by Jim Plautz
Day 12 (Friday)
The Men’s Semifinals
The much-heralded match-up between Carlos and Roger Federer, the #1 ranked player in the world, was a huge disappointment. It not only lacked drama but neither played quality tennis. Federer played a little worse than Carlos, and lost in four sets. The Spaniard was booed at every opportunity and it was almost like the bad mood of the crowd affected the players.
Headlines in the morning newspaper had read: “Basque Terrorist Behind Plot To Bomb Roland Garros.” Agbu Galan, close friend of Spanish tennis player Carlos Cordero, is sought in connection with a foiled plot to blow up the newly renovated Roland Garros stadium during the opening ceremony. Carlos was questioned by the French Police but denied knowledge of his friend’s plan or current whereabouts. The picture of Carlos with his arm on Agbu’s shoulder appeared below the headlines. There was another picture on Page two showing Agbu, Carlos and Ambre on a yacht in Monte Carlo. It was apparent from the reaction of the crowd that the court of public opinion judged Carlos guilty. He not only was best friends with the most wanted terrorist in France, many blamed him for Ambre’s drug suspension. His own mother would have booed him if she were alive.
Carlos poor play could easily be explained, but Federer’s failure to show-up was a complete surprise. He was lethargic from the start, trying to look cool and confident in the face of his younger, more energetic opponent. His best shot, the inside-out forehand, failed him miserably. Unforced errors outnumbered winners by two to one. He lost serve nine times, four times in the first set. For the first time in three years, he did not look like the #1 player in the world.
The press conference was again dominated by questions about Agbu. Carlos finally had enough. “Listen to me. I don’t know where Agbu is. He is my friend, but I don’t support terrorism.”
The Press wouldn’t let up. “There is a report that you met Agbu in the Latin Quarter two nights ago. Is that true? What did you talk about?”
Carlos was caught by surprise and hesitated a moment before answering.” I told you, I don’t know where he is. I haven’t spoken with Agbu fir several weeks. Why don’t you ask his girlfriend where he is?”
The room went silent for a moment before a reporter asked the obvious question. “Say that again. Who is his Agbu’s girlfriend?”
“The girl in the picture,” Carlos answered, “she was with Agbu, not me.” Carlos watched silently as the reporters fought with the answer that no one wanted to believe. Nobody wanted to voice what everyone was thinking.
The girl in the picture was Ambre.
“Enrique, it’s good to see you” Agbu said as he warmly embraced his uncle. “Did you have any problems getting here?”
“No, everything went as we planned. The others are at the farm and the airplane is well hidden. The French were getting pretty close to finding us in the mountains, but we got out of there just in time. We have everything you asked for including the chemicals and blasting caps. I’m eager to see what you have in mind.”
“I’ll fill you in on everything tomorrow, Enrique. We are meeting our friends in the morning to deliver the chemicals and go over the plan. They are going to be a big help. We have a lot of work to do today. By the way, did you get rid of the cell phone? ”
Enrique laughed. “I did better than that. I gave it to the couple we stayed with, but told them not to use it for a couple days. When they do, the police will be all over them. I wish I could see the expression on the policemen’s faces when they realize they were duped. Brilliant, wasn’t it?”
Agbu didn’t like it when his uncle started thinking for himself, but he couldn’t see how it would hurt. The police were going to find the farmhouse sooner or later and they already knew he was in Paris.
Something was bothering Chris, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. It finally dawned on her. Chemical weapons and mass killings just wasn’t Agbu’s style. Even in Mexico City, Agbu took great care that the explosions occurred when the stadium was empty. Yes, two people died, but if the explosion had occurred 12 hours later, the death toll would have been in the thousands. Agbu had always been known for precision targeting of specific targets. She expressed her misgivings to Donavon in their daily briefing.
“Earl, we might be barking up the wrong tree. This just isn’t his style. Agbu’s expertise is explosives. Is it possible that this anthrax thing is misdirection?”
Earl Donavon thought about what she said. “You know, Chris, you might be right, but what else can we do? The French say they have anthrax and an airplane. We can’t ignore that.”
“I know, all I’m saying is that we keep our eyes open for other possibilities. Even if it is anthrax, an airplane is just one way to deliver anthrax.”
The second semifinal between Pete and Mariano Puerta of Argentina, provided all the excitement the crowd needed. Pete received a thunderous ovation as he walked onto Court Chatrier, for the most part because he was Lisa’s brother and hero. I would like to think part of the support was because of the great tennis he was playing, but even in the United States the headlines read; “Lisa’s brother in French Semifinals.”
Pete started slowly despite the crowd support. The pressure of playing in his first major semifinal finally got to him. It looked like his shoes were filled with cement. He was a half-step slow on getting to the ball causing him to reach or slap at the shot. Puerta was playing a smart match, letting Pete make the mistakes.
Ambre yelled encouragement from the player’s box, but for the first time her support wasn’t enough to put Pete over the top. He continued his lethargic play and quickly found himself down two sets to love; 1-6, 2-6. There appeared to be no fight in Pete today.
Pete started the 3rd set losing serve by trying to hit a winner from behind the baseline. “Come-on Petie, be patient,” I yelled, “20 in a row, just like Borg.” It was completely spontaneous, as evidenced by my use of his childhood nickname, and I had a feeling I would hear about that later. But for whatever reason Pete settled down and started playing better clay court tennis.
The first two sets took just under an hour total. The 3rd and 4th sets took over an hour each, with Pete winning 6-4 and 7-5. Twenty stroke rallies were the norm with the longest being 53 strokes before Pete got a short ball that he could put away for a winner. Sensing that Pete might be tiring, Puerta started to drop shot Pete at every opportunity. I knew Pete was tired, but I also saw that special something in him that made a champion. I could tell he was ready to play all afternoon if necessary and hit one more shot than his opponent, just like Borg. They were on court over five hours when on match point, Pete raced in for a drop shot and hit a winner up the line for an 8-6 win. Pete was in the finals.
Exhausted, Puerta put his arms around Pete and the players hugged for what seemed like forever as the crowd’s applause poured down on them. Later Puerta would say that he had never played against anyone that fought so hard and wanted it so bad. “He played like an Argentinean.”
Susan Peterson was in a front row seat at Roland Garros watching the young Spaniard annihilate Roger Federer. She had arrived in Paris yesterday and spent most of the day in her hotel, the same hotel where she had last seen her husband. Her doctor had advised her not to make this trip. “Susan, you are not strong enough for this. This trip could provide you the closure you want, but it could also open up old wounds. I don’t think this trip is a good idea.”
Susan had come to Paris anyway. What did her psychiatrist know?