Claude said. “How about Roxie’s?”
Roxie’s was a beach-side café about three kilometres away. Besides its superior food, it offered some of the best views of the Mediterranean to be found within 100 kilometres which made it a favourite of those who knew about it. Both Claude and Burke loved the place.
They agreed to meet there. A half hour later, they were seated on the terrace, under a giant palm tree, a few steps from the boardwalk.
The server came and Claude order
ed, not waiting for Burke: “Two pastis to start, please,” Claude said.
Burke was fine with the order.
“I have some news,” said Claude, breaking into a smile.
Burke waited.
“I have a job,” Claude announced.
“But I thought you’re working at the café?” Burke said.
“Oh, I am, but that has always been a temporary thing, at least since I got my freedom back,” Claude said.
“Does Hélène know about this new job?”
“I told her this morning.”
“What did she say?”
“First, let me tell you what I’ll be involved with, Paul,” Claude said, his smile still controlling his face.
“OK.”
“I am partners in a catering company,” he said.
“But isn’t that a little what you and Hélène do?” Burke asked.
“This is a much bigger deal,” Claude said. “It is also elsewhere – out of Avignon.”
Burke was stunned. He had rarely heard his friend say anything about the city.
“I’m a partner in a group that just bought out a catering firm that went on the market at the start of the week,” Claude said.
Burke asked for the name of the catering firm. Claude told him.
“Are you serious?” Burke said, his voice rising in surprise. “That’s Bosco Yablonski’s old company, the one that did all the catering at the vintage race in Vaison.”
“I know, but it won’t be named that from now on,” Claude said.
Burke was stunned. How had his friend arranged to get involved in the company?
“Yablonski’s empire crumbled this week,” Claude said.
“I know,” Burke said.
“Some people and I had a sense that Yablonski was vulnerable before this last week, and that there was a possibility he might want to sell the catering operation.”
“How did you learn that? I know all his shares went down the last few weeks, but you’re talking like you have insider information or something.”
“Not insider information, Paul – that would be illegal,” Claude said. “Expert information. My friends and I, even when I was behind bars, have paid a lot of attention to the success and failure of various catering companies in southern France. We did our homework on these companies and saw Yablonski’s firm in Avignon was not producing what it could be – or should be. It was vulnerable and we actually thought it might be something he would want to sell.”
A Vintage End Page 33