Double Fault at Roland Garros

by Jim Plautz

After Mexico, Agbu gave some thought to going to the United States and attacking Simpson in his hometown of Tampa, Florida. He remembered Ambre telling him about a new domed stadium that Simpson’s company was building, but scuttled the idea when he learned that the Simpson family was seldom home. He decided to wait until the French Open.

  Agbu needed information about the new Roland Garros stadium before he could develop a plan of attack. “Rico, I need you to drive to Paris and take some pictures of the new stadium. Find out whom we have in Paris that we can rely upon if we need them, and while you are there, find out if there are any Basque working on the Roland Garros construction project.”

  “I can check the New ETA membership records to see if I recognize any names. Is there anything particular you are interested in?” Rico asked, knowing that Agbu had something specific in mind.

  “Yes,” Agbu said thoughtfully. “Try to get a handle on their security. See if there are any barriers that would prevent a car or truck from driving up to the gate. Take some pictures of the area around the stadium and get a detailed map of the park. Find out what type of security system they have to check luggage and handbags. Get inside the stadium if you can, and get some pictures of the new stadium courts and the dome construction. Okay?”

  “I understand,” Rico said. “I will take a couple of the boys with me. It’s a 400-kilometer drive to Paris.”

  Two days later Rico emailed Agbu the pictures from his laptop with a message that he had met a guy with inside information on the new security system at Roland Garros. “You won’t believe it,” Rico added. “He has everything you need.”

  “Bring him back with you. I want to talk with him.”

  The next day Agbu met face to face with Paul Bruno, a bitter man since being fired by Bouygues. Bruno blamed it all on Jim Simpson.

  Bruno had DVDs containing engineer’s drawings of every project task including the domed roofs, plus an insider’s knowledge to interpret the drawings. Agbu and Bruno spent the better part of three days reviewing the data before Agbu finalized his plan.

  They would need materials not available to the Basque, including four-five kilos of Semtex. Agbu pondered the problem when fate intervened.

  “Agbu, Muhammad is on the phone.” Agbu frowned as he picked up the phone. His relationship with Al-Qaeda had been cool for the last year, particularly since his return from Mexico. Agbu suspected they knew about his Mexico connection. Al-Qaeda continued to supply the Basque, but it was only a matter of time.

  “Muhammad, what can I do for you, my friend?”

  “We need to meet, there is something I would like to discuss with you. Can we meet tomorrow in San Sebastian? My boat is at the marina.”

  “That would be fine, my friend. Is 2 PM okay with you?” It was only a two-hour car ride and Agbu could have easily been there for lunch, but Agbu decided to make him wait. Muhammad had enough of an advantage meeting on his home territory.

  The next morning Enrique drove while Agbu looked out at the countryside, seemingly lost in thought. He hadn’t spoken for two hours. Rico and their friend Tito dozed in the back seat of their 1992 Peugeot sedan.

  “What are you thinking,” his uncle asked? “Are you worried about the meeting?”

  “No, Enrique, I was thinking of Anton and Raul. It’s been ten years since the French gendarmes murdered Raul and forced Anton to flee to Mexico. I was just wondering if they are together.”

  Enrique too remembered the ill-fated kidnapping of the American, Bill Peterson. It was a stupid thing to try and no doubt Raul had panicked when the police came. Raul had never been the smart one. Enrique’s regret was meeting the Petersons that night in the Tapas bar. It was a chance meeting and this guy Peterson was just a typical pompous American, flashing his money around and bragging about his computer business. He deserved what he got, but Enrique regretted having told Anton about this rich American. Agbu was all the family he had left, and what did it matter if his memory of his brothers was warped. Agbu was doing great things for the Basque.

  “I know how you feel, my nephew, I lost your father and mother in much the same way when you were just a nino.”

  “We’ll get even,” Agbu promised. “That’s why we are meeting today. I need some materials and technical support to carry out my plan.”

  “They will ask something in return, Agbu. Are you prepared to help them?”

  “I will let them believe that I will help them, but the New ETA will not be party to mass murder. We will see what they ask of us.”

  It was getting dark and nothing had been resolved. The Al-Qaeda group was losing their temper. “Agbu, you are the only person that can do this. I need you to help us,” Muhammad pleaded.

  “The New ETA cannot be a party to this massacre, we have come too far,” Agbu answered vehemently, avoiding the central issue.

  “We have already agreed to take full credit for this act. There will be no mention of the Basque in our press releases. Now answer my question, will you do it?”

  Agbu thought about the consequences. If he didn’t say yes, their source of Golden Triangle drugs would be immediately cut off. Even worse, Muhammad threatened to destroy the Basque distribution network by undercutting his prices. This was no idle threat and Agbu knew that Al-Qaeda could offer distributors a better product at half the price. Al-Qaeda would be a tough enemy. Agbu needed more time.

  “I’ll do it,” he whispered.

  The four-week trip to Australia provided Ambre with answers to both questions that Martina had posed to her that evening at her home in Wesley Chapel. Pete’s game was ready and Pete was the one person in her life that she couldn’t live without. They thrived on each other, both on and off the tennis court.

  The Australian Open was scheduled to begin January 17th. Pete and Ambre each had one warm-up tournament before the first grand slam tournament of the year. They stopped first in Chennai, India, where Ambre had used her connections to get Pete a wildcard entry into the relatively small $380,000 Chennai Open starting January 3rd. It helped that Martina and Ambre played an exhibition match on New Year’s Day to promote the tournament. Martina won in three entertaining sets and the sellout crowd gave both women a standing ovation.

  Pete’s first pro tournament would be a nice test. The big boys were playing in the $1,000,000 Qatar ExxonMobil Open in Doha, Qatar so Pete wouldn’t run into guys like Federer or Nadal, but the competition would be strong. The 32-man field included the fifth-ranked player in the world, Carlos Moya of Spain, and the popular Thai star, Paradorn Srichaphan. Other well-known players included Rainer Schuettler, Jonas Bjorkman, Jan-Michael Gambill and Justin Gimelstob.

  Chennai has long been the Mecca of Indian tennis. Players of the caliber of Ramanathan Krishnan, Ramesh Krishnan, Vijay Amritraj, Anand Amritraj and Leander Paes all have spent significant parts of their careers in this tennis-loving city. SDAT Tennis Stadium is rated as the best in Asia.

  Ambre was pleasantly surprised when Pete opened with a straight set win over fellow American, Justin Gimelstob, and cheered loudly when he upset Bjorkman to reach the finals where he lost to Moya. His game was better than she had hoped.

  That night she wanted to celebrate, but Pete wouldn’t hear of it. “We have an early flight to Sydney and you have a match Tuesday. Let’s order room service and get a good night’s sleep. We can still celebrate,” he said with a wink.

  “Why are you concerned about me?”

  “Come here, and I’ll show you,” Pete said as he kissed her gently on the lips. “I want you to do well next week. You have worked so hard and I know how much it means to you. I don’t want you to ruin your opportunity because of me.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “No, I also want you to do well because I love you,” he said as he pulled her onto the bed.

  Ambre couldn’t help think how different this trip was versus her trip two years ago with Carlos. “What a fool I was,” she thought.

  Ambre and Martina were entered in th
e Medibank International in Sydney, Australia. Pete knew that Ambre should have played a tournament last week, but Ambre had insisted that she wanted to watch him play. Martina had played the Mondail Australian Hardcourts Championship where she reached the finals, losing to Flavia Pennetta of Italy. This week Martina drew Justine Henin-Hardenne in the first round and lost in straight sets. It was a bad draw for Martina and a direct result of her long layoff. Unseeded players are subject to the luck of the draw and do not have the luxury of playing their way into a tournament against lesser opponents. They need to be ready from the start.

  Pete need not have worried about Ambre. She opened with an upset of the #12 seed, Anna Smashnova, playing like she hadn’t been away from the game at all. Ambre made it all the way to the finals before losing to Kim Clijsters in three sets. Ambre was back.

  There was no time to celebrate. The Australian Open started Monday. Ambre didn’t play until Tuesday, but Pete had drawn an early morning match on Monday against the #28 seed, Jiri Novak of the Czech Republic. Ambre wanted Pete to fly to Melbourne on Saturday and get accustomed to the courts, but Pete insisted on staying. “You didn’t leave me last week. I’ll be darned if I desert you while you are still this tournament. Besides, I’m your good luck charm. You need me.”

  Ambre didn’t argue.

  The Australian Open was upon them and Pete was understandably nervous in his first grand slam. Novak started fast, breaking serve twice and racing to a 4-0 lead, before eventually winning the first set, 6-2. Pete had only three winners and 12 unforced errors, but started played better towards the end of the set. He was slowly getting accustomed to the high bounces and sticky surface.

  “Come on Pete, you can do it,” Ambre yelled from the player’s box. “Just like at home.”

  There is no coaching in Professional tennis, but there are no rules against yelling encouragement to your boyfriend. So what if there was a little hidden meaning in the words and tone of voice. It’s the kind of thing that caused talking to be outlawed during the bidding process in duplicate bridge. There were too many subtle hints being communicated between partners. Now, duplicate bridge players silently turn bid-cards to signal their next bid. Maybe someday cheering will be banned in professional tennis, but probably not.

  Pete heard the voice clearly and understood the message. Slow down, and keep the ball in play. Make your opponent beat you. It was a drill they practiced over, and over again at Saddlebrook. When one of them was slightly off their game and missing the sidelines, that person started playing conservatively and hitting returns up the middle. This eliminated the errors and also cut down on the angles you gave your opponent, forcing them to take risks when they tried to hit winners.

  Pete won the next three sets, 7-5, 6-4, 6-4 and was into the second round. The following day Pete watched as Ambre won easily against Lisa Raymonds, an unseeded American and former NCAA champion from the University of Florida. Raymonds serve and volley style was not suited to slow, hard courts.

  Pete won his second-round match before losing to the number five seed, Ivan Lubijic. Ambre made it to quarterfinals before losing to Mauresmo in three sets.

  They celebrated that night with a quiet dinner in the hotel dining room. “Are you satisfied with the results, Ambre?”

  “Truthfully, it’s better than I expected after such a long layoff. I’m pretty close to where I need to be. How about you?”

  “I always wondered how I would do against the top players, and now I know. I can play with these guys.”

  “Yes you can.”

  It was time to split up, as the men and women circuits headed in different directions. Pete headed back to the United States to play a small tournament in Delray Beach, Florida. Ambre and Martina headed to Japan. Their paths wouldn’t cross again until Indian Wells, six weeks before the French Open.

  Chris Lewis led a team of CIA agents that had been studying the New ETA and trailing Agbu for over a year, with little to show for it. There was no doubt the ETA relied on drug profits to support their humanitarian efforts in Basque country. Expenditures were five times what they could possibly take in from membership fees and donations, but it was difficult to prove. Efforts to unravel the finances always hit a dead end and Spanish officials were reluctant to help.

  “Why should we help you?” one official asked. “The New ETA has stopped the bombings and attacks on military and government officials, and they are funding new schools and other civic projects that we cannot afford. Why would we investigate them?”

  The official had a good point, but Chris wasn’t buying it. Hamas too, built schools in the Palestine region, but they still were a terrorist organization. Chris knew that it was only a matter of time before Agbu showed his true colors. She also knew that his vendetta against her friend, Jim Simpson, would not stop until one of them was dead.

  The CIA finally got a break. Jerry Allen, a CIA computer whiz that had been assigned to her team after the FTO hearing, burst into her small office. “Chris, look at the email I just sent you.”

  Chris had a high-speed connection, but there was nothing on her screen. Jerry must have run over to her office as soon as he hit send. Chris hit her send/receive key and waited while the email loaded. “It must be a large file,” Chris commented as they waited.

  “Pictures take a little longer time to load,” Jerry pointed out, “but this will be worth it. It’s an email Agbu received from a friend. Wait until you see it.”

  “Chris read the non-descript email and began viewing the Shutterfly pictures as a slideshow. Long-range shots of the Roland Garros construction project soon became close-ups of barricades, steel girders and turnstiles. Chris looked back at the message in the email. “I found someone with inside information.” It now made sense. They are going to blow up the new stadium, just like they did two years ago, she thought. “How did you get this, Jerry?” she asked.

  Jerry was all smiles. “I finally figured out how they were routing their emails. They were using a company in France that promises total security, but that just means that the code is more difficult to break. There isn’t anything on the internet that is totally secure from a good hacker, or a CIA specialist,” he added with a grin.

  “You used the past tense,” Chris answered. “Does this mean he changed his email again?”

  “I’m afraid so. The service he used has a detection algorithm that told them they were busted, but I’ll find him again. “I did get one more email when Agbu replied and requested more pictures of the domed stadium courts. He also asked Rico to bring the inside guy back with him.”

  The more Chris thought about it, the more confused she became. Parts of this didn’t make sense. Their best information they had was that two years ago it was the Basque that had preempted an even worse disaster at Roland Garros by tipping off the authorities earlier that morning. Some sources said that it had been Agbu himself, who had called into the Basque radio station. So now, why the change in direction?

  Chris called a staff meeting to evaluate the new information. She posed some fundamental questions. “What are they planning, and why? How will it help the Basque cause to destroy Roland Garros? Sam, what do you think?”

  “The French are still insisting that French be the only language taught in their schools. The New ETA built private schools in the Basque Region in Southern France, but the French still prohibit the teaching of Euskara. Maybe this is Agbu’s way of putting pressure on them?”

  “That’s a good point, Sam, but it doesn’t fit the profile of the New ETA. The old group tried terrorism for years and it didn’t work. Now that they are making progress, why change back to the old ways? Fred, any ideas?”

  “Maybe it’s about money,” Fred said as he leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “Maybe Al-Qaeda has put the squeeze on Agbu and he needs to do this to keep his drug connections alive.”

  “That makes more sense,” Jerry replied, “but it still doesn’t tell us how this helps the Basque. Spain is close
to granting them political independence. Why risk it? It’s crazy to think that mass murder is going to help their cause. Don’t you agree, Chris?”

  Chris thought for a while before answering. “Jerry, I think you just nailed it. He’s crazy.”

  There was silence as they waited for Chris to continue.

  “Remember that time six months ago when we lost track of Agbu for a couple weeks, and then all of a sudden he reappeared. Did we ever find out where he went?”

  “Yea, I finally tracked him down,” Jerry answered. “He flew from Barcelona to Mexico City using an alias. After that, I couldn’t track him until he showed up back in Vitoria-Gasteiz. Friends must have picked him up at the airport because he apparently didn’t rent a car or hotel room. Why, is that important?”

  “I’m not sure,” Chris answered, “but Ken mentioned to me a few days ago that he needed to go to Mexico City next month to prepare a bid to rebuild the stadium that their company built four years ago. I think you all know that Ken works for Global Management, Jim Simpson’s company.”

  “I remember reading about that,” Fred interjected. “Terrorists blew up the stadium and killed a couple people. When was that, last September?”

  “September 13,” Chris replied.

  “That’s the date Agbu flew back from Mexico City,” Jerry stated, as the connection dawned on the CIA team. “He is crazy.”

  “Combine that with his assassination attempt on Simpson in Zurich, and we have our motive,” Sam concluded. “But why?”

  Chris filled in the missing piece of the puzzle. “I was there for the grand opening of that stadium,” Chris said thinking back to the events of that day. “We had a tip that terrorists might try to kidnap Simpson and I was part of the security team, but it was Jim Simpson that saved my life that day. The gunman had me dead to rights, but Jim grabbed a gun and shot the terrorist a split second before he would have pulled the trigger.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Fred asked. “What’s the connection?”

  “The man he killed was Anton Galan, a Basque terrorist that was wanted in France for kidnapping an American tourist.”

  “Anton Galan, like in Agbu Galan?” Jerry asked.

  “Yep, he was Agbu’s older brother. That’s why he is after Simpson and everything he stands for. Agbu wants revenge.”

  “Wow, what a small world.”

  “And he is willing to risk everything the Basque have attained,” Chris added. “We are not dealing with a rational person so let’s remember that while we try to figure out what he is planning.”

  Chapter 34

  The Roads to Paris