by Jim Plautz
“I can’t believe it, Daddy, we’re really here!” Lisa gushed with the enthusiasm that only a 16-year old girl can muster.
“Lisa, it’s just another airport,” Pete offered with the worldly wisdom of an 18 year old.
“Like you’ve been to Paris?” Lisa retorted.
“Kids, cool it. Let’s get our bags and get to the hotel. I’m bushed,” I interjected. If you stop arguing I might even have the cab driver take us past the stadium on the way.”
“I thought we leased a van,” Mary pointed out.
“They’re quiet, aren’t they?”
The promise of seeing Roland Garros Stadium kept their bickering to a minimum and we managed to claim our luggage and clear customs in less than an hour. There were five of us including Gregg, so I rented an 8-passenger minivan from Hertz. We would need it to commute back and forth for practice sessions and matches.
Gregg offered to drive, which left me time to think back over the progress Pete and Lisa had made over the last three months. I hoped they were ready. Pete was playing his best tennis and I thought he had a good chance of doing well next week. My main concern was his conditioning and mental toughness, necessary components for the slow, red clay of Roland Garros. The clay courts back home are almost like a hard court surface compared to European red clay. Pete wouldn’t get as many fast, cheap points that he was accustomed to getting. We talked about it, but only time would tell if my advice had sunk in. Do teenagers really listen?
I was afraid that Lisa wasn’t ready for this level of competition. She was playing well, but didn’t have the experience of the other girls she would face. Most had been playing competitive tennis since they were eight. I hoped I was wrong. Either way, it would be a great learning experience.
The x-factor was Ambre. You couldn’t read a sport section or turn on the television without seeing her face. Ambre had won two clay court tune-up tournaments and the French saw a realistic opportunity for Ambre to be the first French-born French Open women’s champion since Francoise Durr in 1977. The hype was comparable to England’s annual hype for Tim Henman to win Wimbledon. How would Pete and Lisa react to seeing her face on French television and on the front page of every French newspaper for the next two weeks? I had a hunch Lisa would use it for extra motivation.
“There it is, kids, Roland Garros Stadium, home of the French Open,” Gregg announced as he pulled into Bois de Boulogne park. We drove through the vast park for minutes before we saw the stadium.
“Wow, it’s huge,” Lisa exclaimed. “May we go in and look around?”
“Gregg, see if you can find the tournament offices. Maybe they have our passes ready.” The tournament started tomorrow, but the junior tournament didn’t start until the second week. I wasn’t sure if the passes would get us in today, but it was worth a try.
Thirty minutes later we were inside the stadium grounds. I had not been getting anywhere with the French tournament director when Lisa came back with five, one-day passes. She had charmed an official. “Your 16-year old daughter is growing up too fast,” I commented to Mary. “She must have been watching her mother in action.”
“Nope, she didn’t have to watch me. Some things just come naturally to women,” Mary said with a wink.
The outer courts were filled as the players were getting in some last minute practice. The Williams sisters were hitting two courts down while their mother looked on. Their dad was busy taking pictures. Pete and Lisa recognized many of the pro players although they looked so different in their casual workout clothes.
There was a large crowd surrounding a practice court. “Let’s see who that is,” Pete suggested.
“We don’t have time, Petie,” I answered quickly. “We need to check into the hotel before they cancel our reservation.” I figured that only Agassi or Ambre would draw a crowd like that, and I wasn’t sure about Agassi. It wasn’t worth the risk.
“Do we have time to take a quick look at the Philippe Chartrier Court,” Pete asked.
“Five minutes,” I said, “and then we need to go.”
“We need your help,” Muhammad implored, as they were having lunch on the same yacht where he had met Ambre four weeks ago. Agbu’s mind drifted back to that evening and the good times they had that first, long weekend. They had cruised for four days before dropping Ambre off in Athens so she could catch a flight to Warsaw. In those four days, Agbu had fallen in love. He looked forward to seeing her again in Paris.”
Agbu quickly came back to the present. He needed these people and their drug connections. “Tell me what you need, my friend. I’ll do what I can.”
“Before we get into that, tell us why you want to triple your supply of product. My partners don’t see how you could possibly have grown your distribution network in so short of time.”
Agbu smiled as he looked around the table. “You underestimate the Basque people and the support we have throughout the Europe and South America, particularly in the France, Portugal, Italy and of course, Spain. There has been a network in place for many years despite the crackdown by Spanish and French authorities. My brother Anton helped build this network and the Basque are waiting for someone to lead them. Basque nationalism is very much alive.”
“The Basque have never been in the drug business, Agbu,” one of the men stated. “Why do they help you distribute the product?” Nobody used the words heroin or cocaine.
“No, they are not in the drug business, but they have contacts with distributors in all the major cities. We offer these distributors a quality product and protection from their competitors. There are many judges and police that are Basque supporters. We take a small percentage for this service.”
“Can you really move the product you requested?” The Al-Qaeda leader was developing a new respect for this 19-year-old who was assuming the leadership of the Basque people. This was a person to be reckoned with, and potentially a valuable asset to their cause.
“We can move ten times the product we requested, but I don’t have the money to pay in advance, and I don’t want to continue asking for shipments on credit. We are expanding into other cities every day. We will have enough cash after we sell the next shipment and in six months, we will be able to distribute anything you can deliver.”
“You are basically just a middleman, aren’t you? You buy our product, mark it up, and then resell it at a huge profit. Is that about it?”
Agbu didn’t like where this conversation was heading. Were they looking to cut him out of the deal or were they squeezing him for more money? “Please don’t underestimate the importance of the Basque network and the value of our services,” he pointed out. “However, we certainly need the product you provide,” Agbu acknowledged.
“Gentlemen, we are all friends here,” Muhammad interrupted. “Agbu, we will approve your request, and if you really believe you can move ten times this amount, I will see about getting you a credit line. It’s the least we can do for friends that are fighting a common cause against the Western establishment.”
“Thank you,” Agbu responded too quickly. He knew immediately that it was too easy. They hadn’t been trying to squeeze him at all. There was something else.
“Now, let’s get back to the other matter that you may be able to help us with. As you know, the French Open tennis tournament will be taking place next month in Paris. We plan to blow up the stadium during the tournament and we need your help.”
Agbu couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Images of Ambre flashed through his mind, but mostly the damage this would do to the Basque movement if they were blamed. Random violence and killing of innocent civilians would undermine the support he had so carefully cultivated. On the other hand, the Al-Qaeda leader had been subtle, but had made it clear; no help, no product to sell. Agbu was dependent on these shipments from the Golden Triangle. The Basque had no other source of supply, particularly at the price he paid. “What help do you need from us?” he asked. “We will do what we can.”
; “Excellent, that is what we hoped you would say. Here is what we need you to do.”
Pete and Lisa were as ready as they would ever be. If they didn’t play well, it wouldn’t be for lack of effort. Practice time the first four days of the main draw was impossible to schedule for juniors. The pros took all the courts. But as both the lady’s’ and men’s draw were reduced from 128 players to 64 by Tuesday, court time started to open up. The kids hung out at the courts and jumped on every opportunity. Monday a player twisted an ankle in the first set on court 32 and retired. Pete and Lisa practiced for an hour before they were booted off for the next match. Tuesday they got an hour on court 25 after the last scheduled match of the day. It was almost dark when the groundskeepers kicked them off. Wednesday and Thursday they managed three hours of practice each day. By Sunday, they were totally comfortable with the red clay. They were ready for their Monday morning matches.
“What a strange week,” Mary said, as we got ready for bed. “The kids didn’t get to see much of Paris, did they?”
“No, they were pretty much tennis junkies weren’t they? They did take that bus tour, Monday, but that was about it. They just wanted to hang out at Roland Garros.”
“Thank God for Marta. At least we didn’t have to drive them every day.” There was a Marta subway station less than a block from the hotel that provided a direct shot to Roland Garros. I visited our Paris office on two occasions and was amazed at the opportunities that were out there for small construction companies such as ours. Getting the financing and the construction bonds is the key.
“That was too bad about Ambre, wasn’t it?” I commented to Mary. “The French were so sure she would win this year. What a disappointment.” Ambre had easily won her first three matches, but today had been forced to retire after three games in her quarterfinal match against Patty Snyder.
“She certainly looked sick and I give her credit for trying,” Mary said graciously. “You can’t help but wonder if it had anything to do with the drug rumors that have been floating around all week.”
“If the rumors are true, she’s played her last match for quite a while. Gregg heard from a trainer that she definitely failed an official ITF drug test a couple weeks ago and appealed just so she could play this week. Gregg said it’s a foregone conclusion that she will be suspended for one year.”
“Whew, that means she won’t be allowed to play in next year’s French Open either. That’s a tough break, although it couldn’t happen to a nicer person,” Mary said with a straight face as she turned off the light.
Neither Pete nor Lisa had mentioned Ambre since we arrived.
Saturday evening Agbu and Ambre had dinner at a small, casual restaurant in the Spanish Quarter. They sat at an outside table watching the people stroll by and talked about their planned trip to the Greek Isles after the tournament Ambre wanted to be far away from Paris when her one-year suspension from tennis was announced. Agbu was more than happy to be her escort.
They talked about the tournament and her fourth round match tomorrow morning against Patty Snyder. “Do you expect a tough match tomorrow?”
“Not really, I usually play well against her, especially on clay. However, I’m not taking anything for granted this week. I need this trophy.”
Agbu thought about the failed drug test and regretted having provided Ambre with the cocaine and marijuana she used before her failed drug test in Warsaw. At the time it seemed like a natural thing to do after the four nights of partying on the yacht. Ambre was like a kid in a candy jar, having to try a little of everything. Naturally she wanted to take some with her when they dropped her off in Athens.
Agbu also regretted what he had done a half hour ago, but it was the only way he knew to protect her. He had laced her food with a non-lethal poison. The doctor assured him Ambre would be sick tomorrow and there would be no way she could play her next match. He hated seeing Ambre lose her dream of winning the championship, but he had no other choice. Ambre couldn’t be in the stadium when the bombs went off.
The package Al-Qaeda asked him to place in the women’s locker room was large enough to kill anyone within 100 meters, which included anyone in the adjoining men’s locker room. Forfeiting a tennis match was better than her being killed.
Muhammad also asked Agbu to use his Basque contacts to plant explosives throughout the stadium Monday morning. The explosives would be set off remotely from a cell phone using detonators developed under Agbu’s direction. Agbu was careful not to use materials that could be traced back to the Basque, but he couldn't be sure. He couldn’t allow this to happen.
Agbu was walking a tightrope. The Basque needed Al-Qaeda to provide the raw heroin and cocaine, but the Basque objectives would be thwarted if they were again associated with wanton destruction and murders of innocent civilians. The image he had carefully constructed for the New ETA would be destroyed along with Roland Garros stadium. Al-Qaeda measured success by the number of people they killed. Somehow Agbu had to stop them without Al-Qaeda knowing that he had blown the whistle.
The idea came to him suddenly Monday morning at breakfast. Agbu tossed it around in his mind for an hour and decided to go for it. It wasn’t perfect, but it might work. Agbu went to a pay phone and called the editorial office of Gara, the ETA’s usual channel for announcements. Twenty minutes later the editor called the French anti-terrorism office and asked to speak to the director. “It’s urgent,” he instructed the operator. Within minutes, the director was on the line.
“Yes, whom am I speaking with?” the director asked.
The Gara editor identified himself. “I need your promise that you will not divulge the source of the information I am about to give you? I told you who this is only because it is important that you believe what I am about to tell you.”
“You have my word.” The director was surprised. He was not accustomed to receiving information from the ETA.
The message was simple. “It has come to our attention that terrorists plan to detonate explosives at the French Open, possibly this morning. Some of the explosives might already be in place. We suggest you sweep the grounds including the player locker rooms. Look for small packages of explosives that can be remotely detonated. The ETA has absolutely nothing to do with it.”
“Where did you get this information?”
“I can’t tell you that, but I assure you it is a reliable source.”
“Why are you doing this? What is it you want?’
“We want you to deny any assertions that the ETA must have been involved. Somebody is bound to accuse us. It would be nice if you would explain that the ETA does not target national landmarks or murder civilians.”
“Well, I’m not your PR agent, but if this information proves accurate, I’ll do what I can.”
“Good luck, just remember, you didn’t get this tip from us.”
The five of us arrived at the Stadium at 8 AM. Pete wanted to warm up a little with Gregg before his 10 AM match. Lisa was scheduled to be the second match on a nearby court. With luck, we would be able to see both matches.
Pete’s match was turning into a typical, clay court marathon. His opponent, a 5’8” Chilean, got to everything, making Pete earn every point. Pete won the first set 7-5, when his opponent narrowly missed a passing shot on set point. The first match on Lisa’s court was one sided and looked like it would be over soon. Gregg and Lisa had already started to warm up on a practice court.
Mary nudged me as Pete was serving to open the second set. “Have you noticed all the commotion?” she whispered.
I hadn’t, until a looked around and saw the uniforms and police dogs. “What’s going on? It looks like they are searching for something.”
“Oh no!” I screamed as the first explosion resonated through the tennis center.
The first call was to the head of security for Roland Garros at 10:15 AM. Within minutes gate security was doubled and every package was being searched. Ticket holders complained as the entry lines started t
o grow. Inside the stadium, internal security guards started searching the locker rooms and premises. Player’s bags were checked and lockers were opened. The lines outside continued to grow.
French police arrived within the hour to assist gate security personnel. The bomb squad and dogs arrived shortly after and began a sweep of the entire Roland Garros complex, starting with the players’ locker rooms.
Officials would be criticized later for their decision not to stop play and evacuate the Stadium. They decided to keep the search low key. One reason given was that the most likely time for a terrorist attack would be mid-afternoon, when the matches would be televised live to the United States.
“They know something, they are on to us,” the caller whispered. “There are police all over the place. Let’s move up the timetable before they find everything.”
“Okay, I’ll get our people there right now.”
Internal security found a suspicious package in the men’s locker room and another package was found in a trash container next to the gift shops in the pedestrian mall. It took the dogs only seconds to verify the packages contained explosives and the packages were placed in reinforced steel bomb-safes. Experts saw that the detonators could be detonated remotely from a cell phone and an order went out to the telephone company to shut down all cell phone frequencies. A third package was found in the utility room, wedged behind the telephone system outside the press box. Two more bombs were discovered under the Philip-Chatrier stadium court.
It was a race against time, and time ran out. A uniformed policeman and his dog found a package taped to a steel girder supporting the grandstands surrounding the Suzanne Lenglen court where a round-of-16 match between Venus Williams and Mary Pierce had just started. The package exploded as he was placing the package into the steel safe. A few seconds later and the police officer would have lived. The priest would point out at his memorial service that the policeman had saved many lives. If he had not discovered the package the grandstand would have collapsed killing hundreds of people. That was small consolation to the policeman’s wife and new baby daughter.
Five bombs exploded throughout the grounds, sending the crowd into a frenzy and people stampeded towards the exits. There were only 30 people watching Pete’s match so we had no trouble getting to him. “Where’s Lisa?” Mary shouted to be heard over the screams of the frightened crowd.
“There she is.” Pete said, pointing to Lisa and Gregg as they ran towards us.
“Let’s get out of here,” Pete yelled as he headed towards the main gate.
“No!” I shouted, “Let’s stay right here. We don’t know what’s happening out there.”
“Okay, everyone, try to be calm,” Mary said, in anything but a calm voice. Lisa was the first to start crying. It was apparent that we were all nervous and afraid. We huddled together for five minutes and were just starting to relax when the stadium shook from a huge explosion, followed quickly by another, and then another. The third explosion was deafening.
Mary and Lisa screamed with each blast, putting a sound to everyone’s fear. “Who could do something like this? I wondered.
That night we ordered room service and watched the news. The bombings at Roland Garros dominated all the national outlets including BBC. Initial reports indicated 76 dead and over 200 wounded; many of the wounded in critical condition.
The police were still trying to piece together the chronology of events. A spokesperson for the French Police was being interviewed. “Tell us what happened, and how was it that your bomb squad was at the stadium before the first explosion.”
He proceeded to lie in order to protect their source. “We received a call from a stadium security guard who found a suspicious package in a trash bin. He thought it might be a bomb and our bomb squad was on-site in 20 minutes. They verified it was a bomb and we immediately started searching the entire stadium. My people tell me we found and disposed of seven or eight explosive devices before the remaining bombs were remotely detonated.”
“How many bombs were there?”
“There were five explosions inside the stadium.”
“What happened then?” the reporter asked. “There were several other explosions.”
“People were trying to get out of the stadium when a young man walked into the crowd by the main gate and blew himself up. A second man did the same thing at another gate. Moments later a car plowed through a police barricade and was headed for the crowd by the main gate. Three policeman opened fire and apparently killed the driver, causing the car to swerve and crash into the stadium wall. The car was loaded with explosives.”
“Has anyone claimed responsibility?” the reporter asked.
“Yes. The French Al-Qaeda cell called a news station and claimed responsibility. They said they were working in conjunction with the ETA, the militant arm of the Basque movement. Quite frankly, we don’t place a lot of credence in this claim. This doesn’t fit the ETA profile. I don’t think they were involved.”
The director had kept his word, Agbu thought as he and Ambre listened to the newscast.
“Is the tournament canceled?” the reporter asked.
“That’s not my call,” the police spokesman answered. “We are performing a thorough search of the premises as we speak, and so far we have not uncovered any unexploded devices. The stadium will be safe, but I say again, that’s not my call. Thank you, that’s all I have for now.”
An hour later the Tournament Committee made a decision to cancel play on Tuesday, “We will decide by noon tomorrow if the tournament will be played.”
“What do you think, Dad? Are they going to cancel the tournament?” Lisa asked with disappointment in her voice.
I felt sorry for her and Pete. They had put so much of themselves into this, and then to have it snatched away by some religious zealots. “I don’t know, Lisa, but I think they should.” She nodded in understanding.
The next day the Tournament Committee announced that the French Open would be played. They would not give in to Al-Qaeda or any other terrorist group.”
“Pete and Lisa’s initial excitement was dashed by his next statement. “Unfortunately, the Junior and Senior Championships will not be held this year. Several courts were damaged in the explosion and all available courts are needed for the professionals.
“Anybody care to stay and watch the main draw?” I asked, “or should we try and get an earlier flight back?”
“Let’s go home, Dad,” Pete answered. It was unanimous.
Ambre was feeling better, but was eager to get out of Paris and away from the prying questions from reporters and the reminder of what she had lost for the next 12 months. It would be two years before she would be eligible to play in another French Open. She and Agbu were on a flight from Paris to Naples, Italy Monday morning when the explosions ripper through Roland Garros stadium.
An hour into the trip Ambre made an off-hand remark that threatened to ruin their trip. “I feel sorry that I didn’t get a chance to see the juniors,” Ambre commented. “I know a couple kids from Saddlebrook that were playing. It would have been interesting to see how they did.”
“Anybody special?” Agbu asked playfully. “Anybody that I need to worry about?”
“Nope, there’s nobody but you,” Ambre said coyly. “Pete Simpson and I were dating before Carlos came along, and believe me, his sister would kill me if she had a chance.”
Agbu sat up suddenly. “Did you say Simpson?”
“Do you know him?”
“Does he have a father in the construction business in Florida?”
“Yes, I think he does. His father is building a domed stadium at Saddlebrook where I trained. Why, what’s the connection?”
Agbu didn’t answer, but continued his interrogation. “Did his company ever do a job in Mexico City?”
“I’m pretty sure he did. Agbu, what’s this about? You’re scaring me.”
“Simpson murdered my brother,” Agbu declared. Agbu was silent for most of
the trip to Athens, brooding over his misfortune. He knew he had missed the perfect opportunity to avenge Anton’s death.
Upon arrival in Naples, they immediately chartered a 50-foot sailboat and began a two-week tour of the Mediterranean Sea. Ambre didn’t learn about the explosions at Roland Garros until a week later while having dinner at a restaurant in Malta.
“You’re the tennis player,” a man said leaning over from the next table. “Ambre,” he said as if the name just came to him. “Would you please autograph this menu for my son? He is a really big fan of yours.”
Ambre looked over and saw an American couple sitting with their teenage son who was obviously embarrassed at his father’s request. He was only a couple years younger than Ambre.
“Sure, I’d be glad to. What’s your first name?” she asked the teenager.
“Fre, Fred,” he stuttered even more embarrassed.
“Fred’s a pretty good tennis player, himself,” Fred’s father said proudly as Ambre wrote a brief note and autographed the menu. “Last year he played #1 singles on his high school team.”
“Here you go, Fred,” Ambre said as she smiled and handed Fred the signed menu.
“Thanks,” Fred managed to say as Ambre turned back to her table.
“Wasn’t that something at the French Open?” the father continued. “”I’m just glad none of the players were injured by the explosions.”
Ambre looked back at the man, obviously startled by his revelation. “What explosion?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t know?” the man replied, with a new sense of importance.
“No, we left Paris Monday and have been sailing ever since. What happened?”
“Well, Monday morning terrorists exploded a half dozen bombs in the stadium and then two suicide bombers blew themselves outside the main gate. At last count, 79 people are dead and a couple hundred wounded. The stadium is a mess.”
Ambre hesitated trying to absorb the news. “Did they finish the tournament?”
“They did,” Fred interjected. “Nadal beat Federer and Clijsters beat Pierce.”
“They canceled everything but the singles,” the father added, “doubles, juniors, everything. They say it will take years to repair the stadium.”
“Thank you,” Ambre said turning back to Agbu. “Let’s get back to the boat. I’m not hungry anymore.”
Agbu and Ambre didn’t talk much on the way back to the boat. That night Ambre got stoned on heroin, which had become a daily routine.
A week later Agbu went back to work and Ambre went home to her condominium in Nice. Agbu had invited her to stay with him in Vitoria-Gasteiz, but she declined. Both promised to keep in touch, but they both knew their affair was over.
Chapter 26
Saddlebrook Grand Opening