Burke didn’t attend any of the court action, but read accounts in the newspapers and online as well as watched the news on TV. A few times he saw photos or videos of Julien Sauvageot and Sylvie Côté in the background. He smiled to himself that Daniel Bonnier received no air time despite all the media attention given the cases.
One morning in mid July, after all the court action was completed, Burke strolled down to Jean’s for his morning newspapers and a visit with his friend.
As usual, Plato charged over to say hello to the newsagent. Lots of rubbing ensued.
Jean motioned for Burke to sit at their usual table.
Moments later, they were sipping a coffee.
Then Jean brought out a national newspaper, turned to an inside page and jabbed a finger at a small story buried at the bottom.
Burke saw the headline: “French businessman charged with human trafficking.”
“Read it,” Jean said, handing over the paper.
Burke did.
And learned how Bosco Yablonski had been charged in connection with the deaths of a dozen African refugees who had died aboard a boat smuggling them from northern Africa to the southern tip of Sicily.
The story said that someone on the vessel, owned by Yablonski, had locked 300 refugees in a small, windowless storage area and then provided them with hardly any water or food for more than two days. When the boat reached shore on a brutally hot night, it was seized by the Italian Coast Guard who had been tipped off and who had found 12 refugees had perished under the conditions.
The Italian authorities traced the boat to Yablonski who, it seemed, had been involved directly in arranging the trip. He was arrested not far from the landing site, taken away in handcuffs.
And within hours, it was discovered Yablonski had been involved in smuggling people not just into Italy but Greece and Spain. He had been making almost a million euros a week by such activities.
Yablonski’s lawyer told the media that the Swiss-based businessman “was only trying to help people escape a cycle of death and despair.”
The story offered a quote from an Italian prosecutor who said there could be “no denying this was anything but the blatant trafficking of human beings. Nothing drove this situation but the desire for profit.”
Burke shook his head. Human trafficking, as ugly an activity as there could be. But it was one familiar to the Yablonski clan. Uncle Sébastien had run an operation during the last days of the Second World War and his nephew Bosco had tried to update the family trade by smuggling Africans.
Burke placed the newspaper on the table and took a sip from his coffee.
“He didn’t even make the front page,” Jean said. “He’s yesterday’s news. Gone and soon to be forgotten.”
“Do you think any of this tragic mess surrounding Yablonski would have happened if a French president and a German president hadn’t met to commemorate the massacre of Oradour-sur-Glane?” Burke asked his friend.
“Somehow I doubt it,” Jean said.
“I do, too,” Burke said.
Neither said a word for a few moments.
“I’d been wondering what Yablonski was up to,” Burke said.
“Now we know,” Jean said.
“And now we also know where he’s going.”
Jean nodded. “Straight to hell,” he said.
Burke couldn’t disagree.
Postscript
The basic information presented about the massacre at Oradour-sur-Glane during the Second World War is correct. The commemorative joint visit almost 70 years later by French President François Hollande and German President Joachim Gauck is also factual. However, the reason for such a long wait to commemorate the site is a matter of conjecture.
The murders of unarmed Canadian soldiers by the Germans is also a matter of history although the related facts have been obscured through time by the overall scope and importance of the Normandy invasion.
As for the use of bicycles during the Second World War, the information is accurate; bikes were used in a variety of ways and in a variety of places to positive effect even though the war was considered to be heavily “mechanized.”
Corbas prison outside Lyon has unfortunately struggled with the problems identified in this novel. In trying to create a safer, more-modern environment, the planners inadvertently created a system that produced an unexpectedly high suicide rate.
As for the 75 drug cartel criminals going to prison in one widespread sweep by French authorities, that is a matter of record as France fights its own war against drugs.
The description of the murder of businessman Georges Besse, the head of Renault, by the revolutionary group Action Directe is factual as are the consequences to those who undertook the killing. The group, which operated in France between 1979 and 1987, was responsible for a number of assassinations and other violent attacks.
The terrorist attacks in January 2015 in Paris made world-wide news as extremists slaughtered not just the Charlie Hebdo cartoonists, but also police and Jewish shoppers over a 48-hour period.
There is plenty of computer hacking in this novel, but that should come as no surprise to readers. The problem has become a global one.
As for African refugees being smuggled into Europe, that, too, is true. Many go from Africa to the island of Lampedusa off Sicily because of its short 115-kilometre distance. They come for a better life. Some are able to move farther into Italy, find basic work and survive, while others are returned to Africa and a questionable future. Still others don’t survive the trials of the trip. Other European nations face similar situations. And the problem is only growing in scope with thousands of refugees from Middle East and southwestern Asian conflicts streaming across borders in a bid for safety.
That’s brings us to vintage bicycle races. Their popularity is growing, especially in Italy, but the passion hasn’t quite reached North American shores. Maybe soon.
As for the beauty of the communities mentioned in the book, there can be no arguing about that. Each of those communities, from the large city of Nice to the small town of Vaison-la-Romaine, has unique qualities and physical attributes that make it special. I can only recommend you visit them all if you have the opportunity to tour southern France. You won’t be disappointed.
The next Paul Burke mystery:
Chapter 1
It was Day 5 of the 10-day-long, team-building exercise and the group of participants, their aides, their families and tour staff continued the routine that had been established at the outset.
After a buffet breakfast on the two-deck Danube cruise ship, the participants collected their high-end rental bicycles and then gathered by the river’s edge for their day’s instructions. Behind them was the picturesque village of Dürnstein, one of the most famous in Austria because of its castle ruins that towered above the tiny community and where Richard the Lionheart had been held captive nine centuries earlier.
Ex-pro cyclist Paul Burke stood near the participants. He had earned a gig as a tour guide partly due to his cycling blogs and columns for a group of French Riviera newspapers, and partly due to his notoriety in helping solve some murders in southern France.
“We’ve covered how to pace ourselves and how to work more efficiently for better results,” said the group’s facilitator, Renata Hable, a tall, blonde Dutchwoman in her early 40s who led the group on its daily rides. “Today’s goal is to work on sacrificing ourselves for the team.”
She was speaking English since all the participants had at least a decent grasp of the language.
Then she discussed how cycling’s “domestiques” or workers often had to forgo their own ambitions for those of the team and, more specifically, for the team leader. That meant protecting the leader against the wind, and collecting water and food gels from the team car and then delivering them to the stars of the team.
“If those domestiques don’t contribute, the leader doesn’t win,” Hable said. “It’s hard, thankless work, but it’s necessary.”
The nine men and six women came from eight nations: France, Germany, Switzerland, the Netherlands, Japan, Australia, Canada and the United States. They were between 35 and 55. Most spoke at least three languages fluently.
They were all alpha dogs, used to giving commands and being immediately obeyed.
So far, they had followed Hable’s directions each day without protest although they had done so without much enthusiasm.
Team players? Not a chance, Burke thought.
His job was simple: Bring up the rear, ensure everyone rode safely, provide direction when necessary, repair any basic mechanical issues and, at the end of the day’s ride, critique how the group had done following Hable’s directions. Since he rode behind everyone, he had the best view of how they performed.
Each day, they had listened to Burke, but he knew most of them had likely been thinking about other matters as he had spoken.
The only time any of the group members had shown a modicum of interest in him was when the Frenchman recalled Burke’s involvement in helping solve two murders associated with the Tour de France and then two deaths connected to a series of vintage bicycle races several months later. The German and the Canadian had asked a few questions about the cases.
The others hadn’t cared.
Burke felt someone come up beside him.
It was his friend Claude Brière, still dressed in his navy-blue chef’s jacket.
Burke had lobbied successfully to have Claude added to the tour staff as a chef. His friend was a culinary talent of the first order. When he wasn’t working in the ship’s kitchen with another chef, a quiet Austrian named Reinhard, and their staff of a half dozen, he was around to chat with the riders, their staff and families. It was easy work for Claude because he was charming, witty and clever. He loved the company of people and the art of good conversation.
He was also an ex-convict who had done time for recommending violent action against a development company. However, the tour’s organizers had still hired him, thanks to Burke’s recommendations and to Claude’s exemplary post-prison behaviour.
“They look truly interested today,” Claude whispered to Burke in French.
From the grin on Claude’s face, Burke knew he was being sarcastic.
The group swelled with a dozen family members showing up. There were now about 90 people listening to Hable’s final words.
Then from high above the village came a voice.
“Did anyone hear what was being yelled?” asked the American.
“No.”
“Too far away.”
“It wasn’t clear enough to understand.”
The voice sounded again.
This time it was louder.
“Help!”
Everyone understood this time.
About the author
D’Arcy Kavanagh, shown above in the old village part of Villeneuve-Loubet in southern France, is a former journalist and journalism instructor who has spent decades touring Europe and writing about his travels for magazines and newspapers. A Vintage End is his second novel featuring ex-pro cyclist and blogger-columnist Paul Burke. His first book featuring Burke was The Bastard is Dead. Kavanagh lives in Lethbridge, Alberta, Canada.
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