by Jim Plautz
Ambre had been favored to win the French Open only six months ago, now her money was nearly gone. Her drug habit was an addiction, robbing her of money and ambition. A French television network offered her a position as a commentator during the Australian Open, but that job only lasted two weeks. She was late several times for interviews and her on-camera performance was mediocre, at best. She didn’t look good. The heroin was controlling her life.
Tennis had been Ambre’s whole life since she was six. She was a prodigy at age 10 and was featured on the cover of several magazines when she was 12. Tennis academies took the place of public schools making it difficult to develop lasting friendships. At age fourteen, her near-naked body had adorned the cover of France’s Playboy Magazine. During her meteoric rise to stardom, she had hundreds of acquaintances and people that wanted to be near her, but no best friend that she could rely upon. Now she was alone and trapped in a downward spiral.
In March she received an unexpected phone call that started her back on the right path. “Ambre, this is Martina. I’m going to be in Nice next week and need a practice partner.”
“I haven’t touched a racquet in nine months, Martina. I don’t think I could give you a game.” What she didn’t say was that her weight had ballooned to 150 pounds and she was in terrible shape.
“That’s okay, I just need someone to hit with. I’m trying to get back on the tour and need to get used to the pace. You always hit a hard ball and that’s just what I need.”
Ambre was about to say no, but her competitive instincts took over. “Okay, call me when you get in.”
Ambre lost eight pounds in three days and practiced with a local club pro for two hours a day. That’s all she could take. She was pleasantly surprised that her strokes were still there, at least for the first half-hour. By the end of the two-hour session she had difficulty hitting three balls in a row and had difficulty seeing the ball clearly.
Hingis was in town for three days. The first practice session started off well, but quickly turned into a disaster. Hingis was her old self; she didn’t miss. She also was moving well despite the numerous foot operations that had caused her early retirement from the ladies’ tour. Ambre had little mobility and became more erratic as the session progressed.
“Martina, I’ve had it. I need to take a break.” Martina was disappointed. They had only played for an hour and Martina was looking forward to a three or four hour workout, after which she would go to a local spa for weight training and stretching. Ambre was embarrassed.
“That’s okay, Ambre. Maybe one of the pros will hit with me. I’ll see you tomorrow, same time?” Ambre took a long shower and waited for the pills to calm her nerves and stop the throbbing in her head. Her hands had finally stopped trembling.
The next morning Ambre took the pills after breakfast and showed up in good spirits. More importantly, she was full of energy and played well, giving Martina everything she could handle. “Ambre, you’re playing great today, but take it easy, this isn’t the French Open.”
“I know,” Ambre replied after going side-to-side during a fifteen-stroke rally. “It just feels so good to be playing tennis again.”
“Good, maybe we can both make a comeback next…, Ambre, are you okay?” Hingis asked as she watched Ambre clutch her chest and fall to one knee.
“My heart is racing, I can’t breathe,” Ambre whispered.
“Get a doctor,” Martina screamed.
Ambre was fortunate that there was a doctor playing two courts down or she might have died from cardiac arrest. The combination of amphetamines, exercise and heroin had almost killed her.
Three days later she was released from the hospital, and took another step forward by picking up the phone and reaching out to someone that had always been there for her in the past.
“Coach, I need you.”
Clark Construction Group headquartered in Bethesda, Maryland, had responsibility for the two domes that would cover Philippe Chatrier Court and Suzanne Lenglen Court, together with renovations to Court One. Founded in 1906, Clark is today one of the nation’s most experienced and respected providers of construction services, with over $2 billion in annual revenue from major projects throughout the United States.
Their Sports Division has played an integral role in the construction of some of the finest new stadiums, arenas and related entertainment facilities built for professional leagues and universities across the country. Their portfolio included PETCO Park in San Diego, FedEx Field in Landover, Maryland, the MCI Center in D.C. and the Indian Wells Tennis Center in California.
Hunt and Clark had worked together on several projects including Miller Park, the home of the Milwaukee Brewers. George Hunt gave them a glowing reference; “Jim, they know how to manage a contract and bring it home on time.”
“Have they done anything overseas?” I asked.
“That’s their one weakness, Jim, but we can handle that. Did I tell you that they offer completion guarantees? Believe me, these people are good.”
Milwaukee is my hometown, so I called some friends just to make sure. They got back to me later that day with a glowing reference. The Dallas architect, HKS, also praised their work. “Clark will tell you if they find a problem, but they won’t try to redesign the project on the fly. I wish we could say that about some of the other construction companies that we work with, Jim. If you already have Bouygues, you don’t need another headache.”
Marco and I were sold on Clark, but uneasy after the warning about Bouygues. I had hoped it was just Marco’s pessimism, but apparently there were others who feared working with the French giant.
Clark appointed Sean Schafer project manager, which pleased Marco and the Hunt people. “You are going to love working with this guy, Jim,” Carl said over dinner. “Schafer is one of their best people and has a knack of getting along with everyone. He held that Miller Park job together after that incident with the falling crane. Morale was pretty low, but Schafer remained upbeat.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have any incidents happen to us,” I replied thinking back to the unforeseen problems caused by the falling crane, which not only killed two construction workers, but also caused a 12-month delay. “Our deadline won’t allow for a long delay.”
“Coach” arrived the next day from his home in Paris, but not before consulting with the doctors who treated Ambre at the hospital. They talked for hours and “Coach” spent the night on Ambre’s couch. It had been two years since Ambre had left his tutelage and gone to Saddlebrook, and much had changed. Now 63, he had suffered a stroke that affected his speech and caused him to walk with a slight limp. But, he was still the one person she knew believed in her.
“Ask yourself, Ambre, do you still want to be the best?”
“I do, ‘Coach’. I realized how much I missed tennis when I was hitting with Martina. I haven’t felt that alive in almost a year.”
“But are you willing to pay the price? It won’t be easy, and there are a lot of people who will want you to fail.”
“I’ll work harder than ever, ‘Coach’. I’ll do whatever you ask. I promise, I won’t let you down again.”
“Do you realize you have a drug problem, Ambre? Do you realize that you are an addict?”
“Yes,” Ambre whispered as the tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Say it,” ‘Coach’ insisted. “You can’t make it back unless you are strong enough to face your addiction.”
“I’m an addict,” Ambre sobbed. “I need to kick this habit before I can play tennis again.”
They hugged for several minutes while Ambre continued to cry, her tears slowly changing from despair to hope.
Ambre spent two months in drug rehab and lost twenty of the thirty pounds she had gained. She had romaine lettuce, endive and cottage cheese coming out of her ears, but it was worth it. She never felt better. More importantly, the hold that drugs had on her was broken. Counselors warned her it wouldn’t be easy to stay clean, but Ambre knew those days were behind her. H
er energy was back and she realized that there was no high better than hitting a clean forehand or winning a close match.
“Coach” was there to meet her when she was discharged.
“I’m ready, ‘Coach’, when do we start.” Her smile was back and he could feel the enthusiasm and inner confidence that he had seen in Ambre as a young girl, and that made her a special talent.
For a moment “Coach” regretted the decision he made while Ambre was recuperating, but only for a moment. The small stroke that he had suffered six months ago was still fresh in his mind. “Ambre, I can’t give you what you need anymore. Look at me, I’m an old man. You need someone that can push you every day, and I can’t do that anymore.”
Tears came to Ambre’s eyes. “But I need you. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do this alone.”
“You won’t be alone, Ambre. I’m going with you for a couple weeks, and will visit you every two or three months if you will have me. I’ll be there when you win the French Open.”
The next day they caught a flight to New York, with connections to Tampa, Florida. Ambre was back at Saddlebrook.
Agbu was a natural organizer, and in six months had increased the network of distributors to every major city in Spain, Portugal and Southern France. He maintained his tenuous friendship with Al-Qaeda and was able to increase his supply of raw material to satisfy the ever-increasing demand. The Basque war chest was full and Agbu began to wisely invest the money.
Euskara, the Basque language, traces its history back to 6,000 BC, and remains one of the two national languages of Euskadi, the Basque Country, the other being Castillian Spanish. Euskara is still spoken by over two million people and is a source of pride with the Basque. The language is outlawed in the Northern Basque Country because French law requires that only the French language be taught in their public schools. Agbu took dead aim at this restriction, but wisely, he did it in a way that provided an opportunity for success.
Agbu turned his attention to capturing the minds and hearts of the Basque people on both sides of the Spanish-French border. He provided the funding to build private schools in Vitoria-Gasteiz, Bilbao, San Sebastian and four other Spanish cities. The only condition was that Euskara be taught to all students. Agbu paid for a program to have all highway signs in Spain updated to provide directions in Spanish and Euskara. The resort city of San Sebastian on the Bay of Biscay became Donostia-San Sebastian. It was a small, but symbolic change that made people aware of the New Basque movement. Venture capital was provided for Basque-owned businesses, creating opportunities and jobs for his people. The reputations of the Basque political movement and its military arm, the ETA (Euskadi Ta Askatasuna), slowly began to improve.
Meaning Basque Homeland and Liberty, the ETA was created in 1958 by student activists unhappy with the slow progress being made by the Basque Nationalist Party (PNV) during the Franco Regime. The ETA soon became the military arm of the Basque political movement and became associated with assassinations, kidnappings, bombings and over 800 deaths in their efforts to attain independent status for Euskadi. As a result, the ETA alienated a large percentage of the Basque people. Agbu decided the time had come to renounce violence and merge the ETA into the mainstream political movement. He started with a massive television campaign extolling the Basque objectives of political and economic independence, and the right to speak Euskara. Each commercial ended with this statement, “Paid for by Euskadi Ta Askatasuna, seeking a peaceful solution for the Basque”. A week later Agbu followed his television campaign with newspaper ads and provided $2M to Basque radio stations, to expand their range to reach French Basque Country.
The public relations campaign, supported by large donations to the schools and local Basque economy, was a huge success. Agbu then did a brilliant thing. Even though money was not a problem, he began soliciting donations to the “New ETA” and watched as membership and donations poured in. During the 1990s it was estimated that the ETA was comprised of only 20 hard-core members and maybe another 50 or 60 part time followers. Membership in the “New ETA” quickly grew to 650,000 with hundreds joining each day at the nominal cost of 20 Euros. This membership provided a political base for Agbu to launch a slate of candidates. More importantly, it provided cover for the drug money that was funding the huge investments that Agbu was making to the Basque economy.
The Spanish and French governments were impressed with Agbu’s New ETA, but reacted in different ways. Spain saw this as an opportunity to solve a 50-year problem and was not opposed to negotiating with the New ETA. The French took a hard line and refused to consider the independence for the Basque territories in its Southern region and refused to allow the Basque language to be taught in French schools, even as a second language.
Another group was also not happy with the New ETA. Al-Qaeda had viewed Agbu as an ally, but now wasn’t sure. Muhammad and Agbu met in Barcelona to discuss the problem.
“Agbu, my friend. You have been quite busy in the last six months. Everywhere I go, I hear about the New ETA and the man behind it that is contributing so much to his people. You are a hero, Agbu.”
Agbu knew the importance of this meeting. It was important that he handle himself well. “Thank you,” he replied. “Without you, it would have never been possible.”
“My people are treating you okay? Are you still getting all the shipments you need?”
“There have been no problems. Your organization has been efficient,” Agbu replied.
“And we are still providing the product at, how should I put it, a preferential price?”
“Si,” Agbu answered. They both knew it was a below-market price, and more importantly, it provided Agbu with access to pure heroin and cocaine without having to incur the cost or risk of purchasing this product on the open market.
“Excellent; I’m happy to hear that, and am pleased your New ETA is doing well, but I must tell you, some of my people are asking if the New ETA is keeping its end of the bargain. What should I tell them?”
“Tell them we are still brothers and still believe in many of the same things,” Agbu lied. “A strong and independent Euskadi means you have a friend in Europe and an organization that can support you in your goals. If you need something from us in return, all you need to do is ask.”
“My friends will be happy to hear that. In fact, there is a large project we are planning that will require your assistance. My people will be contacting you in a few weeks.”
“The resources of the New ETA are at your disposal,” Agbu said as they rose from their chairs, let’s have a drink and some food to celebrate our friendship.” Both men had got what they wanted. Agbu had maintained his supply of cocaine and heroin and the Muhammad had Agbu’s promise that the Basque would help them in future operations. Muhammad knew that it would not be long before he collected on this promise.
Agbu couldn’t rely on Al-Qaeda much longer and needed another source of cocaine and heroin. Anton had told him that the Basque network was strong in South America and Mexico. Maybe it was time to pay them a visit. He also had personal business to settle in Mexico City.
I disliked dinner meetings as a rule, but decided to make an exception. Marco had reported that relationship between the four contractors was becoming frayed, and the French Open was only three weeks away.
“Are they going to be able to play the full schedule?” I asked Marco, remembering the effect that cancellation of junior tournaments had upon Pete and Lisa.
“I don’t know, Jim. There is a lot to be done and Bruno is keeping everything to himself. The bastard won’t commit.”
My initial thought was to haul him into my office and lay it on the line, but I knew this would be counter-productive. We needed Bouygues and we needed Bruno if we were going to make this year-one deadline. I decided to host a dinner at La Tour d’Argent, one of the finest restaurants in Paris, offering a breathtaking view overlooking the Seine and the church of Notre Dame. It offered an atmosphere that might contribute to co
mpromise. Marco and I arrived early and were greeted at the door by the legendary owner, Claude Terrail.
Ten minutes later the rest of the party arrived. The three project managers arrived together followed by Georges Hewes and Paul Gutreau representing the RG Steering Committee. Emey was our day-to-day contact with the Steering Committee, but I invited Hewes and Gutreau to help keep Bruno on target. All three were grateful for the opportunity to sit in on this vital meeting and hopefully dispel some of the rumors about delays that were starting to spread to the newspapers.
“Gentlemen, since we are all here, I suggest we order a cocktail and hors d’oeuvres before we get down to business.” The menu was fascinating. I considered the foie gras des trios empereurs until I learned it was goose liver, and settled on cold lobster ‘la belle aissee’, pricey, but safe.
“Let’s get started,” I suggested after the waitress brought us our drinks and we toasted to a successful French Open next month. “Tim, bring us up to date on what Hunt is working on and what still needs to be done before next month’s Open.”
As expected, Hunt’s tasks were on schedule, but there was little they could do until after the Open was completed and they could begin tearing down the press boxes, restaurants and stadium seats and tennis courts.
Stéphane Haissant, the restaurant’s world-renowned chef, appeared at our table just as Tim completed his summary. “Mr. Gutreau, it’s a pleasure seeing you again,” he said, greeting Paul with the traditional French air-kisses. The rest of us settled for handshakes. “Let me explain the menu and today’s specials.”
Everyone, but me, went with the chef’s specials of pressed duckling “tour d’argent” or the duckling with orange sauce. I opted for the Mediterranean sea bass with caviar, asparagus blinis. I was still a little skittish about the goose innards I had almost ordered as an appetizer. Ducks and geese are related, I reasoned.
“Sean, tell us how we are doing on the two domes. Are you ready to go?” Clark Construction and Hunt Engineering had a similar problem, there was only so much “staging” they could do in advance. Their work would start in earnest next month.
“As I’m sure you all know, most of the dome structure has been delivered to our staging area in Bois de Boulogne Park. We are waiting on some pre-fabricated steel supports, but I’m assured they will be delivered next month.”
“Where is the staging area, Sean?” Georges Hewes asked. “I drove by the stadium yesterday and I didn’t any equipment.”
“It’s way over by the Longchamps racecourse,” Sean answered, “on the other side of the park. We did this to keep the mess away from this year’s Open, and also because of the additional security. You know how rough that area gets after dark.”
“Do you still believe you can get the domes installed in 11 months?” I prompted, already knowing the answer.”
“You bet. It will be tight, but we’ll get it done on time.”
“Why don’t we order dessert or an after dinner drink before we hear from Paul? I suggested; peach flambeau with raspberry brandy, vanilla ice cream sounded like a perfect finish to a delightful dinner.
“Well, I guess it’s my turn,” Bruno said as he sipped his wine. “I wish I could be as upbeat as Tim and Sean, but we still have a lot of work to do and I’m not sure we will make it.” The table went silent as we all put down our forks and listened. “The biggest problem is that repairs to Philippe Chatrier and Suzanne Lenglen won’t pass inspection.”
Everyone knew it would be impossible to hold a tournament without using the two show courts. “Are we still having problems with the metallurgy?” Marco asked. “I thought that problem was fixed.”
“I did too,” Bruno replied, “but my chemical and structural people were wrong. They thought they had the answer, but it didn’t work. They said they would get it right next time.”
“My offer still stands,” Sean volunteered. “Clark has two engineers in Bethesda that can be on the next plane. These guys are the best in the business.”
“Thanks anyway,” Bruno answered too quickly. “My guys will get it done.”
I started to intervene when Paul Gutreau took charge. “Sean, get them on the next plane,” Gutreau ordered, leaving no room for disagreement. “We don’t have time for turf wars. We just need to get this solved.”
Our waiter surprised us with eight glasses of French cognac, compliments of the chef.
A half-hour later Marco and I arrived back at the hotel. “How much was the bill?” Marco asked.
“Don’t ask, Marco, but I will give you a clue. My lobster appetizer was 135 Euros. Other than that, it was a perfect evening.”
“You are right, Jim. I think we got over the hump and it looks like we are going to make it.”
A month later Marco’s optimism was proven correct. The French Open was played without incident and the condition of the stadium received rave reviews from everyone that had seen the damage just one year ago. We celebrated Sunday evening, before starting the next phase. We knew the tough part of our job was still in front of us.
Another French Open had come and gone and a lot had happened in the previous 12 months. Last year Pete and Lisa were looking forward to playing the French juniors. Lisa’s game continued to improve and a pro career was a real possibility, but it looked like Pete’s knee injury might have ended his tennis aspirations. We could only wait and see.
Ambre had reached the fourth round of the French Open before having to withdraw because of illness. Today she was a recovering drug addict, forgotten by the tennis world that had once adored her and followed her every move. Her comeback was just beginning.
Carlos won the French Open, losing only three sets in seven matches. He had become the man to beat on clay surfaces. His victory at the French was an exclamation point on a great clay court season. Federer was still number one overall, but the margin was shrinking. The French remained the one grand slam tournament he had not won.
Chapter 31
Romance Rekindled