La Trajectoire du pion by
Michel Jobin
(Excerpt of chapter 2, p. 16-23)
Procyon's press attaché invites me on board the team's luxury trailer. Elegant furniture, soft leather, a thick carpet and classical music distilled through a high-fidelity, cutting-edge sound system. Money can't buy everything, that's true, but for a comfy atmosphere, it goes a long way. A striking contrast with the feverish excitement in the garages. Jean-Louis Vincent welcomes me with an engaging smile, hand extended.
"Please remind me, my dear sir, of the name of the publication that sent you."
Although the previous interview was rather stormy, it left no trace. Vincent spoke in a calm, unctuous voice, perfectly self-controlled. Perhaps the two huge bodyguards standing in the background have something to do with it.
"Tifosi. I am their correspondent for all of North America."
"Very good. May I offer you something to drink?"
I decline.
He invites me to sit down while one of his muscle men brings him a glass. I place my recorder on the table.
"Procyon's excellent season start makes our readers eager to know more about you. Being a contender in your second year of existence is a feat very few teams can boast of."
I'm laying it on a bit thick, but flattery breaches the defences of vain people far better than criticism.
Vincent seems to like it.
"Indeed, but these successes were not unexpected. They are simply the logical extension of the high standards of excellence that Procyon Inc., the team's parent company has established from the beginning."
"Can you give details on the nature of its activities?"
"Procyon Inc. is an international financial holding company. Fund management is its main activity. Thanks to revolutionary analytical tools developed by our team of highly qualified mathematicians and economists, we enable our clients to take advantage of the best investment opportunities in stock exchanges all over the world."
"Why did they create an F1 racing team?"
"Procyon F1 is a showcase for the prestige of Procyon Inc. in the world."
"It is still a colossal investment. Can it be financially viable?"
"Absolutely, because our system is infallible. By itself, our dividends allow us to easily pay for the team. That's not taking into account the new income generated by our presence in Formula 1 racing."
The man is just as I expected him to be. He underlines his sentences with assertive, calm gestures. He carries his head proudly, his quick grey eyes feel like he measures rather than watches you. As well, a carnivorous smile lurks beneath the polish. He is young - barely forty-five years old - a blazing success. A man obviously in control of his destiny.
"You certainly know that persistent rumours are running around the paddock. Some are sceptical about the effectiveness of the investment system you promote."
Vincent doesn't react. At best, his attitude betrays a slight annoyance at the thought that this question can still be raised.
"The system must work well if I am here to talk about it. Some of the minor players in F1 get envious of those who are successful. Especially those who succeed rapidly."
"What did you do before, personally?"
"I was the CEO of a corporation that financed various enterprises, mergers and acquisitions, that sort of thing."
"Until very recently, you were negotiating with Mercedes to get their engine. The agreement seemed to be looked imminent. But the day before the Monaco Grand Prix, negotiations suddenly broke off. How do you explain this course of events?"
He tries to muddy the waters by alluding to the team's French nationality, its refusal to hire a driver proposed by the German engine company. Everybody suspects that Mercedes found a problem and chose to pull out. As skulduggery is frequent in F1, the dust settled quickly. Only Dumont kept on being interested in it. Just as I am ready to insist, his cell phone rings, interrupting us.
He brings it to his ear, and his face contorts. A brief surprise appears furtively in his eyes. Aware of my presence, he quickly recovers and says with assurance, after a pause:
"I am sorry, but I've been informed of a serious emergency. Could we go on later with the interview, tomorrow, perhaps?"
I'm not happy, but I don't have much choice.
I switch off the recorder, slip it back into the pocket of my blazer and take my leave.
Outside, I'm swallowed by the muggy heat. The sun is at its highest, heat mirages swirl over the burning asphalt. A real inferno. It will have a negative impact on the times in the qualifying rounds, this afternoon.*** In the press room, the air-conditioning just broke down. People have dark circles on their shirts, under the arms, foreheads are damp. I put my things on a common desk close to the row of televisions and sit down on a PVC chair. Dumont goes back to his place, just beside me.
"So, what about your interview with Vincent?" he asks.
"Charming guy. As modest as a nun."
As I'm preparing my notebook for the afternoon, someone touches my shoulder lightly.
"Mr. Maynard."
I turn around. It's Pierre, Procyon F1's press attaché. He looks a bit out of breath.
"Mr. Vincent would like to apologize for the inconvenience and invite you to the party given by the team, this evening."
He hands me an envelope.
"It's a private affair, with the sponsors and the members of the team. Mr. Vincent will be available tomorrow morning for the interview, as agreed."
"Thanks," I say, surprised by the consideration, while Dumont remarks:
"Say, it's the royal treatment! You bestow privileges on the local press now?"
Pierre's only answer is a vague grin. He turns away and disappears as quickly as he came. As for me, I open the envelope. Wow. It's an invitation for four. I'll be able to bring along some buddies too!
"Where is Vincent's shindig tonight?" Dumont inquires.
"At the Galaxy, a hip resto-bar on Peel, downtown."
I look at my watch: 12:59. No time to call them now. Just one minute left before the beginning of the qualifying rounds. And you can trust the organizers to respect the planned schedule to the second. I put away the precious invitation. As it happens, at one o'clock sharp, the lights turn green in the row of pits. The first one-man car roars away on the track, soon followed by half a dozen others. The laid-back ambiance, softened by the scorching heat, gets lively at once. The qualifying rounds have just officially begun. In the press-room, some have been at this job for years. They are getting fed up with delayed planes, lost luggage, impossible timetables and the arrogance of the Big Circus buffoons, but when the cars are on the track, when the engines roar at last, you can see a peculiar happiness on all faces. The little boy is back.
At the end of the qualifying rounds, things are looking rather good for Procyon F1: first and third on the starting grid. Vincent will be downright insufferable.***
At two o'clock in the morning, I've had enough, I hit the wall. I've been overcome by the thick cigarette smoke, the scorching heat, the hours spent shouting to make myself heard in the surrounding din. Something tells me I'm too old for this. Besides, as a party, it was less of a success than I'd expected it to be. It could almost have been an evening at the Chamber of Commerce. Not many people, except for the sponsors. Peter Bryan and Thierry Bernard, the Procyon F1's drivers, only breezed in early in the evening, which is better than Vincent who didn't come at all. I empty my glass, goodnight everyone, I'm going home.
Outside, the night feels surprisingly cool. I get back some of my energy although my head is still numbed by the echoes of the music in the bar. Fortunately, I left my car not very far away. After crossing Dorchester Square, I take a shortcut to Cathcart through an alley.
At once, the stench of the trash is overpowering. A greasy smell, really nauseating. Instinctively, I walk faster - no way I'm going to spend one more instant in this place than I have to. The sole of my shoes make a muted sound that reverberates on the walls, as sand and gravel are trailing underfoot. After a while, oddly, the sound divides in two and becomes louder. I glance over my shoulder. Inky night, I can't see a thing. But when a knife blade is firmly applied to my jugular vein, I understand I've made a grievous error.
"Don't move or I'll cut your throat!"
I freeze, I stop breathing. In my head the very idea of movement doesn't exist.
The guy who's robbing me must not be very tall, but he's strong. He smells like marine after-shave with a whiff of camphor. With his free hand, he searches my pockets. Wallet and recorder disappear quickly into an accomplice's pockets.
"How much is in there?" the first man asks.
"N... not v... very much ... abo..bout a hund...hundred and fifty," the other stutters.
"That's all?"
"Also a rec... recorder b...but... it's w...worth nothing!"
"You're not very generous, buddy," my attacker says before turning me to face him and kneeing me in the belly.
Bent double, breathless, I collapse over a pile of trash bags. I can hear two little muted sounds beside me, then footsteps. They calmly leave the alley, as if nothing had happened.
And they have nothing to worry about. I try to stand up, but I can't. I hold my belly, it hurts so much.
Despite the pain, I fumble in the dark. If I could get my stuff back, I would feel better already. Meanwhile, I put my hand in a pile of refuse. But I finally stumble into what I was looking for: my wallet and my recorder.
Just as I'm getting my breath back and manage to get up on one elbow, a door that I hadn't seen opens and violently hits the wall a few meters away. Three, perhaps four people come out, walking swiftly, and there is a shout:
"Let go of me!"
Someone is struggling. I see absolutely nothing, but when there is a gap of light in the dark, I'm amazed. It's the roof light of a limo - invisible before - and it throws a yellowish spot on a very recognizable face, despite it being distorted by fear. No possible doubt, this struggling man is Jean-Louis Vincent.
"Let me go!"
Two huge brutes are pushing him, not gently, into the car. They sit on his left and right, squeezing him between them, and a man calmly lowers himself in the seat in front of them: the dark-suited guy I bumped into in front of the Procyon F1's trailer. He stares contemptuously at Vincent and declares in an imperious voice: "Shut up, Vincent. You'll be at the Back B. tomorrow. Suka pozornaya!"
© 2001 Éditions Alire & Michel Jobin
To find out what happens next...
