“What happened between you and Ambre? Are you still friends?”
“Was Ambre using drugs when you were dating?”
“Did you take her away from Pete Simpson?”
Media-bashing approached levels usually attributed only to the English tabloids during Wimbledon. They peppered Carlos with questions. “What is your relationship with Ambre? Did you have anything to do with her drug suspension? Did you steal Ambre away from Pete?”
Carlos ignored the questions. He had been quietly sailing through the tournament, losing only one set in four matches. His quarterfinal opponent was another Spaniard, Alberta Costa, and 2002 French Open Champion. Tennis fans supported Carlos in previous matches, appreciating his aggressive style and flair. Not today!
A chorus of boos greeted Carlos as he walked onto the court and did not let up throughout the match. Shouts of drug pusher and lover boy rang out through Philippe Chatrier stadium. Carlos let his racquet do the talking and thrashed Costa in four sets, but the crowd was not impressed and booed him as he left the court.
Carlos was 30 minutes late for his post match press conference. His agent read the following statement; “Carlos and Ambre were once close friends and started dating when they trained at Saddlebrook. Ambre had broken off her relationship with Pete Simpson before Carlos arrived. He knows nothing about her suspension. They remain good friends and Carlos wishes Ambre the best in this tournament.”
The first question got to the heart of the matter. “You and Ambre were seen together many times at parties in Australia and right before she was suspended. Were there drugs at these parties?”
“I don’t know which parties you are referring to.”
“Do you deny ever using drugs with Ambre?”
“I have never used drugs. I cannot speak for Ambre. I understand she tested positive for some banned substance, but that’s all I know.”
“Are you a member of the Basque terrorist movement?” a reporter in the back of the room shouted. The room went silent. Many reporters had never heard of the Basque, but there were enough Europeans and South American reporters that knew exactly who they were. The question had elevated the subject matter of the press conference to a new level.
“I am Basque, but I am not a terrorist,” Carlos replied curtly, and then added, “and I don’t agree the Basque are a terrorist movement as your question implies.”
“How would you characterize them?”
Carlos should have ignored the question.” I think they are freedom fighters seeking their own homeland. Our ancestors have …”
“That’s enough,” his agent interrupted. “Carlos will be glad to answer your tennis questions but that’s enough about Ambre and the Basque.” They got up to leave.
“Do you deny being best friends with the international terrorist, Agbu? Did he supply you and Ambre with drugs?” The room erupted in stunned silence.
Carlos should have kept walking, but his Iberian blood took over. “Agbu has done many good things for the Basque people, and if you want to know something about your French darling, Ambre, why don’t you ask Lisa what she thinks of Ambre. You don’t see Ambre sitting with the Simpsons, do you?” With that, Carlos stormed out of the room.
“Assholes,” Carlos muttered.
“You can’t win a fight with the press, Carlos,” his agent replied. “Is there anything else I should be aware of? That reporter seemed pretty sure of himself.”
Carlos didn’t respond.
CNN led off their evening telecast with a picture of Carlos, Ambre and Agbu on a boat two years ago in Nice. They followed it up with ten minutes of interviews that established Agbu as the leader of the Basque Terrorist wing with ties to Al-Qaeda. The news anchor concluded with a statement; “Agbu is sought for questioning regarding attempted terrorists attacks on Roland Garros, but his whereabouts are unknown.” That night hundreds of sportswriters consulted with their political analyst counterparts before filing their stories. The CIA and other international agencies involved in counter terrorism became sports fans. The frenzy was on.
Agbu checked into a cheap motel and paid cash for a week. Tuesday and Wednesday morning he spent in bed attempting to recover his strength. His only contact was the night manager who was unlikely to report Agbu to the police even if he made the connection. Half of the motel’s residents were prostitutes and the rest were drug users. Agbu kept the stolen scooter in his room. Wednesday he felt strong enough to make contact and begin implementing his plan. He rode the small bike five kilometers until he found a public phone booth.
“Uncle, please don’t say my name. I understand that the police have ways of monitoring telephone conversations searching for key words, so let’s be careful. Did you get the materials I asked for? Are the others with you?”
“It’s good to hear from you. I have everything you requested. We are still in the mountains, but just let us know and we can be there in 10 hours.”
“Excellent. Do you have a pencil and paper? I need you to be at this location Saturday morning at 8:00 AM. I will tell you my plan when we meet. Come alone.”
“Okay, I got it. I’ll meet you Saturday morning at this address,” he replied, confirming the address he had been given.
“Stay out of trouble,” Agbu cautioned before he hung up. Phase 1 of his plan was in progress.
Agbu made his second phone call and woke his friend. “Good evening, you sound like you were sleeping. That’s not like you,” Agbu chided.
There was silence from the other end of the call as Agbu’s friend recognized his voice and tried desperately to wake up. “I have a tennis match tomorrow, and besides, why are you calling me? Haven’t you caused enough problems?”
“I need to see you tomorrow. Meet me at that club we went to the last time I saw you. Remember?”
“I remember, but I can’t meet you. Are you crazy? Everyone is looking for you, and besides, I’m not particularly happy with what you are doing. You are hurting your friends.”
“I was hoping you would want to meet me for old times sake, but if that isn’t enough, consider this.” Agbu spoke for another 30 seconds. “9:00 PM, just go to the bar and I’ll find you.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” his friend reluctantly agreed.
One of the CNN background stories about Agbu caught the attention of a listener in St Paul, Minnesota and her teenage children that happened to be watching the news show. “Did you hear that Mom? They just mentioned Daddy’s name.”
“Yes, I heard it sweetheart” Susan Peterson replied as she burst into tears. “That man helped kill your father,” she sobbed. It had been five years since his death but it seemed like yesterday. Psychiatrists and months of therapy had not helped. She could not forget as long as the people responsible for her husband’s death were free. That night she lay awake reliving that horrible vacation that had started off so well. She was still awake at 7:00 AM when she made the decision to fly to Paris. Maybe this would help provide closure.
The final men’s quarterfinal match was a tremendous five-set match between two Argentineans. Unseeded Mariano Puerto came back for 0-4 in the fifth set to upset his good friend and fellow countryman, Guillermo Canas. The match was a war between two clay court players who refused to quit, and featured 13 rallies of 30 strokes or more. It was clay court tennis played at the highest level. The two friends hugged at the net for a full minute while the crown roared their approval.
The men’s semis were complete; Raphael Nadal vs Roger Federer and Mariano Puerto vs unseeded, Pete Simpson.