 
### Double Fault at Roland Garros

### Home of the French Open

### Another Sports Thriller

### By

### Jim Plautz

Copyright 2010 by James M. Plautz

September 09, 2010

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author. Printed books may be shared with friends. It is illegal to copy, transmit or read EBooks, including PDF and RIF files, without paying the author for the additional copies - it's his livelihood!

ISBN 978-1-4523-4232-0

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Fact or Fiction?

This is a work of fiction, although some characters and themes are drawn from personal experience and exhaustive research.

There is a French Open tennis tournament played at Roland Garros Stadium every year in May; it's the 2nd leg of the tennis Grand Slam;

The Basque people and the ETA are real, although the characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictional;

Bouygues, Hunt and Clark are reputable construction companies, but the project to rebuild Roland Garros is fictional;

Saddlebrook Tennis Center is an excellent tennis and golf resort, but the people and events portrayed in this novel are fictional;

The four tennis players portrayed in this novel; Pete, Ambre, Lisa and Carlos are fictional; Pete is not my son, Carlos is not Nadal;

The book is narrated in the first person, so I guess I am Jim Simpson, with a couple notable differences; I don't own a construction company & I'm not rich.

Characters

**Pete Simpson** is a promising junior tennis player from Tampa, Florida, on track to earn a tennis scholarship to a major college. Pete's game and expectations soar when **Ambre** , the beautiful French tennis sensation begins training at the Saddlebrook Tennis Academy. **Carlos Cordero** , the world's #1 ranked junior tennis player steals Ambre away from Pete, but not before Ambre and Pete's younger sister **Lisa** become bitter enemies. Lisa channels her anger into tennis and vows retribution. The paths of these teenagers are destined to cross at Roland Garros Stadium, home of the French Open.

**Jim Simpson** , father of Pete and Lisa and husband to **Mary** , is a successful businessman with a rapidly expanding international construction company. Jim hires **Marco Noah** away from the French construction firm, Bouygues, to head up Simpson Construction. Successful projects in Mexico City and Tampa land Simpson a three billion dollar project to repair Roland Garros after the tennis stadium is severely damaged by terrorists. The huge project is on a tight timeframe and requires a joint venture with industry giants Bouygues, Hunt Construction and Clark Engineering. Jim's best friend and CFO, **Ken Reed** asks **Sven Johansen** for financing. It is a race against time to complete the new, domed stadium, in time for next year's French Open tennis tournament.

**Agbu Galan** , Carlos' boyhood friend, becomes leader of the New ETA, the terrorist arm of the Basque Nationalist movement. Haunted by the death of his older brother **Anton** , who is shot by Jim Simpson during an attempted kidnapping in Mexico, Agbu swears revenge. Uncle **Enrique** and boyhood friends **Rico** , **Stefano** and **Tito** assist Agbu. **Muhammad** , leader of the European Al-Qaeda cell and supplier of Basque drugs, has his own agenda.

**Chris Lewis** , Ken Reed's fiancé and longtime friend of Jim and **Mary Simpson** , is now with the CIA. She is assigned to protect the Simpson family and works with the French Police to stymie **Basque** and **Al-Qaeda** plans to blow up the newly rebuilt Roland Garros stadium. French Police Lieutenant, **Georges Caron** agrees to watch over **Susan Peterson** when she returns to Paris to help cope with the death of her husband **Bill** , at the hands of Basque kidnappers.

PART ONE

The Early Years

Chapter 1

Bjorn Borg Flashback

AP World News Report – "A car bomb exploded in the Madrid business district Wednesday morning shattering office building windows and injuring 43 people. A witness told CNN that the explosion shook his car as he drove 100 yards away from the blast site. The injured suffered bruises and cuts from flying glass as well as damaged eardrums. Minutes before the blast the Basque newspaper Gara received a warning call from the Basque separatist group ETA warning police to evacuate the nearby convention center where King Juan Carlos is scheduled to speak later today. A spokesman for the King told CNN that the ceremony would still be held.

The explosion came hours after police arrested 14 suspected members of the ETA and a week after Spain's Parliament rejected a plan giving the Basque region virtual independence. The plan proposed by the Basque regional parliament calls for Spain to accept 'shared sovereignty' over the three-province Basque region in Northern Spain in exchange for cessation of ETA violence. The Basque made a similar proposal to France in respect to the three 'departments' located just across the Pyrenees Mountains that are also considered part of Basque country. France has not responded.

This was the worst terrorist act in Spain's capital since the March train bombings, which killed 191 people and led to the latest crackdown on the ETA. Militants claimed to be acting on behalf of Al-Qaeda. Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero denounced the bombings. "ETA and those that support it have no place in political or civil life. Bombs lead only to jail. We will not negotiate with terrorists."

This was yet another blow to the Basque who trace their heritage and language back thousands of years and have been fighting for their own homeland for centuries.

"Hey Dad, look at this."

"Just a minute, son, I'm on a business call. I'll be there in a few minutes."

Fifteen minutes later I finished my call and went into the living room. The television was still on but Petie was nowhere in sight. Surprisingly, the TV was tuned to the French Open and was showing re-runs of yesterday's men's quarterfinal matches. Petie wasn't into tennis.

I found him in his bedroom playing video games. "What was it you wanted, Petie? I was on the phone and couldn't get away; sorry." I felt bad about not being there for Petie when he wanted me. He was a good kid, but was entering that age when they relied less and less on their parents.

"It wasn't anything, Dad. They were showing some re-runs of old French Open Champions and I was wondering if you ever saw this guy Borg play. He must have been pretty good."

"He was the best of his time, son. In the late '70s and early '80s he was the man. What did he win, six French Opens?"

"Yeah, they were showing a match from 1981 when he beat Ivan Lendl in the finals. Gee, he was like a machine. He never missed."

"That's what Borg was known for, his consistency."

"Is that why they called him the Ice Man?"

"That was part of it, Petie, but it was something more. Borg had this look in his eye that said, 'I'm going to stay back at the baseline and wear you down. If you get 15 balls back, I'll get 16, if you get 17, I'll get 18. I'm willing to stay out here all day; are you?' He was relentless."

"Wow, that's cool."

"Did you see the rackets they used back then Petie? Wood frames with small heads. Racquet faces had about 66 square inches of hitting area. Now, a racquet face with 95 square inches is considered mid-size. Some oversized racquets have 120 square inches. Borg played before tennis became such a power game."

Petie hesitated for a few seconds before responding. I could see his mind working overtime struggling with what he wanted to say. When he finally decided, his decision surprised me. "Let's go to the club and hit a few balls, Dad. Okay?"

"Sure, get the rackets while I change." I had planned on going into the office, but made a snap decision. It was a good one.

Looking back years later, I remembered this moment as a turning point in Petie's life, and for the lives of those of us around him. It was the day that my son became a tennis player.

4,300 miles away, two 13-year olds were robbing a small drugstore in Vitoria-Gasteiz, the capital of Spain's Basque Country. The boys escaped with 30 Euros, less than $40 American dollars. More importantly, they found a variety of barbiturates and opium-based prescription drugs worth more than a thousand dollars on the street. Drug trafficking was a major source of revenue to the local Basque cell group. Agbu's older brother Anton was their leader.

"That's the last time for me, Agbu, tomorrow I leave for the tennis school in Madrid."

"I envy you, Carlos. I wish I could play tennis like you. That's your ticket out of this slum. Don't blow it."

"What will you do, Agbu?"

"Don't worry about me, I'll get by. Soon I will join my brothers and do what my family has done for generations. The ETA needs young people now more than ever."

"Be careful my friend; it's dangerous."

"I know, but it is what my family has done for three generations. My great grandfather fought against Franco in the Spanish Civil War. One day the Basque will have our own country, that's what my brothers say."

"You don't really believe that, do you Agbu? Do you really think Spain and France will ever agree to that?" A third of the land that the Basque claimed as their homeland was located across the border in Southern France.

Agbu was an intelligent boy and had often considered the question. "No, I guess I don't Carlos, but it doesn't matter. We fight anyway. If they give us our own country, we would think of some other reason to fight. It's what the Basques have done for centuries."

Carlos thought about what Agbu had said and knew there was a lot of truth in it. He wasn't as smart or quick as Agbu, but Carlos had the ability to reason things out and usually came to the right conclusion. The Basque trace their heritage back over two thousand years and were always warriors. Agbu was destined to be a terrorist; it was his culture and it was in his blood.

"You keep the money, Agbu, I won't need it. The Spanish Tennis Federation will be picking up my expenses."

The friends parted and went their separate ways. It would be many years before they would meet again in Paris at the French Open.

I was bored. My business was doing well, but it wasn't enough. I needed a change. Mary and I just returned from a two-week golfing vacation to Ireland and Scotland. The kids, Pete and his younger sister, Lisa, were growing up faster than we wanted, but seemed to be doing well in school and other activities. They were a pleasure to be around and we counted our blessings. It had been over two years since my dramatic golf match with Jack Pardo in the club championship. I can still visualize Jack's putt rimming out on the 18th hole and handing me a 1-up victory. I guess the excitement from the myriad of events that surrounded that day had spoiled me. It wasn't every day that an amateur match play golf tournament has a winner-take-all prize of a business valued at 938 million dollars.

I still played golf twice a week when time allowed and my handicap hovered around plus three or four, not bad considering I was a plus fifteen when I moved to Tampa five years ago. Ken Reed, my golf mentor and business partner usually teamed up on Saturdays to play Jack and his partner in a two-ball, $50 Nassau. Jack and Ken were scratch golfers so a lot depended upon Jack's partner whether we got strokes. Like most golf wagers, the winner is determined on the first tee. Ken was a great negotiator.

The Cabo San Lucas casino and resort project had been a tremendous success and I was fortunate to have maintained an ownership interest for my company, Global Management. Casino operations had been sub-contracted to a large management company that operated casinos throughout the world. They took 97% of adjusted gross revenue and paid all expenses. The ownership group received three percent, which amounted to about $80M annually. Global Management received 15% of this amount which provided Mary and me opportunity for several vacations a year.

Knock-on-wood, there had been no turnover of the key people at Global Management. The mortgage brokerage and equipment leasing businesses continued to grow. We exercised our option on an additional 20,000 feet of office space and added 15 new employees over the last two years. Our Christmas party was no longer a table of eight and Christmas bonuses last year totaled $320,000. It was money well spent and well earned.

Our international funding business was expanding and was the one area of the company that held my interest. In the last two years we funded three small deals in South America, one in China and several in Europe. The average size of these projects was just over $60 million dollars. Half of our business is for hotels and golf resorts but recently we began funding real estate developments and community infrastructure.

Relationships with our lending sources had also improved. We were now table-funding deals under our own name, pooling loans into investment grade packages, and then selling the paper to large Wall Street lenders and pension funds. There were two relatively small deals that I liked so much that we funded using our own money in exchange for a percentage of ownership. These changes significantly enhanced our credibility. We were no longer thought of as a broker, but as the final lender and source of money. It was mostly perception, but who cares, business opportunities were increasing.

The construction side of our business was treading water. Simpson Construction hadn't done much since the Cabo San Lucas casino was completed. I maintained a skeletal staff, but they wouldn't stay long unless we developed some new work. Maybe the phone call I received this morning from the government official in Mexico City would prove interesting. They were planning to build a new all-sports complex and asked if we might be interested in managing the project. "Sure," I replied, "we would be interested in discussing this further. When can we meet with you?" _We had never built a domed sports stadium._

Chapter 2

Establishing the Groundwork

"When did Borg start to play tennis? When did he win his first tournament? Did he play any other sports? What's he doing now?" Petie talked tennis the entire ten-minute ride to the club.

Where did this come from, I wondered? Mary and I had never pushed sports on Pete or his sister, Lisa. If they wanted to play something, we encouraged them. Pete was pretty good at soccer and baseball, but not a star. He was fast and could throw pretty well, but wasn't as big or strong as some of his friends. Tennis might be a good sport for him.

"Borg grew up in Sweden, so naturally hockey was his first love. I read that his father gave him a racket when he was nine and he won his first tournament a year later. I guess he had some natural ability, but I'm sure he practiced quite a bit."

"How long, Dad? How many hours would I have to practice to be as good as Bjorn Borg?"

"Petie, let's take it a step at a time. It's more important that you have fun. Not many people will ever be as good as Borg, but most of us can enjoy playing. Remember, he quit playing tournaments when he was only 26. It doesn't sound like he was having that much fun anymore."

"Dad, it will be fun when I win the French Open, I promise you."

"Okay Petie, let's stop the chatter and hit a few. Don't try to hit winners, just keep the ball in play like Borg would have done. Let's see if we can get to 20 in a row without missing."

Petie had hit with Mary and me before and knew the basics. He had a pretty good forehand, but wasn't consistent. His backhand was weak and he still made the mistake of most beginners by standing a few feet inside the baseline. He would learn that it's a lot easier to come forward for a ball than go back, and those half-volleys at your feet weren't as easy to hit as Andre Agassi made it look.

Mary showed Pete the correct way to grip the racket but he usually reverted to his natural 'western grip', which coincidentally was similar to Borg's. Pick up the racquet off the ground and you have a western grip. It's the natural grip for kids because your wrist is behind the racquet and it feels strong in your hand, especially on your forehand. The grip allows a player to hit heavy topspin off the forehand, but requires a severe grip change to hit volleys at the net or to hit a one-handed backhand. Many players with a western forehand use a two-handed backhand, including Borg.

Mary and I used the more conventional 'continental grip', which is the grip you get if someone holds the racquet head with the strings to the side, and asks you to shake hands with the racquet handle. Mary uses the same grip on both her forehand and backhand and was dynamite at the net. I couldn't break my habit of moving the racket a quarter-turn to hit my backhand volley. As a result, I can't count the times I've been caught at the net with the wrong grip, forcing me to pronate my wrist to get the racquet face square to the ball.

This wasn't the time for a lesson; it was time to have fun. Any tennis player will tell you that there is a certain level of ability you need to reach in tennis before the fun begins. It's not too much fun if you or your opponent can't get the ball back over the net with some consistency and all you're doing is running after balls. It's a lot more fun when you start hitting two or three shots back before someone misses. We started off slow, but after 25 minutes we finally broke 10 and were at 13 in a row when I netted a backhand. Petie was so disappointed that he looked like he was going to cry. "Geez Dad, we almost made it," he whimpered.

"I'm trying, Petie, believe me, I'm doing the best that I can." I wanted to tell him how hard it was to keep hitting the ball to his forehand with just the right speed to have it bounce waist high. Petie still wasn't too good at adjusting his swing or hitting the ball on the run, much less his backhand. It's like pitching baseballs to a five-year old. They swing the bat hard, but usually on the same plane. It is a dad's responsibility to pitch the ball to that spot.

Thirty minutes later we were at 12 when I ran far to my left and returned cross-court to his backhand.

"Thirteen," I shouted and watched as he set up for his backhand.

"Fourteen," he shouted as the ball came back to me perfectly on my forehand side.

"Fifteen," as I hit a perfect shot to his forehand. Believe me, I was starting to feel the pressure.

"Sixteen," Petie called as the ball came back, barely clearing the net.

I raced forward and barely got to his shot just inside the service line. "Seventeen," I yelled as I scraped the ball off the court and cleared the net with inches to spare.

"Eighteen," Pete whispered as he lobbed the ball back deep to my backhand. I could tell that Petie was nervous too.

I sprinted to the ball and hit an over the shoulder lob back to his side. "Nineteen," I gasped as I saw the ball heading over Petie's head, landing just inside the baseline. He would never catch up to it.

"Twenty," he screamed as he lunged for the ball and crashed into the back screen moments after he had sent back his shot. Lying face down on the green, synthetic har-tru clay, Petie never saw the ball clear the net and land safely on my side of the court.

I was racing to Petie to see if he was okay, but I needn't have. He was crying, but they were tears of joy. So were mine.

"We did it, Dad!"

Monday Ken and I flew to Mexico City to meet with the group that called about the domed sports complex. We weren't sure why they had called us but we looked forward to hearing more about the project. This was a great opportunity for a small firm such as ours.

We flew business class and Ken's 6'3" frame sprawled into the aisle as he tried to get comfortable and catch some sleep. He had played in a 2-day invitational golf tournament in Jacksonville over the weekend and hadn't gotten home until midnight. His final round 69 had earned him the winner's trophy and the right to buy drinks. I could picture him sitting at a large table of men exchanging war stories. While other players talked about 300-yard drives or 250 yard 3-woods, Ken would be bragging about the 25-foot downhill, down grain, putt he nailed for par. At 180 pounds Ken wasn't a long hitter, but he prided himself on hitting fairways and greens. "If you hit a 170 yard shot to within 10 feet, Jim, nobody cares if you used a five-iron or pitching wedge," he once told me. "Consistency and a good putter is all you need to play scratch golf." Men liked him because he had that casual, unassuming way about him that projected self-confidence. He wasn't what most women would consider handsome, but they were attracted to him because he was polite and complimentary while seeming indifferent, like he was having too much fun to chase women. For reasons I couldn't understand, women responded to this non-approach and did the work for him. I see others try the same approach and go home alone. Go figure.

I was fortunate to have Ken with me these last five years. He's been a good friend and golfing partner, but more importantly, he is someone whose opinions I respected and whom I could trust. I knew Ken Reed four years and was constantly amazed at his breadth of knowledge and quick mind. I have watched him complete a New York Times crossword puzzle while I was still reading the instructions. He could solve an "evil" Sudoku puzzle in minutes using x-wing, jelly-fish, Ariadne's thread and other techniques that I never dreamed of understanding, much less mastering. "The secret is, Jim, you need to see the entire puzzle, not just a single box or column." Easier said than done, I thought.

Ken got engaged last Christmas to Chris Lewis, a former employee who moonlighted as a DEA agent, but broke it off three months later. Ken didn't talk about it much, but I'm sure it had something to do with her heavy travel schedule. He and Jack are still good friends and plan to enter several two-man golf tournaments this summer. They make a good team. Jack has the length to reach most par 5s and Ken is money around the greens.

Ken had a high I-Q, but unlike many Mensa club members, Ken also had the ability to relate this intelligence to the problem at hand. He was someone I could trust to do a tough job with a minimum of supervision, but let me know if there were problems that required my input. This is a trait that I valued highly, and requires an individual with enough self-confidence to tell his boss or in this case, the owner of the company, "Jim, I could use your help on this one." Ken had this ability and would be in charge of this Mexico project if we got the work. I had a gut feeling that getting a job like this on our corporate resume could be a catalyst for bigger and broader opportunities.

I interrupted my day dreaming and started reading the background material my secretary had provided. It never hurt to know a little about your client and the job environment before going into a meeting. The travel brochure told me Mexico City was founded in 1521 by Cortés in the middle of the now drained Lake Texcoco on the ruins of Tenochtitlan, the capital of the Aztec Empire together with its lesser-known twin city, Tlatelolco. Located in the high plateaus in roughly the center of Mexico, it is 2,240 meters above sea-level and surrounded by volcanoes towering 4,000 to 5,500 meters above sea level. It is Mexico's largest city and one of the most beautiful cities in the world. This was confirmed when our Delta flight passed by the volcanoes before circling and approaching for landing to the North, offering a fantastic panorama to passengers fortunate to have window seats.

I skimmed the remaining information until an item regarding crime and guerrilla warfare caught my eye. I was surprised to read that factions in several Southern states were seeking independence and travel advisories were posted warning tourists to avoid these areas. There was apparently a strong Iberian-led independence movement in Mexico that is loosely affiliated with the Spanish Basque and South American terrorism. There was also a second article about increased crime and growing protests in the city. My reading was interrupted by the awakening giant on my left. "Are we there yet?" Ken asked, while he unsuccessfully tried to stifle a yawn.

The stewardess answered his question by announcing our arrival at Benito Juarez International Airport in Mexico City. It was 8:35 AM local time and 82 degrees. It would be a warm day. With only carry-on luggage, we cleared customs quickly and arrived five minutes early for our 10 AM meeting. A pretty receptionist promptly escorted us into a small conference room where our hosts rose to greet us.

"Mr. Simpson, thank you for accepting our invitation. I'm Juan Fretes, project manager. On my right is Commissioner Raphael Hidalgo who represents the Distrito Federal and to my left is Alejandro Rodriquez, Governor of the State of Chihuahua."

We had done our research and knew that the D.F. was the basic governing body we would deal with. "Buenas dias gentlemen, I am Jim Simpson and this is my friend and associate, Ken Reed."

"It's a pleasure to be here," Ken said as everyone shook hands.

"Please sit down, gentlemen. May we get you anything before we get started? There is water on the table, but we have juice or soft drinks. Have you eaten?"

Ken and I shook our heads. "Water will be fine. We had a light snack on the plane and are set for a while. Let's get started."

Juan took a moment to get organized providing me an opportunity to assess the three men at the table. It was clear that Juan was going to chair the meeting, which made me wonder where the other two gentlemen fit in. They obviously outranked him. "Before I get into the details of the project, you must be wondering why we called you. As you know, there are plenty of companies that would love to undertake a project of this magnitude."

I nodded, but wondered to myself how many companies had already turned them down.

"It's really quite simple. My cousin, Pedro Sanchez is the General Manager at the Hyatt in Cabo San Lucas has told us many good things about your company. He complimented your firm on handling a difficult situation with competence and integrity and assured us that you will treat us fairly."

What a lucky break. I now understood why they called us. Advertising is great, but referrals are everything in the business world, and nothing is a substitute for a little luck. We found out later that all three men attended the casino grand opening two years ago and each had won a few dollars at the tables. It's no wonder they were ready to do business with us again.

"I appreciate the kind words, we were fortunate to have Pedro on the project. He is doing a great job managing the hotel and golf courses."

Juan continued. "Your firm also has a reputation for providing project financing, which I understand is your specialty. This is a key requirement for this project. You see, neither the D.F. nor the State of Mexico can afford to fund this sports complex through taxes, revenue bonds, or various other methods governments normally use to fund this type of project. Our country has too many basic needs to fund a sports arena with tax dollars. Compared to the basic necessities of life, many would consider this project a luxury, me included."

Ken and I said nothing although this tied into the information I was reading when the plane landed. Apparently, the protests and violence were not just in the South of Mexico.

Juan took a sip of water and continued. "As you may know, Mexican banks don't have the resources to fund a project this big, and outside investors still remember the losses they suffered when the peso was devalued back in the 80s. It's been over 25 years, but bankers don't forget. The construction firm we hire to build the arena must also provide funding." He looked at me for a response, but none was necessary. Everyone in the business was aware of the challenges in funding projects in Mexico, not the least of which is the problem foreigners had in perfecting property liens. The business climate is improving, but the court system in Mexico is slow.

"Let's hear more about the project before I try to answer that, Juan. We have provided funding in the past although this project is a little bigger than our usual deal. I will say that our firm has made money on the Cabo San Lucas resort, and certainly would be open to reinvesting these profits back into your country. Are there any other conditions?"

Juan glanced at his two associates for help. Commissioner Hidalgo picked up on the signal. "Yes, Mr. Simpson, there are. We need the new arena to be a Mexican icon, and a source of pride for the Mexican people, but ownership must be turned over to Mexico when the project is completed. You might have read about some of the protests over the last few months. A large segment of our people will not be pleased if this were an American-owned facility."

I could see why Juan had wanted Commissioner Hidalgo to handle this issue. It wasn't something that would appeal to a foreign investor. What are they saving the Governor for I wondered?

Ken vocalized what we both were thinking. "In other words, you want someone to fund a project that no one else will fund including your own banks, build it and then turn it over to the Mexican Government when it's finished. Is that all?"

"No, Mr. Reed, there is one more item," Governor Rodriquez interjected. "The final stipulation is that the borrowing entity must be a nonprofit, joint venture between the D.F. and the State of Chihuahua. The only assets of this company will be 200 hectares of land valued at $20M dollars."

I must have had a perplexed look on my face as I tried to understand what he was getting at. "Is this is another way of saying that neither the State nor the D.F. will guarantee the loan?"

"That's pretty close to accurate," the Governor replied with a sheepish smile.

I could feel Ken grimace next to me, but I intervened before he could voice his displeasure. "And what is your estimate of total construction costs?"

"Approximately $300M dollars, maybe a little more."

Ken started to say something, but I held him back again by putting my hand on his arm. "Gentlemen, I'd like to learn more about your sports arena, and maybe after lunch we could take a ride out to the project site. I have some ideas as to how we might get this done."

Ken told me later that he thought Juan and his associates were going to crack their faces trying to keep from smiling. My openness to working with them despite their unreasonable demands was obviously unexpected, probably because the large, international construction firms had already turned them down. I wasn't naïve enough to believe that we were at the top of anyone's list.

Lunch turned out to be sandwiches in the conference room while we poured over plans and drawings for the new stadium complex. The centerpiece was an enclosed soccer stadium that also housed a practice field, locker rooms and a convention center. The domed arena was surrounded by a 25-hectare park that included eight tennis courts and two soccer fields. It was an ambitious undertaking. The most challenging and difficult component was the retractable dome that would protect fans and athletes from the elements. It has been done many times before, but is new technology in Mexico.

We took a 10-minute break during which Ken cornered me in the rest room. "I can't wait to hear your ideas for getting this done," he said sarcastically. "They are asking for a $300M loan and will not provide loan guarantees or supporting collateral. We are in a foreign country that hates American businessmen and has a history of screwing foreign investors by devaluing their currency. Even their own banks won't lend to them. Why are we considering doing this?"

"Let's wait and see, Ken. It sure would be an interesting construction job, wouldn't it?"

Ken wasn't amused.

The trip to the project site almost changed my mind and proved to be a forewarning of things to come. The governor and commissioner begged off with other commitments, having done their jobs. It was just Juan, Ken and me together with our driver and bodyguards. We traveled in an armored Lincoln town car with a police escort in front and behind. "Juan, Is there a reason for this extra security?"

Juan smiled nervously and assured me it was just a precaution that most government officials took advantage of when traveling on official business due to the growing number of kidnappings of politicians and foreign businessmen. "Don't worry; it's really nothing to be concerned about."

Two hundred yards from the stadium I became concerned. After exiting the turnpike onto a dirt road, our small caravan came to a dead stop as we neared a disabled truck on the narrow road. I could tell our driver was concerned as we watched a policeman from the lead car get out and approach the vehicle with his hand on his holstered pistol. I tried to roll down my tinted window to get a better view, but found the windows locked. Seconds later I heard shots ring out and saw the policeman fall in a hail of bullets. More bullets raked the bulletproof glass of our town car as our driver swung around the truck and accelerated out of danger leaving the two police cars to fight off our attackers. Moments later the gunmen disappeared into the mountains. We found out later that the wounded policeman died on the way to the hospital.

"Are you all right Mr. Simpson? Ken, are you okay?" Fretes asked when we reached the construction site.

"Yes, we're okay, but what happened? Why would anyone want to kill us?"

"There are some groups that don't want this project to be built, particularly after the newspaper article last week that mentioned we might need to use an American construction company. Unfortunately, there is still a considerable amount of anti-Americanism despite the new employment opportunities that NAFTA has created."

"How can you expect anyone to work in this type of environment?" Ken asked, raising his hands in exasperation. "Will our people be safe?"

"We'll provide 24-hour security for the job site and the hotel, although I don't deny there is some risk."

"You don't say!" Ken replied sarcastically.

"Mr. Simpson," Juan said, looking at me hopefully. "I hope this doesn't affect your desire to work with us? I promise you we will do everything within our power to address your needs."

I was still rattled and took a few moments to gather my thoughts. I knew Ken was right and I usually took his advice when he thought this strongly about something, but I still had that gut feeling that this job provided a once in a lifetime opportunity. "Juan, give us a few minutes to talk things over."

Ken hadn't changed his mind and repeated his earlier warnings. "And now, we can't even drive to work without getting shot at. Why should we do this?"

"I'm bored, Ken. We need a challenge, and besides, I am counting on you to come up with some ideas on how we can get this done. It's your baby."

Little did I know at the time that this decision would start us on a course to rebuild Roland Garros Stadium in Paris, France, home of the French Open.

"Mary, you should have seen him. He was so competitive. I never saw him want something so much. That's something you can't teach. It's easy to teach kids to hit a good forehand or backhand, but you can't teach desire or competiveness. Petie showed me something today."

"That's great, but all I know is that I cooked a nice dinner and you and Petie were over an hour late. You could have called."

"Okay, but I'm telling you, you should have seen him. We went into the clubhouse to celebrate with a coke and fries, and one thing led to another. I just lost track of time. I'm sorry, but don't take it out on Petie, he is so excited about tennis. Go talk to him."

"Fine, but what's this about tennis lessons with Gregg?"

"Gregg was just finishing up his lessons and I invited him to join us. I mentioned that Petie saw a Borg-Lendl replay of the 1984 French Open finals and that Petie was excited about Borg. It turns out that Gregg saw Borg play in Miami and was at the French Open at Roland Garros five years ago. Petie just hammered Gregg with questions."

"What about the lessons?"

"They're really not lessons; just a junior tennis program that Gregg suggested would be good for Petie to get involved in. The lessons are 90 minutes, Monday thru Friday and on Sundays, teams from our club play matches against other clubs in the area. Gregg thought this would be a great way to get started."

"It sounds good, but if Petie is really interested in playing tennis, lessons might not be a bad idea. He should learn the basics before he develops bad habits that will be hard to break later. It's like golf, once you start having some success with a bad swing, it's awfully tough to change because it always means a step backward before you realize the benefits."

"I know what you are saying. Petie still grips the racquet with the full western grip and was even trying a two-handed backhand today. Gregg likes a one-hander because it allows you a little extra court coverage. What do you think he should do?"

"Let me think on it for a while, there are a lot of arguments for the two-hander. In the meantime let me go talk to our young tennis star and take him some dessert. I'm feeling a little guilty for banishing him to his room without dinner. I guess I was a little hasty."

"I love it when you admit you're wrong" I said, as I wrapped my arms around her.

"Don't push it, Bozo. I'm still mad at you for not calling."

Mary found Petie watching French Open highlights in his bedroom. "Well, Peter, your dad says you did pretty well on the tennis courts today."

"Did he tell you we had a rally of 20 in a row?"

"He sure did, your father was awfully proud of you."

"We had another rally of 13 but Dad missed an easy shot. But that's okay, he was trying."

Mary had to stifle a laugh. Jim was right; this was a new boy she was seeing. Something had changed in him. "I understand you want to start playing in the junior program at the club."

"May I, Mom? I'll get my homework done after dinner."

"Sure, I think it's good to get involved in sports. Tennis is a great game that you can play all your life."

"I want to be just like Bjorn Borg, the Ice Man. Dad said he practiced three hours every day after school."

"Borg had a two-handed backhand. Is that what you want?"

"Yes, and I want a full western grip, just like his. Will you teach me, Mom? Dad says you know more about tennis than he does."

Mary couldn't help but be flattered by the compliment, and Petie asking her for help. She couldn't say no if she had wanted to. "Sure, I would be glad to help you, under one condition. The first time I see you throw your racquet our deal is off. I want you to have fun. If I don't think you are having fun, you will be grounded from tennis."

"Okay, Mom, I promise. I'm going to have more fun than Borg did and won't retire until I'm at least 27."

Mary smiled. She knew that being 27 years old is unimaginable to a 12-year old. "Okay, let's start tomorrow."

Pete surprised her by jumping off his bed and giving her a big hug. "Thanks Mom!"

Chapter 3

The Spanish Training Center

Carlos caught a local bus and arrived in Madrid the next morning carrying just one bag containing his tennis racquet and all his worldly possessions. Most 13-year olds would have been scared, but Carlos was not like most kids. He hadn't lost a tennis match in two years and knew deep inside him that he was destined for stardom. He wanted to be the best tennis player in Spain and make his countrymen forget about Brugerra, Sanchez, Moya and the other great Spanish champions.

Carlos looked around and recognized no one, so he grabbed his bag and wandered out to the street fronting the station. He saw a van with the Spanish Tennis Federation sign and climbed aboard.

"You must be the new kid, Cordero," the driver said. "I'm Fritz, one of the pros at the academy. Today I'm your chauffer but tomorrow at 8 AM I'll be your drill instructor. Are you ready?"

"I've been preparing for 13 years, bring it on," Carlos replied with a lazy, confident smile that hid his inner competiveness. He was smart enough to know that he was entering a new phase in his life and had just been issued a challenge.

This one is different, Fritz thought. We'll see if he has the game to back it up.

At lunch the next day, camp director and head tennis pro, Sergio Brugerra, the former #1 player in Spain sat down at Fritz' table. "How's the new kid working out, Fritz, any talent?"

"You have to see him for yourself, Sergio. He has it all. He's the best young player I've ever coached."

"You're kidding, aren't you? He's better than Jose, better than Pedro?"

"This kid is Moya with an attitude. He knows he is the best, or at least will be the best. Talk to him a few minutes and you will see what I mean. That's him sitting by himself at the corner table."

"Carlos, I'm Sergio Brugerra, head of this tennis camp. Welcome." They shook hands but Carlos didn't get up or indicate that he recognized his name. Sergio sat down and continued. "Is everything okay so far?"

"Everything is fine, Mr. Brugerra," Carlos replied politely. "I like it here."

_He's not a complainer, thought Sergio, that's good._ "Fritz tells me you have some talent. What are your goals?"

"I'm going to be the best Spanish player there ever was," Carlos answered, looking Brugerra directly in the eye.

Sergio was a little taken back. Holder of two French Open championships and over thirty other titles, many considered him to be Spain's greatest player. This kid will be mortified when he realizes who I am, he thought. "Well, the purpose of this camp is to allow promising players to maximize their potential. If you have the physical and mental makeup to be a champion, we will help you to attain your goals. Work hard and success will come to you."

Sergio got up to leave the table. "Just let me know if there anything I can do for you"

"There is one thing, Mr. Brugerra. Tell me what it felt like to win your first French Open."

Ten minutes later Sergio Brugerra left the table and whispered to Fritz on the way out. "Work his ass off this afternoon and then set up a match with Pedro at 5:00. Let's see if he can play as well as he talks. See how well he competes."

By 7:00 Sergio had his answer, Carlos had been beaten. Pedro won a competitive match in straight sets, 6-3 and 7-5 and was being congratulated by the 25 other players at the camp who had watched the match. None of them had wanted the newcomer to beat their best player.

Carlos sat by himself, close to tears. He didn't like losing, in fact this was the first tennis match he had lost in two years. It didn't matter that Pedro was four years older and ranked #7 in Spain's 18-year old age bracket. It didn't matter that Fritz had worked him hard for six hours before the match and he was dog-tired. There were no excuses for losing.

Carlos got up and slowly walked over to Fritz. "I'm sorry I let you down, Fritz. I know I need to get in better shape. What else do I need to work on? I know I missed a ton of volleys."

"Don't beat yourself up, Carlos, you were fine. In fact, you were better than fine, you were good. Have some fun this evening and we'll go over the match tomorrow."

Brugerra came over as soon as Carlos left. "What was his reaction Fritz? I could see he was tired. Did he complain?"

"Not once, Sergio. He apologized for letting me down and asked what I thought he needed to work on. Can you believe that?"

Sergio Brugerra, two-time French Open champion and one of Spain's all-time great players just smiled. "You were right, Fritz, we have something special here. I never was that good at that age, not even close."

"I really believe he will win the French Open some day, at least twice."

"The construction team they hired couldn't build a barn much less a domed sports arena. Did you know that it's owned by Juan's brother-in-law? If we are going to do this, we need to bring in our own people." I had asked Ken to come up with a plan to build the sports arena in Mexico City and a week later we were sitting in my office discussing options.

"What do we know about construction, Ken? We don't have any experience other than the Cabo San Lucas casino."

"I agree, but we can hire people who do. We have a different work ethic than they do in Mexico. We believe in making a plan and sticking to it. They don't. We have two years to build this arena or the additional construction costs and interest payments will eat us up."

"I gather you have a plan?"

"I do. We need to hire a team, maybe four to six people, who have international construction experience and can oversee a project this large. They can hire local contractors but we would be in charge."

"Where do you plan to find these people?"

"Remember Alberto, the consultant for the Cabo job? He has contacts throughout the Caribbean and knows several people who would be interested. He also knows an architectural firm that has done domed stadiums in Milwaukee and Detroit. We need someone with experience to review the plans."

"Alberto worked for Mario, didn't he? Do you feel comfortable working with him?"

"As far as I know, Alberto was only a consultant to Mario, and probably no worse that most other consultants. He didn't have anything to do with Mario's drug ring. Consultants will work for anyone if there is a buck or peso in it for them. We will watch him, but I think he will be okay."

"Mario's still in jail, isn't he?"

"Doing 10-20 in Attica the last I heard. He'll be an old man when he gets out. I doubt if we need to worry about running into him for a while."

"Anything else, Ken? I get the feeling you have another surprise for me."

"This one you will like. I think I found a way to minimize our risk. We would still need to put up $40M or so to cover the A-Piece of the loan, but I think I found someone to put up the rest of the money. We obviously need to work out the details."

"What's the catch?"

"Remember Sven Johansen? Sven now controls the investment for several large European Pension Funds. Would you be willing to work with him again?"

"You're kidding, this is like the Cabo project all over again. But to answer your question, yes. It would be fun to work with Sven again as long as the money doesn't come from Mario's drug network."

"Sven assures us that his money sources are clean, and we will have the opportunity to verify them ourselves. You know, I still don't think he knew where the money came from for the Cabo deal."

"I agree, I think Mario had them all fooled. Sven could be a great resource if he really does control pension fund money. This could work out well."

"Yes, and this time we are in control and can end up with a great reference for future construction projects."

"I took a sip of coffee and considered what Ken was suggesting. "I like it, Ken, make it happen."

4,800 hundred miles away in Nice, France a beautiful French girl rocketed a service return to the feet of her older opponent, came to the net and smashed the weak reply for a winner. It culminated an awesome display of clay court tennis resulting in a 6-3, 6-2 victory and the tournament championship in the eighteen and under division. Ambre threw her racquet into the air and blew kisses to the adoring French crowd that had cheered her every shot and now gave Ambre a long, standing ovation. They knew this ten-year old French prodigy would become the first French-born woman in 40 years to win the French Open.

**Chapter** **4**

Tennis Lessons

"Move your feet, Pete, come on, move your feet. Take small steps when you are back-pedaling." Petie tried it again, but his overhead was off the frame of the racquet and sailed long.

"Pete how many times do I have to tell you to get your racquet back early. Let's try it one more time." Gregg hit another lob and this time Pete was in perfect position and crunched the overhead at Gregg's feet. Pete and his friend Kyle had been hitting overheads for 15 minutes and Pete was bored.

"Let's play some points," Pete suggested.

"Okay, we will play some points as soon as we play a little four-ball," Gregg replied with a grin. "Kyle, you first."

Kyle and Pete both groaned. Even though they took turns this was still a tough tennis drill. Gregg had four balls in his hand. The first was a deep shot that you returned from the baseline and tried to get to the net. The 2nd ball came to you at the service line where you did a split-step and volleyed deep, continuing to the net. The 3rd shot was a volley that you tried to put away and the 4th was a lob over your head that forced you had to back-pedal to hit the overhead. If you screwed up any of the four shots, you went again.

Four-ball was more of a conditioning drill than a drill to improve your strokes. After five or six turns, Pete was just trying to survive. After 15, Pete and Kyle were exhausted.

Mercifully Gregg called a halt and the two friends headed for the water. "Hold it! Let's try a few serves fellows. You need to learn how to serve when you are tired. Believe me, it's different serving in the 3rd set when it's 90 degrees and you're exhausted."

Twenty minutes and 50 serves later they got their water break. "Guys, you are looking pretty good. I think you both are ready for the tournament this weekend. Let's go inside and have a coke, I want to talk a little strategy. Go on ahead and I'll catch up to you."

After two hours of drills, Pete and Kyle didn't need any coaxing. They grabbed their tennis bags and headed for the snack room.

Gregg had noticed Mrs. Simpson watching from a distance and went over to talk with her. Keeping the parents happy was part of being a club pro, but in this case it was different. Mary and Jim Simpson were a pleasure to work with, and Pete was the type of player that came along only once or twice in a club-pro's career.

"Mrs. Simpson, it's nice to see you. How did Pete look to you?"

"Hi Gregg. I thought his volleys and overhead looked pretty good, a lot better than they did a couple weeks ago. What do you think?"

"Every part of his game has improved, especially his two-handed backhand. He doesn't miss. I can't believe how far he has come in the last two months. Those private lessons you gave him sure paid off."

Mary was pleased with the job Gregg was doing with Pete and his willingness to work with her. Most tennis pros would have objected to Mary giving Pete private lessons with another pro, but Gregg had supported her. Gregg had a traditional one-handed backhand. Going to a pro that used a two-handed backhand made sense to both of them and Gregg had even given Mary a list of teaching pros she could call.

"You are working them pretty hard, Gregg. Are you concerned that they might burn out?"

"I'm watching for the signs, but so far they seem to be okay. All kids complain, but Pete and Kyle are disappointed when I don't work them hard. Has Pete said anything different to you?" Gregg asked apprehensively.

"No, Pete seems to be having a lot of fun and is looking forward to the tournament this weekend. How do you think he will do?"

"I'm hopeful, but it's hard to tell. It's his first tournament and he will be nervous."

"Whatever happens, it's important that he has fun and comes away with a good experience. I just hope he isn't blitzed," Mary added.

"This is a pretty small tournament and I don't think Bollettieri or Saddlebrook will send any of their kids. Pete should do okay."

"How much longer are you going to keep them tonight, Gregg? He has his bike, but I was wondering when to start dinner."

"I just need them for another 30 minutes. I wanted to talk a little about strategy, and then spend some time on court etiquette. It's important that they know how to act if they get a bad call and stuff like that."

"I agree, Gregg. Will I see you at the tournament Saturday?"

"You sure will. I wouldn't miss it. I will be more nervous than Pete."

"You and me, both," Mary replied as she headed for the car. It would be hard not to show Pete how nervous she was, but she would do her best. After all, she thought, this was his tournament, not hers.

"Let's get started, folks. We're not making any money sitting in this room rehashing the weekend and I have a 1:00 o'clock tee time," I lied, knowing that Ken would be jealous and wondering why he hadn't been invited. It was my way of retaliating in advance for the grief he gave us at every staff meeting. "Sally, start us off."

Monday morning staff meetings were informal and a good way for everyone to find out what's going on in the other departments. Sally had equipment leasing, Roger was commercial mortgages and Ken was special projects, which now meant the Mexico sports complex. Each manager took their turn, highlighting major activities in their respective domains. Occasionally they would bring up problems, but not unless they had already discussed the problem with me. Our goal was to be done in one hour. The record was twenty minutes when Ken had laryngitis.

Sally remained sitting. "Business is still looking good even though interest rates are rising. It's tougher to get a bank loan, which is forcing more people to lease the equipment. We currently are working on 78 lease applications totaling about $4.4M. That's about $56,000 per deal, Ken, with another $1,900,000 approved and waiting for installation."

"$56,410.25," corrected Ken who was notorious for his ability to work math problems in his head and irritate the heck out of us.

"Children, let's not argue," I interjected. I could see Roger using his calculator to check Ken's number, but Sally and I knew from experience it was a waste of time. He was always right. "Sally, please continue."

"I decided to add another person to concentrate on track-leasing, anything with wheels such as construction cranes, fork lifts, trucks and so on. We have turned away too many deals lately and decided to give it a try. It's a different business. Our average deal will be over $1M but the margins are small, probably in the neighborhood of 1% versus the 4% we get now. Questions?"

"Thanks, Sally. Roger, you're up!"

"I can make this real quick. Business is good, I have all the people we need and profit is 20% over budget. There is $370,000 in commissions due in the next three months for deals that are approved, but not funded. We are working on 12 deals that are likely to close this month worth approximately $188,345,212," Roger explained, looking at Ken in anticipation of another quip.

"$15,700,000 per deal is higher than normal, isn't it?" asked Ken. Are we still getting our 1% commission?"

Everybody chuckled at Ken's one-upmanship, but it was a good question.

"Thanks for rounding it off, Ken, but yes, we are averaging just under 1%. We only got ½% on the $55M condominium deal, but we got 2% on several of the smaller deals."

"Whatever the market will bear," Ken added with a nod of approval.

"Ken, your turn."

"Not much to report since last week, Jim. As everyone knows, we finalized the agreement with Mexican government, and Sven's group has agreed to provide a $300M, 6%, 2-year, interest-only construction loan. We break ground next Monday."

"Tell Roger and Sally what our risk and upside is, Ken. They obviously have a stake in this." Everyone knew that a deal this size could kill the company if it went bad. It had almost happened with the Cabo casino.

"We are providing $45M to the project secured by our 10% stake in the Cabo Resort and Casino. Theoretically, our only exposure is the loss of the $45M and future revenues from the casino, but we all know that this could change if the project goes bad. We have 24 months to pay off the bridge loan. It can be extended for one more year, but the interest rate jumps to 16%, which we cannot afford to pay. Sound familiar?"

"Without dwelling on the negative, I estimate our upside on this deal to about $500M."

"Wow!" Sally exclaimed. "How did you come up with $500M? Is this real or did your internal calculator finally lose a synapse?"

Ken smiled at the dig. "It's real, Sally. Our contract states that at the end of the project, the State of Mexico will buy the project back for 80% of the as-completed appraisal, which I believe will be in the neighborhood of $1.25 billion dollars. Do the math," Ken grinned.

"If we are done with Ken, I have on more bit of news to pass on. I hired a new construction manager, Marco Noah, who will be responsible for the Mexico City sports complex and all other construction projects. He starts Monday. You can't believe how many opportunities I have passed up because we didn't have someone to manage the work."

"Where did you find him?" Sally asked.

"Alberto heard about him from a business associate in Paris. Marco has 20 years experience with several international construction firms. The last five years was with Bouygues, the French construction giant."

"Okay, if there is nothing else, let's get to work."

"Who are you golfing with?" Ken asked as we walked out of the conference room. I just smiled, enjoying his torment.

Chapter 5

First USTA Tournament

The waiting was almost over. Petie was warming up and his match would start in a few minutes. His opponent was a small, 14-year-old boy from Clearwater, the #4 seed.

"What do you think, Mary, any chance?"

"The kid looks steady, Jim. Pete will need to put some pressure on his backhand or the kid will keep the ball in play forever."

Gregg agreed. "Pete can't out-rally him, the boy has been playing tournaments for three years and is too experienced. He's almost two years older than Pete. It'll be tough."

Pete was 12 but would turn 13 in July, two weeks before the August 1 cutoff. That meant he was considered a 13-year old by USTA standards, and forced to enter the 14 and under age bracket rather than the 12 and under. The United States Tennis Association was the governing authority for U.S. junior tennis.

They were ready to start. Pete won the toss and elected to start with his back to the sun. His opponent elected to serve. "Good," Gregg said, "that's just what we wanted. It will give Pete some time to get into the match, and who knows, the other boy might be nervous too."

As Pete got into position to return serve, he looked over at his small cheering section and winked. Maybe we were more nervous than he was?

The boy missed his first serve and hit a short second serve with nothing on it. Pete stepped in and blasted a winner up the line. The boy just looked at Pete who calmly walked over to the ad-court.

The boy took something off his next first serve and Pete returned hard to the backhand, producing a weak reply that landed inside the service line. Pete stepped in and nailed a forehand into the corner for another winner. The boy was shell-shocked. You could see it from the stands.

The boy tried two hard serves on the next point and double faulted. He won the love-40 point with a service winner but lost the game on the next point when he netted a backhand. Parents are supposed to be invisible in these matches, but it was so hard not to applaud and cheer. The three of us settled for a couple claps and a thumbs-up as the boys switched sides.

Pete was all business as he prepared to serve. It was one thing to break his opponent's serve, but tennis is all about holding your own serve, even at age 12. Gregg had a great service motion and had been working with Pete every day. His serve was pretty good, but serving in practice and serving in a match is entirely different.

"Bam," was the sound I heard as Petie's first serve rocketed up the middle for an ace. What a way to start!

"Wide," shouted his opponent.

Pete looked over at the boy but said nothing. Gregg and he had talked Thursday about how to react if he got a bad call. It helped that Mary put her hand on my knee. It was all I could do to keep my mouth shut.

Pete's second serve kicked wide to the boy's backhand. The return was pretty good but Pete had followed his serve to the net and volleyed a winner to the open court. Three points later, including an ace and a service winner, Pete was ahead two games to zero.

"It's over," Gregg whispered.

"I agree," Mary nodded.

"Why didn't anyone tell me he was this good?" I asked.

Gregg looked at Mary and tried to answer. "We didn't have any idea, Jim. You never can tell how a kid will react under pressure. Most of us get nervous, some choke. A few like Pete raise their game to a new level. They thrive on the competition."

"Jim, we have a real tennis player here," Mary added. "There is no telling how good he can be. The sky's the limit."

" _Or the French Open," I thought to myself._

A continent away Carlos was finishing a straight set annihilation of his nemesis, Pedro, the boy who had beaten him the first day at camp. The scores were 6-1, 6-2, but it really wasn't that close.

Sergio and Fritz had watched from a distance. "He's ready," Sergio proclaimed. "Let's see how he does at Nationals."

Chapter 6

Kidnapped

San Sebastian, once the summer residence of Spanish Royalty, is a beautiful city particularly for tourists such as Bill and Susan Peterson. It is a cultural blend of tradition and the cosmopolitan bustle of the twenty first century. Donostia as it is called in Euskadi, the Basque native tongue, is sandwiched between the majestic Pyrenees and the Atlantic Ocean. Founded in 1180 by Sancho el Mayor, called "Sancho el Fuerte or Sancho the Strong". The original walled city overlooked the port and provided a natural military stronghold. The city survived many sieges from the 15th century through the Napoleonic wars before it was destroyed by fire in 1813. The walled city was rebuilt over the next twenty years and has enjoyed prosperity and growth in the 19th and 20th centuries.

It was the Peterson's first trip to Spain and they spent they first day on a walking tour of the Parta Viaja, the original walled city and the adjacent port area and Naval Museum. "Wasn't it a wonderful day?" Susan offered as they entered their suite at the Hotel Maria Christina. "What a fascinating city. I'm really looking forward to dinner this evening. Where are you taking me?"

It had been a great day, Bill thought. He was so lucky to have married a woman that liked to travel and see new places. "Let's try that traditional restaurant on the boulevard we saw this morning, and then maybe stop at a Tapas bar or join the locals during their evening Txikiteo."

"The Tapas bar idea sounds great, honey, but I'm not up to another pub-crawl. The idea of stopping at a half-dozen bars for a tiny glass of wine before moving on to the next bar may be the local Basque custom, but I can't do that two nights in a row. Besides, the wine tasted like vinegar."

"Okay, but it was fun and a great way to meet the locals. I didn't know anything about the Basque homeland and their traditions before yesterday. Why don't we just go to that last bar where we had dinner?"

"Do we have time for a nap? I'm worn out after all that walking. I should have worn more comfortable shoes."

Bill came across the room and pulled her close. "Did you mean nap, or NAP?"

"I meant nap, my feet are killing me. But hold that thought for later. Are you going to join me?"

"In a few minutes, honey, I need to make a few phone calls and see if we still have a business back home. It shouldn't take long."

This was one reason they had reserved a suite rather than a standard hotel room. Bill knew he would have to combine a little business with pleasure. The other reason for the suite was, they could afford it. Bill's dot-com business was doing well.

"Okay, I'll see you later. Don't be too long," Susan said as she closed the bedroom door. As she drifted off to sleep Susan was thinking of how lucky she was.

It was more than an hour later before Susan slowly woke up and reached for Bill. His side of the bed was empty and hadn't been slept in. There wasn't any noise coming from the living room. "Bill, are you out there?"

Bill didn't answer.

Two hours later after a frantic search of the hotel, Susan called the Police. Bill had disappeared.

Petie won a tough, three set match earlier to reach the quarterfinals. It was a fun match to watch, not only because Petie won, but also because both kids were such good sports. There were several close line calls where they gave their opponent the benefit of the doubt. On one point Petie called a shot on the sideline good, but the boy overruled him. "I had a better view Pete, it was clearly out." After the match was over the boys talked for twenty minutes and exchanged phone numbers. It turned out that Ron lived in New Port Richey, only 30 minutes from our house. Petie had reached the semi-finals, and made a new friend.

This afternoon it was quickly obvious that Petie was overmatched. The boy was almost six feet tall and 180 pounds, pretty big for a 14 year old. He had been playing tournaments for five years and his serve was harder than anything Pete had faced. The final score was 6-1, 6-2.

"This is tough to watch," I whispered to Mary midway through the 2nd set. What a difference a day makes. I thought back to the ride home yesterday after Pete's two impressive victories to reach the quarterfinals. We stopped for pizza on the way home to celebrate. Mary and I were so proud of him and we could tell that Pete was pleased with himself. It's important for kids to feel good about themselves.

Mary squeezed my hand. "It's a good thing in a way. He won't win every match and the sooner he knows it the better. There is only one winner in the draw of 32, two winners if you count the consolation division."

"Is there consolation?"

"Not for Pete. This tournament has consolation play only for first round losers. Some of the bigger tournaments have feed-ins and all first-time losers fall into the consolation bracket," Gregg explained.

"This kid he's playing is good," Gregg whispered, leaning towards us so his voice didn't carry onto the court. "Pete has nothing to be ashamed about."

The match was finally over, ending with Pete netting a volley as he tried to come in behind his serve. This was the 5th time his serve had been broken. Pete waited at the net while his opponent came to the net for the traditional post-match handshake.

"Watch," Gregg said as he put his arm out to keep us back. "Let's see how he reacts." Gregg was always coaching.

"Nice match," Pete said looking the boy in the eye. You were too good today. Good luck in the finals."

"I wasn't playing well today, you were lucky to get a game off me," the boy replied barely touching Pete's offered hand as he turned and walked away. So much for civility and friendship.

Pete stared for a second before he stuffed his racket in his bag, packed the sweaty wristbands in a pouch, and left the court.

"Nice match Petie," I offered as I put a hand on his shoulder.

"Great tournament," Mary said, emphasizing her remark with a hug.

"Gregg," Pete said turning around to find Gregg who was following us. "Help me get better. I want to kick that jerk's ass the next time we play."

"We can start Monday, Pete, but in the meantime you need to enjoy what you did here. A semi-final in your first tournament is pretty good."

"I know, but I wanted to win. But before I forget, I want you all to know how much it meant to me to have you in the stands pulling for me. I could feel your support."

These are the rewards of being a parent.

Gregg just smiled.

Bill made the necessary phone calls and was ready to join Susan for a quick catnap. Everything seemed to be going well at home, which bothered him a little. Maybe he wasn't as indispensable as he thought? He convinced himself that he had only been gone a week, and that eventually they would need his direction. He also knew that he had good men working for him and could trust them to do the right thing.

Bill was on the way to bed when he heard a soft knock at the door. "Yes, who is it?"

"Bellboy, I have a message from the general manager."

Bill looked through the security hole and opened the door. "Yes, what is it?"

"He said you should come downstairs, someone has broken into your car."

Bill thought quickly. What had he left in the car? "Are you sure? I'm driving a red BMW rent-a-car. There was anything in it."

"He told me it was a BMW, but I don't know the color. They tried to drive away and crashed into a pole."

"Okay, let me get my shoes on." Bill thought of waking Susan to tell her where he was, but decided to let her sleep. This shouldn't take too long.

"Your English is pretty good, young man. Where did you learn it?" Bill asked, as they waited for the elevator.

"Most schools in Spain teach English as a second language," the young man replied.

When he got to the garage Bill noticed his car still parked where he had left it. There wasn't any noticeable damage. "What's going on?" Bill asked, as he turned back to the bellboy. "Where is....

He stopped short as he saw the two men wearing ski masks and holding guns pointed at him. "Shut up and get into the van. One word and we will knock you unconscious and carry you."

Bill started to ask what was going on, but thought better of it. "He meekly crawled into the van where his hands were handcuffed behind him. Later he wondered why he had not tried to escape, but he had been too surprised and too scared. It never occurred to him at the time.

"Good job, Agbu. Did anyone see you?"

"No. The elevator was empty and we went out the back door into the garage."

"What about his wife?"

"She was sleeping," Bill interrupted from the back. "Leave her alone. She didn't see or hear anything."

"That's right" Agbu added. "He didn't talk to anyone and I didn't see her either."

"Good," the kidnappers said. "It looks like we can take our time."

"Where are you taking me? Why? What have I done to you?"

"Don't worry, it's nothing personal. Your only crime was bragging about how well your company is doing. I'm sure they will be happy to pay a ransom to get you back. How much do you think you are worth? I'm told that $10M would be a nice round number."

Oh shit, as he recalled his conversation in the Tapas bar last night. Whom had he been trying to impress? "Our company is only three years old. We won't have a lot of cash until we sell the company or go public. You guys made a big mistake."

"Shut up. You are the one that made the big mistake, and if someone doesn't come up with $10,000,000, it will be your last mistake. Now lie down and keep quiet. Raul, club him if he says another word." The leader was obviously not happy with the turn of events.

$10M, Bill thought. There was no way they could raise that much, maybe one million.

Agbu watched and listened. It was another lesson. He had told them they should have done more research, but he had been over-ruled. He was only 14, eight years younger than Anton and six years younger than Raul, but Agbu already knew that he was smarter than his brothers. This just reinforced the lesson that he had learned two years ago. Agbu would go back to school and get an education.

He thought back to the day Carlos left for the Spanish Training Center, Agbu made a call to his older brother who had moved to Deba, a small city along the French border, about 80 KM north of Vitoria. "Anton, it's your brother. What's going on?"

"Hey little brother, how are you doing? Are you staying out of trouble?"

"I'm bored to death. I want to help you out. I'm 13 and ready to get to work. I hate school."

Anton hesitated. He knew this moment would be coming, but it was too soon. He had been 15 when he started, but that was different. Pa was still alive then. "Don't be crazy, Agbu, stay in school. You are the smart one in the family. Don't blow it. I'll be down there next week and we can talk then. I might even have something for you. Okay?"

"I'll be here, Anton, and I'll stay in school for a while. But let's talk. I'm ready."

The following week Agbu acted as a lookout as Anton and a fellow ETA member planted a bomb in the engine of a local politician's car. Agbu was told the man had voted against a bill to allow Euskara, the Basque language, to be taught in schools. They watched from a distance as the politician started his car and drove away.

"What happened?" Agbu asked. "Why didn't it explode?"

His brother and friend just shrugged.

The next day newspapers reported that the man's wife and two children were killed by a car bomb that exploded when they were driving home from school. The newspapers and television denounced the ETA as murderers of women and children. There was no mention of the ETA's objective.

Agbu learned his lesson and returned to school. He knew he must get a lot smarter if he was to accomplish his goal. He vowed to become leader of the Basque people and achieve their dream, an independent homeland including the four provinces in Northern Spain and the three adjoining departments in France.

Chapter 7

Ransom

Anton and Raul had themselves a hostage. That was the easy part, now the trick was to get someone to pay the ransom. Agbu headed home to Vitoria-Gasteiz. Collecting the ransom was someone else's responsibility. He had done his part.

Ten minutes into the trip Bill was blindfolded and ordered to lie down and keep quiet. He tried to concentrate and keep track of time and direction, but soon became disoriented and gave up. What was the boy's name, Agbu? Bill knew he would not forget the boy's face. After what seemed like hours, he sensed they slowly climbing into the mountains. What was Susan doing? Had she called the police? She would be frantic. Bill knew she was a fragile woman and worried how she would hold up under the stress.

Anton headed for a cabin on the French side of the Pyrenees owned by two loyal ETA members who had agreed to let them use the cabin. Most of the locals in that area were Basque and strangers were not welcome. It was ideal for their needs. An elderly couple acted as caretakers and had agreed to help baby-sit the prisoner in exchange for a few Euros a week and the promise of a bonus when the ransom was paid. It was a small price to pay.

They reached the cabin just before sunset "We're here," someone said as they pulled Bill out of the van. "Did you sleep well?"

Bill didn't think he had slept, but was surprised at how disoriented he had become from being blindfolded. "Where are we?" Bill asked, not really expecting an answer.

"It's your home for awhile and maybe forever if your wife doesn't cooperate," the man replied as he was led into a house or cabin. He was led through a second door where his handcuffs were removed. He heard the door slam behind him and he was alone. Removing his blindfold, Bill evaluated his surroundings.

_It's certainly not a suite at Ritz_ , he muttered to himself. There was a cot in one corner, a small table with a water-pitcher, and a commode. Nothing else, not even a lamp. The room was about ten feet square and appeared to be made of concrete block. There was a small window near the ceiling just out of his reach. Bill jumped and caught the ledge, and pulled himself up, but all he saw was trees. He checked out the plumbing and was not surprised to find there was none. The commode was self-contained. The water-pitcher was empty.

" _Not bad," he thought, "it could be worse. I should only be in here a few days, maybe a week at most."_

Two months later Bill had grown a four-inch beard and the elderly couple had provided a wooden chair and kerosene reading lamp, nothing else had changed.

Susan heard nothing for two days and was beginning to fear the worst. The local police interviewed guests and employees, but had not come up with anything useful. Two hotel guests thought they had seen Bill and a young boy getting into an elevator at the time of the kidnapping, but they couldn't provide a description. Video security cameras in the lobby and hallways showed nothing and the camera in the parking garage was broken. Georges Caron, a French police lieutenant, was put in charge of the case and helped Susan retain her sanity.

"Be patient, Mrs. Peterson, they will contact you. The kidnappers are just trying to make you nervous so that you will cooperate."

"How do we know they haven't killed him already?" she sobbed.

"These aren't killers," Mrs. Peterson. "They consider themselves businessmen, and your husband is not worth anything to them dead. Trust me, I've seen this many times."

On the 3rd day, Susan finally received a ransom note asking for $10M if she wanted to see Bill alive again. A 10-year old boy had been paid five Euros to deliver the note and could provide no clues to the identity of the kidnappers. Susan had one week to come up with the money.

"At least we now know it's definitely a kidnapping for money. Most hostages are released unharmed once the kidnappers get what they want," Caron said in an encouraging tone. What he didn't tell her was that 30% of the victims never made it home after the ransom is paid.

"But there is no way we can come up with $10M," Susan blurted out, not even if we had a year. The business isn't worth that much. Bill's partners said our shares are worth a million dollars, at most, assuming we could find an investor."

"How much could you put together by next week?" Georges asked.

"We only have about $200,000 in stocks and cash and maybe $60,000 equity in the house. That's all, unless we find a buyer for our shares of the company. I'm told a bank won't lend us anything as long as Bill is missing. They say he is too important to the company to risk a loan."

"Tell me again what you remember about that conversation in the Tapas bar last Monday," Georges asked. "Did you or Bill ever mention how much the company was worth?"

"No, I didn't have any idea how much the company is worth until I asked Bill's partners. Bill might have said something; he was having a pretty good time. I do remember him saying something about doing an IPO and raising millions, but this was just bar talk. Nobody takes that literally, do they?"

"Someone might have, Susan. It's our best lead. Let me ask you, did the guys Bill was talking to even know what an IPO is? I assume it means an Initial Public Offering of your stock."

"That's right. The only reason I know is that a few months ago Bill explained that this is how they were going to get rich, but he figured we were two or three years away before we could take the company public. I do remember someone asking Bill how much money he expected to raise by going public."

"Can you recall what Bill said?"

"I'm not sure that he gave a specific answer. I think he said something like, 'Bill Gates raised over $200M when he took Microsoft public, but we'll settle for a little less.' He was just joking," Susan said, but realized Georges wasn't laughing.

"Okay Susan. We are staking out that bar as well as the other bars you visited that night. We will start looking for someone with a financial background, although there are a lot of people that play the stock market and know about IPOs. In the meantime, I suggest you see if you can raise a little more money. I'm not sure they will settle for $250,000 after thinking they would get millions."

"Do you think they will kill him?" Susan asked, voicing her fears for the first time.

"I don't think so Susan," Georges answered, "although I am worried about one thing. This doesn't seem like it was a well-planned operation. The people that did this are amateurs, and you never know how amateurs will react."

"It is going to be difficult to wait another week. I can't help but wonder how they are treating him."

Three weeks later there was no progress. The kidnappers had dropped their demands to $5M but insisted they would go no lower. The most Susan could raise was $1M tops, thanks to an offer from Bill's three partners to buy his shares in the company. They were at a standstill.

"Georges, I can't stay in Spain forever, I am going home tomorrow. Please let me know if there are any new developments."

"I will, Susan. Trust me, I will keep trying."

As Susan boarded the plane the next day, she couldn't help but wonder if her return trip would be happy or sad.

Pete had tasted success and returned to practice Monday with renewed enthusiasm. He wanted more and looked forward to getting revenge against the boy that beat him, but that could wait. He had a lot of work to do.

They spent the first hour on groundstrokes, cross-courts and up the line from both sides. The emphasis was hitting the ball deep. Anything that bounced near the service line was a miss. Pete was on today, particularly off his backhand and Gregg was particularly pleased with his footwork and preparation.

"Nice work, Pete" Gregg said. "You're moving your feet real well. That's the key. Tennis is easy if you get to the ball early. Let's try some serve and volleys."

Pete served and came in behind it, doing a split-step at the service line to prepare for the return. If the serve was in, Gregg drilled a second ball at Pete's feet. After 20 minutes Pete walked to the net after missing his third volley in a row.

"Gregg, my forehand volley sucks. Do you think I came into the net too much Sunday? Maybe I should just stay back and rally. That's what Borg did."

"Pete, there was only one Borg, and tennis has changed in the last 20 years. Even the Spaniards are coming to the net. You are going to be a big kid in a few years, and you will want to serve and volley. It needs to be a strength, not a weakness. Let's keep at it."

After practice, Gregg walked over to Mary who had caught the last 15 minutes of the workout. "Hi Gregg, good workout?"

"It was, Mrs Simpson. He really was into it today. I'm thinking another tournament will do him some good."

"Me too. He obviously likes it and I think he needs the competition as well as the drills."

"There's a tournament coming up in two weeks at Innsbrook in Palm Harbor. It's close and will probably have a strong draw. The Bollettieri and Saddlebrook kids will probably be there."

"That's okay. Let's see how he stacks up."

"Okay, I'll enter him. In the meantime, I'm going to try to schedule him to play matches against a couple of the best players in the club. Dave and Clint will give him all he can handle. Pete could use some practice returning good serves."

"How do you think Pete will do?" Mary had played Dave a couple of times and could only get a few games off him, never a set.

"I wouldn't expect too much, but it will be good learning experience."

Chapter 8

Rescue

"Georges, this is Lamar. I'm at Romas and the guy we have been looking for just walked in and ordered a beer. Should I grab him?"

It had now been two months since the kidnapping, and this was their first break. They had been staking out the Tapas bars with undercover agents and they finally found the man that was so interested in Bill's company and the value of the IPO. Georges didn't want to blow it. "Are you sure it's him?"

"Yep, the bartender remembers him."

"We are sending backup. Don't touch him unless he tries to leave. Give us 15 minutes."

Ten minutes later Georges and another officer walked into the Tapas Bar and took a table. Two other officers were stationed outside of both doors. They made eye contact indicating everyone was in position.

Lamar got up and walked over to the man at the other end of the bar. "Excuse me, Mr. Cruz, may we have a word with you outside? The two large gentlemen behind me are police officers."

"What's this all about? What have I done?"

Cruz vaguely remembered the conversation with the Americans, but swore he didn't know anything about a kidnapping. "This American couple kept buying us drinks and asking questions about the Basque. We see tourists like that in here all the time."

"Did they talk about money?"

"Now I remember. The guy kept telling us how much his company was worth and how they were going to be rich. I just figured they were blowing smoke, but Emanuel and his friend kept asking him questions."

Cruz provided an address for Emanuel and two hours later the police had the name of the person Emanuel passed the information to. By morning they had what they wanted. Bill was being held in a small farmhouse in the French Pyrenees.

Lt. Caron knew time was of the essence. They must act before the local Basque sympathizers became aware that two of their members were missing. Georges planned on raiding the farm the next evening, but needed French cooperation. Ten years ago it would have been impossible, but cooperation between the two countries had improved tremendously since the wave of terrorist attacks in the 90's, most of them attributed to the Basques although many were in fact done by Al-Qaeda sympathizers. Georges called his counterparts in France and the joint Spanish-French rescue operation was scheduled for the next morning at 2:00 AM. They were to meet in San Sebastian at 11:00 P.M.

Bill had fallen asleep early that evening after another day of routine and boredom. In two months he had lost 20 pounds and had grown a full beard and mustache. He discovered quickly it was difficult to shave without a razor, mirror or hot water. What would he give for a hot shower? He had not been harmed but yearned for human contact. The old couple fed him twice a day and allowed him to clean his commode when the smell got to bad. They spoke little and when they did, it was a language Bill couldn't understand, probably Basque Euskadi or Castillian Spanish. The two guards that took turns outside never spoke. Bill had heard the woman call one of the guards Raul, one of the men that had taken him from the hotel. Gee, that seemed like a long time ago.

Bill was worried for himself, but also worried about Susan. Her life must be turned upside down due to his own stupidity. He was sure that he had been kidnapped because of his ego-trip at the Tapas bar. What a fool he had been.

Pete had two great weeks of practice leading up to his second tournament. Playing against the adults at the club had given him confidence. He had lost to both men the first week, but split sets the 2nd time they played. He knew he would have won the 3rd set, but it didn't matter, he was improving.

"Did Clint really say that?" Mary asked Gregg as they sat watching Pete warm up for his first match. Jim was in Mexico on business and despite his efforts, hadn't made it back in time for Pete's first-round match at Innsbrook.

"Yeah, both he and Dave were pretty impressed. They couldn't believe how fast Petie caught on to their games. The first day Pete couldn't handle Dave's lefty serve, but the 2nd time Pete adjusted and was drilling his returns. They won't want to play him in a couple years."

"Let's see if the competition helps him here. This kid looks pretty good."

"He's the # 3seed, but I really think Pete will overpower him, at least I hope so. I don't think Pete can beat him from the baseline, the kid's too fast."

Gregg was right. Pete won most of the points when he got to the net, but too often he chose to stay back. Pete's serve was good but he only managed to break the other boy's serve twice in 3 sets. Pete lost 6-2, 3-6, 7-5 in a well-played match.

"You played great," Mary said as she gave him a hug. "I am proud of you."

"Nice match" Gregg added. "Your volleys were awesome today."

"Thanks. I should have come in more, but I just couldn't make myself do it. I'll do better next match." Fortunately for Pete, there was a feed-in consolation division where losers in the first three rounds dropped into the consolation bracket.

Pete was right. He won his first match in the consolation round and both matches on Sunday, beating a Bollettieri kid from Georgia in the finals. Pete jumped for joy when the match ended.

"My first trophy, Mom. Where should I put it?"

"I slept with the first trophy I won Pete, but eventually I put it in my room."

"I'll sleep with it tonight, Mom, and then next week maybe Dad and I can build a trophy case."

"Raul, answer your phone. It's been ringing forever," the woman shouted as she shook Raul's shoulders, angry at having been awakened in the middle of the night. For the 10th time that day she regretted ever getting involved in this, but they needed the money.

Raul thought he was dreaming and couldn't open his eyes. It was a combination of the wine at dinner and the fact he had only a couple hours sleep. He would be glad when he left this hellhole.

"Hello," Raul whispered sleepily as he finally answered the phone.

"Get out of there, they are coming."

"What are you talking about, who is this?" Raul asked. He was having trouble thinking. Raul was never a fast thinker to begin with, and the headache wasn't helping.

"The police are coming. Get the prisoner and get out of there. Hurry!"

The message finally got through and Raul bolted into action. "Open the door," he shouted, "I need to take him," he yelled at the old woman, as he hurriedly got dressed.

The woman unlocked the prisoner's door and Raul barged in and pulled Bill upright. "Get up," he yelled, "We're getting out of here, now!"

Bill looked up and recognized the guard. For a fleeting moment he thought he was being rescued. He was shoved towards the door still dressed only in his shorts and T-shirt. What's going on he wondered?

Raul pushed him out the front door and headed for the woods. They were 40 meters from the trees when the floodlights hit them square in the face. "Halt," someone shouted, "we have you surrounded. Throw down your gun."

Bill felt Raul grab him and pull him close. "Get back, or I will kill the prisoner," he demanded. Bill felt something hard against the side of his head.

"Throw down your gun! You don't have a chance," a voice shouted from the darkness.

It might have been the two months of humiliation he had suffered, or it might have been his regret at not trying to escape in the parking garage, but something in Bill made him brave. He shoved an elbow into Raul's solar plexus and dove to the ground. Without a hostage, Raul would have to surrender.

Raul was scared and would have been happy to surrender, but the blow to his stomach caused him to tighten his finger and accidentally fire a shot that buried harmlessly into the ground. Suddenly, the field erupted in a torrent of gunfire from the dozen police officers that surrounded him. Raul felt a bullet hit his arm and another in his right leg, and thought how lucky he was that the shots were not fatal. Another shot hit him in the chest and he knew then he was going to die. His gun went off once more as he fell to the ground.

Bill was lying flat on the ground as bullets whizzing around him. He was relieved when the gunfire ended. He knew he was rescued and soon he would be home with Susan. Bill started to look up when he heard Raul's final gunshot, and then everything went dark.

Lt. Georges Caron had been looking forward to calling Mrs. Peterson for the past month, ever since Susan went back to the States. They had been together for several weeks and had become good friends while they waited word from the kidnappers. Georges dreamed about providing Susan with the good news. In his dreams, the conversation was always the same; _"Susan, this is Georges. I have great news for you. We rescued your husband and he is safe. Would you like to talk with him?"_ He envisioned handing the phone to Bill and sharing in their happiness.

Georges made the call. "Susan, is that you? This is Lieutenant Caron. I'm sorry but I have terrible news."

Anton got the word a little after 7:00 AM and knew he would have to move fast. The elderly couple would talk. He packed and was out of the house in 30 minutes, less than an hour before the Spanish militia raided his house. He was wanted on both sides of the border and needed a place to hide.

Four hours later Anton caught an overseas flight from Lisbon to Mexico City where the ETA had a strong network of support. He had time for only one call. "Agbu, Raul is dead. The police murdered him during the raid."

"Oh no," cried Agbu as the import of Anton's words became clear. "What are you going to do?" Agbu managed to ask.

"I'm flying to Mexico tonight until this quiets down. I'll write when I can. Agbu, listen to me. The police will question you because we're brothers. Be ready. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid, Anton, but I will miss you and Raul." Agbu tried not to cry. Raul had been a good friend and brother. He made a promise to himself that someday, he would avenge Raul's murder.

Chapter 9

The Basque Separatists

Anton's call made Agbu realize how lucky he was. He had been stupid to let the man see his face and hear his voice. Fortunately, Peterson was dead and would not identify him. Agbu had stayed away from the cabin where they kept the hostage so police could not tie him to the crime scene. Fingerprints found in Anton's van or home could be easily explained. They were brothers, and yes he had visited Anton frequently, but no, he knew nothing about any kidnapping. He had taken his brother's word that there were no video cameras or security guards, but next time he would trust no one and verify everything himself. It was the only way to survive.

Saying yes to the ETA was not a difficult decision. Both his father and mother had been leaders in the military wing of the ETA and had given their lives to the cause. Anton and Raul followed in their father's footsteps and joined the fight for Basque Independence. Agbu would learn from their mistakes and lead the Basque in a new direction.

The ETA (Euskadi Ta Askatasuna), meaning "Basque Fatherland and Liberty," is a loosely knit organization of Basque separatists located on both sides of Spain's border with France. Their primary objectives are autonomy from Spain and France, with Euskara as the compulsory language. College student activists from Bizkaia and Gipuzkao founded the ETA in 1959. Disappointed with the slow progress made by the PNV, the mainstream Basque political party, they first obtained notoriety by bombing government and military targets in Bilbao and Vitoria, the capital of the Basque homeland.

In 1961 the ETA went too far when they attempted to derail a military train carrying war veterans to Donostia to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the Spanish Civil War. The resultant uproar resulted in roadblocks, house searches and the widespread use of torture to find the ETA members responsible for this heinous act. Many ETA members were forced into exile abroad, but many other activists joined the struggle for Basque independence.

These events were a harbinger of the ETA's future for next 45 years. The ETA enjoyed periods of growth followed by severe crackdowns by authorities when their actions upset the sensibilities of the nation. In 1997 for example, six million Spanish people took to the streets to condemn ETA violence following the brutal kidnapping and murder of a conservative, Basque politician. The resultant cease-fire ended in 1999 when the ETA became disenchanted with the slow progress being made towards Basque Independence.

This is not to say that the Basque have not made progress in their quest for independence. When General Franco died in 1976 and democracy was restored in Spain, many exiles were allowed to return. The Basque region was granted considerable autonomy including its own parliament and control over local issues such as education and taxes. Euskara is now taught in all Basque schools in Northern Spain.

The Basque Country currently recognized by Spain consists of three provinces in Northern Spain with a population of 2.3 million people. The Basque's would like to add a 4th province, Navarre, and three departments in Southwest France to "The Basque Country." The ETA is now at a low point. Some estimate that there are no more that twenty hard-core activists and several hundred supporters, organized in small, loosely coordinated cells.

The Basque heritage and language, Euskara, trace back centuries to the Stone Age and has survived countless wars and invasions. They have never had their own homeland, but remarkably, their culture has survived.

Ken and I were enjoying a casual dinner in Mexico City and discussing progress on the new Sports arena. They had spent the day meeting with Marco and his project managers, getting a first-hand look at the job site. "Ken, everything is going so well it scares me a little. We are ahead of schedule. Sven came through with the funding and Marco has a good handle on day-to-day operations."

"You're right, Marco and his team really know their business. It's only been six months and they have completed the roads and infrastructure. Next week they start pouring the footings. Surprisingly, the terrorists are even leaving us alone. Other than a few peaceful demonstrations, everything's been quiet."

Too quiet, I thought.

"We need to start looking for other projects; it doesn't look like we're needed here. Things here are going too well."

"Don't jinx us, Ken."

### PART TWO

### The Roads to Saddlebrook

Chapter 10

The Florida Juniors

Petie finished his first year ranked #55 in the Florida 14-and-under USTA age bracket, despite never having won a tournament. It didn't sound like much, but his ranking usually got him seeded, which meant he avoided playing the top players until the second or third round. Nobody wants to drive a 100 miles to a tournament and be beaten in the first round. Unfortunately, half the players will lose their first round match; it's a statistic that holds pretty steady in tennis tournaments.

Another statistic is that there is only one winner, meaning that everyone else loses their last match. It's like the NCAA Basketball Tournament or the World Series, there is only one winner, but in this case you are talking about young kids. Winning a consolation championship is only fun the first time. After that it's like kissing your sister.

He opened his second year by entering a small tournament in Fort Meyers, about a 190 miles South of Tampa. Seeded #4, he reached the semifinals where he lost to a boy that he should have beaten. The boy played well, but Petie clearly did not play his best tennis, losing 5-7, 4-6 and double faulting on match point. To his credit, he congratulated his opponent graciously and wished him luck, before slamming his racquet into his bag and heading for the car.

"Petie, there is a consolation bracket in this tournament for first round losers. The tournament officials won't be happy if you withdraw and might report you to the USTA. Don't you want to stick around?" I had mixed emotions after I checked the schedule and saw that Petie wouldn't play his consolation match until 2:30 PM. Four hours was a long time to hang around after a tough loss.

"Let's go, Dad. I don't want to play again today. Tell them I'm injured."

It was a long ride home, particularly since Petie and I had driven to Ft. Myers alone. Gregg had a living to make and only went to the tournaments in the Tampa area. Mary was playing in her own 35-and-over singles tournament in Orlando and had reached the semifinals. The 35s were a tough bracket.

"Pete, you played well, reaching the semis is pretty good," I offered, trying to break the awkward silence. "You can't win every match."

"Dad, I sucked, and you know it," Pete answered. "I choked. I should have beaten that kid easy and be playing my second match by now. I'll never win a tournament."

"Pete, don't be too hard on yourself. You have only been playing tennis eight months; some of these other kids have been playing for years. Keep practicing, your time will come."

Pete wasn't hearing me and the rest of the trip was made in silence. Not even a stop at McDonalds' could shake Pete's depression. Petie headed for his room as soon as we got home, ignoring Lisa's question about how he did.

"Sorry for asking," Lisa yelled after him.

It was after 7 P.M. and I was beginning to worry when I heard Mary's car pull into the garage. Lisa had already eaten and was holed up in her room studying for a test. "Anyone home?" she yelled as she came into the kitchen. "I could use a little help."

TV would have to wait as I jumped up from the couch. "What can I do?" I asked as she dropped her tennis bag on the floor and put a take-out order of Chinese food from Ho Ho Choy restaurant on the counter."

"There is something on the front seat that's too heavy for me. Please?" she pleaded.

I was a little suspicious as I headed to the garage wondering what could be heavier than her tennis bag that held three racquets and enough clothing for a weekend vacation. My suspicions were confirmed as I returned with her winner's trophy. My only satisfaction was yelling "oh no," as I pretended to drop it.

"Congratulations, honey, I'm so proud of you," I said as we embraced. "What were the scores?"

"7-5, 6-3 in the semis and 7-6 (10-8) in a third set tiebreaker in the finals. She had me four match points."

"Wow, I wish I could have been there. It certainly would have been more exciting than my day," I said between mouthfuls of moo-shu pork.

"I was afraid to ask. When I didn't hear from you I figured the news wasn't good, and when I saw your car in the driveway I figured he must have lost in the semis."

I nodded.

"How is he taking it?"

"Not well," I said as I quickly related the long ride home. "He's really down."

"Well, he and I are going to have a little talk. We had an agreement. He shouldn't be playing if he isn't having fun."

"Mary, let's wait and see how he handles it tomorrow at practice. It's not like he threw his racquet or had a temper tantrum. He's just disappointed at losing. Who wouldn't be?"

"You're right; we should give him a chance to work things out in his own mind."

"Did I hear you say that I was right?" I said with a smile. "That and your tennis win is a cause for celebration," I said, leading her towards the bedroom.

"Aren't you hungry?"

"Yes I am."

The next morning we got up early and noticed that someone had raided the refrigerator and the moo-shu pork had mysteriously disappeared. We knew it wasn't Mama or Papa Simpson and Lisa didn't eat that much. Our suspicions were confirmed a few minutes later when Pete bounded down the steps in good spirits. "That Chinese food was great, Mom! What's for breakfast?"

His good spirits carried over to his afternoon lesson with Gregg. Mary watched from her car and it seemed like Pete was a bundle of energy. After practice, she approached Gregg to get his input on Pete's attitude.

"I don't know what you were worried about, Mary. Pete never looked better. He certainly seems like he is putting yesterday's loss behind him."

"That's terrific, Gregg. Did he say anything about it to you?"

"He just said that he should have won, but he choked. Pete feels terrible about losing the match on a double fault. We talked a little about the difference between choking and playing under pressure. We are going to work on a few things that will help him stay focused."

"Like what?"

"You ever watch the Bollettieri kids, and how they always are adjusting their racquet strings between points. This is what his sports psychologist Jim Lenoir teaches as a way to reduce tension and help the player focus on the next point. We need to develop some kind of routine for Pete."

"It sounds like a golfer's routine that Jim keeps talking about."

"The concept is exactly the same."

"Just don't let him start grunting or squealing."

"Jim, there's a call for you on line one, a Mr. Hunt from some construction company," Grace announced via intercom. "It sounds important."

"Take a message, Grace, we are in the middle of something here."

"You might want to take this one, Jim. I tried to take a message, but he said he needs a quick response. He says he has an opportunity for us."

Three of us were in my office discussing our new track leasing program. I looked across my desk at Sally and shrugged. I didn't like being interrupted, but Grace had been with me for several years and her instincts were usually pretty good. She was more like an office manager than a secretary. "Okay, put him through, but I'm holding you responsible," I said as I winked at Sally.

"Just add it to the list," Grace mumbled as she put the call through.

"Jim Simpson here, may I help you?"

"Mr. Simpson, good morning. My name is Carl Lindner. My company is in a bit of a bind and I'm hoping you can help us out."

"I'll do what I can, what's the problem?" I asked distractedly as I continued looking at the papers Sally and I had been reviewing. "Who is this again?"

"I'm sorry. My name is Carl Lindner, President of Hunt Construction Group out of Indianapolis. Maybe you have heard of us?"

Later Sally told me my mouth dropped open and my eyes opened wide. All I remembered was that Mr. Lindner suddenly had my full attention. Get Ken, I mouthed to Sally. Hunt Construction Group ranks as one of the top construction firms in the nation with and specializes in building major league sports arenas. Hunt is also of the few American-owned construction companies.

"Of course I have, Mr. Lindner, and I apologize for being short with you. I was in the middle of something, but it can wait. What can I do for you, and please call me Jim."

"We got ourselves in a little situation, Jim. Our firm is over committed. We bid on three projects that are scheduled to start next month. We expected to win one or two but as luck would have it, we just learned this morning that we were awarded all three jobs. It sounds good, but we don't have the resources to take on all three projects at one time."

"What type of work is it, and how much money are we talking about?" I was beginning to think he was looking for construction financing.

"One is a large utility plant and two are new sports stadiums for NFL teams. I don't have the manpower to do all three. I'm not looking for money, Jim; I'm looking to farm out at least one of the projects to another construction company such as yours. Otherwise, the next highest bidder gets the work."

Ken came into the room and sat down. "Carl, let me put you on speaker phone so my associate Ken Reed can listen in. Do you mind?"

"No, that's fine. Hi Ken."

"Good morning," Ken responded, not sure who he was talking to.

"Ken, this is Carl Lindner, president of Hunt Construction. They apparently have too much on their plate and are wondering if we are in a position to help them out by taking over one of their projects. Is that about right Carl?"

"That's pretty close, Jim. The project I have in mind is in your own back yard, the new stadium for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. I'm sure you have read about it?"

"I sure have. There is an article in the paper this morning that said Hunt Construction was awarded the work."

"Carl, this is Ken. Will they let you sub the work out? The newspaper article said there were several bidders on that job including a couple other large construction firms. Didn't Clark Construction bid?"

"They did, Ken, but Clark's bid was not in the top two. The next highest bid was from a Korean company, and for various reasons, we would prefer they do not get this job. Normally the Korean firm would be automatically awarded the job, but in this case, I think I can get them to make an exception, particularly since you are based in Tampa. Hunt would need to be the contractor of record, but you would have complete autonomy and receive all the credit."

"Why us, our only experience with football stadiums is the Mexico City sports arena."

"I know, but I have my reasons, Jim. My people tell me the Mexico City job is going well. You will be pleased to know that City officials are giving you a great reference. We also have a great deal of respect for the construction manager that you hired away from Bouygues."

"Marco Noah," I interjected. "I'm glad to hear he is held in such high regard. We are happy with his work and he would certainly have responsibility for this new project."

"Excellent. Another reason is that you are local, and American owned. I think the Tampa politicians are more likely to accept this restructuring if we bring in a local firm. You would be the general contractor and my people would be made available on a limited consulting basis, as you deem necessary. I'm sure we can work out the details."

"I'm sure we can, Carl. Is there anything else?"

"Jim, most of our competitors are foreign-owned companies. George Hunt likes to help out American-owned companies whenever possible. George does not want another foreign company to get a toehold in the United States. That's about it. Any questions?"

"I have one that comes to mind. I assume the construction contract you were awarded would allow us to make a profit? Would your company want anything off the top?"

"Not a dime, Jim, other than maybe a fair reimbursement of the work we put in to prepare our bid. Your firm will get 100% of what we negotiated, and believe me, it's a fair contract. Hunt Construction doesn't need to low-ball bids to get work."

"So that's about it, Interested?"

Ken and I exchanged why-not shrugs. "Absolutely, it sounds like a great opportunity. What's the next step?"

"We will notify the Tampa Sports Authority immediately and try to set up a meeting for later this week. Are you available?"

"We'll be there. In the meantime, please email us what you have so we can begin assembling our team."

"Thanks gentlemen, I know you won't be disappointed," Carl said as he hung up the phone.

Ken let out a loud "Yes!" as we high-fived.

"Wow, what a start to the week. This could be a tremendous opportunity," I said, thinking of what this might eventually lead to.

"Did I do good?" Grace asked as she stuck her head in the doorway.

"Yes you did," I laughed as I came around my desk to give her a bear hug. Grace had four grandchildren and was a few pounds overweight, but today she was especially beautiful.

The next year Pete's Florida ranking jumped to #7 in the 14-and-unders, due largely to wins in four tournaments. His best match was a victory in a designated tournament over a boy ranked #4 in the State. Pete lost in the finals to Florida's #1 ranked player but earned USTA ranking points by winning a set. It was what the USTA called a good loss.

" _A good loss" I thought. "That sounds like something some honest lawyer or concerned banker dreamed up."_

Chapter 11

Tampa Stadium

Pete continued to grow and improve. As a fifteen year old he was ranked #12 in the Florida 16's even though it was his first year in this age bracket. Just over six feet tall, his serve was becoming a weapon. He was a long way removed from that boy who wanted to hang out at the base line. Borg was still his hero, but Pete's all-court game was beginning to look more and more like his namesake, Pete Sampras.

Driving to tournaments every other weekend was getting to be a drag particularly to the out-of-town tournaments in Orlando, Boca Raton and other "designated tournaments" that offered stiff competition and an opportunity to improve his State ranking. We looked forward to a weekend off until Pete decided at the last minute to enter the New Port Richey tournament where he had started two years ago. He wanted to play doubles with his friend, Ron, whom he had met at the tourney two years ago. "Ron said I could stay at his house and his parents will drive. You won't need to drive me and can stay home and relax."

Pete was seeded #1 and easily reached the semis. Saturday night we got a call. "Are you coming to the tournament today?" Pete asked. We hadn't gone the first day because these small tournaments no longer provided much competition.

"Is there someone there that is going to give you a problem?"

"Yeah, the finals could be tough. There is a Canadian kid from Saddlebrook that looks pretty good. He doesn't have a Florida ranking, but I heard he is ranked #2 in Canada. The semi final match should also be interesting," Pete said with a chuckle. "I guarantee you will enjoy the match."

We got to the semi-final match just as the boys were completing their warm-ups, and immediately saw why Pete had invited us. His semi-final match was against the boy that had beaten him badly two years ago and then complained that he hadn't played well. Pete still remembered the disrespect the boy had shown him.

Forty minutes later it was over: 6-0, 6-2. Pete shook the boys hand and left the court quickly.

"Well, was revenge as sweet as you thought it would be?" I asked.

"No, it was really disappointing. He's not really a bad guy, just a little cocky when he wins. I actually felt sorry for him, that's why I gave him those two games."

"It's a good lesson, Pete" Mary said. "Revenge is a negative emotion and in the long run, seldom brings you the satisfaction you are looking for."

"Anyway" I said, "you are right about the Saddlebrook kid". I was watching him play on the next court and could tell he had a game that could give Petie problems. "He has a darn nice game. You better be ready."

Carl Lindner called back and said a meeting was scheduled with the Tampa Sports Authority for Friday morning. He introduced Tim Samuels who had overseen the preparation of the bid. Thirty minutes later Tim emailed us the TSA bid specifications and the Hunt proposal, including cost estimates and supporting CAD drawings. The project was off to a good start.

I called Marco and gave him the news. "Can you get away? We need you in Tampa ASAP." I summarized the gist of the phone calls from Carl Linder.

Marco was absolutely thrilled. This was exactly what he had been hoping for when he joined our small company. The Mexico City job was going well and most of his responsibilities could be delegated. This was an opportunity to show what he could do.

"I'll be there tomorrow morning, Jim. This sounds awesome. The Hunt people know what they are doing so we should be in good shape with the bid price, but I want to look at everything again. Do we have the software to read the CAD drawings? Will our printer handle it?"

"Tell you what, Marco, here's Ken. Tell him what you need and we will have it ready for you when you get here."

Marco was in the office early the next morning and spent the next five hours reviewing the CAD documents and the bid specifications. Ken helped where he could but basically stayed out of his way. We got together after lunch.

"Well, Marco, what do you think? Can you do it?"

"You're damn right we can, and we can do it better and cheaper than what they planned. I think we can double or maybe even triple the $8M profit they projected."

"Okay, tell me how," I asked with some skepticism. I preferred a more conservative approach of promising less and producing more. Marco was sticking his neck out.

"I'll need more time to work on this but there are savings in at least three areas. Being local will save us about a $1M in travel costs, but the main savings come from their design and choice of sub contractors. The numbers they have in for the electrical and mechanical subs are way out of line. I can get local people to do the job for half their estimates if you let me hire someone I worked with at Bouygues. I spoke with him earlier and he can be here next week."

"Do it," I agreed. "This is your baby. What's the problem with the design, Marco? That concerns me. Will the TSA (Tampa Sports Authority) go for it?"

"They will, because my design is better. The Hunt proposal was done in hurry and uses poured concrete for all the pilings and footings in the stadium and garage. We can save $5 \- $7M by using reinforced steel. It looks better, it's stronger and it's cheaper. Hunt would have ended up doing the same thing."

"Hunt mentioned reimbursement for their bid costs. What do you think is a fair price?"

"Nothing, if you ask me, unless you hire the guy that did them. They are just rough sketches used to come up with a cost estimate. The next step will be to develop the actual drawings. The rough drawings in the proposal don't really help you much unless you know what the guy was thinking and have access to the Computer Assisted Design system they used."

"They sent us an internal cost schedule showing they spent $450,000 on the bid. Most of this was time charges priced at their normal billing rates. Their actual out-of-pocket costs were less than $20,000. I wouldn't pay them more than that."

I sat back and considered our options before deciding on a course of action. "Tell you what. Let's reimburse them the entire $450,000 in return for access to the people that prepared the proposal. Who knows, they might be able to help us, and I don't want to appear cheap when we stand to make $10M - $20M. Okay?"

"You're the boss," Marco said. "By the way, I will need to hire a few more people to oversee the sub-contractors. I can borrow some people from the Mexico City team, but not enough to do both projects."

"Go ahead, Marco. Put your staffing and manpower requirements together and let's talk again tomorrow."

Ken had been an interested listener. "If I may suggest, let's hire people with the idea that we will need them for future projects. I have the feeling that this is only the beginning."

Marco and I nodded in agreement.

Pete's match against the Saddlebrook boy was worth the trip. Down a set and a break, Pete fought back to win in three exciting sets; 5-7, 7-6 (5), 6-3. The boys were exhausted, but only had 30 minutes to rest before they met again in the doubles finals where Pete and Ron won in straight sets.

Mary and I were watching the doubles match when a young man, about 30, approached us. "May I join you?"

I motioned him to sit down. "My name is Sammy Baston, head tennis pro at Saddlebrook. I'm really impressed with Pete's game. Whoever is teaching him has done a great job."

"Thanks," I said. "Mary has been doing some of the coaching and he takes lessons and drills with our club pro, Gregg."

"Thanks for the compliment" Mary added. "Your boy is a nice player too. It could have gone either way."

"You're right, but your son was able to reach back for something extra when the match was on the line. That was the difference, and that's what we look for in a kid. Not too many players can do it. It's like Sampras on break points. He always seemed to come up with the big serve. Your boy seems to have that ability."

Sammy certainly had our attention. The best way to a parent's heart is to compliment their kids, but he seemed sincere in what he was saying. "Thanks, we appreciate the compliments. Parents always enjoy hearing something nice about their children."

"Have you thought of bringing him out to Saddlebrook to look around? The competition for Pete would do wonders for his game. There are ten or twenty kids out there that could give Pete a real good game, and a few that frankly are quite a bit better. It's really the next step if you want him to get to the next level."

"Let us think about it. Right now we are happy with the coaching he is getting from Mary and Gregg."

"I understand, Mr. Simpson, but if you want to try us out just give us a call. This is my direct number," he said as he handed me a business card. "Believe me, Pete would benefit from training at Saddlebrook."

Mary and I watched as he walked away. "It's something to think about," I suggested.

"I know, it's tempting, but I'm not sure if Petie is ready to make that type of committment. Five hours of tennis every day isn't for everyone."

Chapter 12

The ETA in Mexico

Anton found new friends when he arrived in Mexico. The ETA has a well-coordinated infrastructure in several South American countries including Nicaragua, Venezuela, El Salvador, Uruguay and Cuba. They are strongest in Mexico where there is a movement to establish an autonomous "Basque-like" region in the Mexican State of Chiapas.

The Mexico ETA is centered in Mexico City where Anton soon became an integral member of a terrorist cell specializing in kidnapping and extortion. After a few months he was sent to a camp in Managua where he trained with the Sandinistas and El Salvador's FMLN. Upon graduation, Anton was provided a list, pictures and a short biography of 12 businessmen living or working in Mexico City that the group considered "prime targets." Jim Simpson was the 4th name on the list.

Carlos was 16 and seeded 6th in the European junior championships 18-and-under age bracket. The winner receives an automatic entry into next month's French Open tennis tournament. There were three Swedes, a Frenchman and an Italian seeded higher.

The tournament was held in Paris, on the outer courts of Roland Garros Stadium. Carlos was from a small town and had never been to Barcelona, much less Paris. He looked forward to seeing the city at night. Their hotel was near the tennis center on the outskirts of Paris, but Marta is a great subway system. The four Spaniards set their sights on Friday evening.

Carlos breezed into the semis without losing a set and was scheduled to play the Italian at 9:00 AM, Saturday morning, with a doubles match to follow. Carlos was the only Spaniard boy remaining in Singles or Doubles.

Curfew was 10:00 PM and the three boys were in their room apparently asleep when Fritz did his bed check. Forty-five minutes later the boys caught the subway and by 11:15 they got off at the Latin Quarter station across the Seine from Notre Dame Cathedral.

The view was breathtaking but was lost on the teenagers. It was Friday night and the Quarter was hopping. They crossed the open square past the many brasseries and headed into the labyrinth of small alleys and streets that make up the Latin Quarter. Carlos had never seen so many good-looking women.

The other boys were 17 and 18 and more experienced, but Carlos looked older than 16. He soon learned that Paris women liked him. He was already over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and shoulder length hair. Deep green eyes offset his dark, tanned complexion. The other boys made the first moves, but soon learned that the girls wanted Carlos. At 12:30 Carlos lost his virginity in an alleyway to a 19-year-old French girl named Alexis.

At 1:30 they met two American girls who invited the three friends to their hotel room in the Quarter. The other boys wisely said no and headed home, but Carlos decided to stay. The next morning he woke up with a bad headache and a naked girl on either side. " _Where am I?" he thought._ He remembered only tiny fragments of how he got here; his friends leaving, the walk down the narrow alley, the tiny lift that pressed him against the two girls, and smoking something the girls gave him in the room. Carlos remembered telling the girls that he didn't smoke, but they just laughed.

He sat up and saw the clock said 9:45 AM and it suddenly dawned on him that he had forfeited his semi-final singles match. He might be able to make the doubles match if he hurried.

That thought disappeared when Melanie rolled over and put her hand between his legs. "Come here, Carlos, I want you first this time." Carlos learned that there really could be too much of a good thing, particularly when you have a hangover. When Melanie was sated, Cynthia took her turn.

Finally Carlos called a halt. "Girls, I need something for this headache and I need to make a call. May I use this phone?"

After gulping down three Excedrin, Carlos called Fritz' cell phone.

"This is Fritz."

"Fritz, Carlos."

"Where in the hell are you, are you okay? The other boys said you wandered off and they couldn't find you. What happened?"

"I'm okay. Somebody must have slipped me a pill or something, because I woke up in this alley about an hour ago. I have a headache, but I'll be okay."

"Is that a shower I hear in the background?"

"This married couple found me and let me use their place to shower and clean up. He is going to drive me to the Marta station and show me how to get back."

"I'm glad you're okay, but we need to talk. You really blew it this week. You realize the winner here gets an automatic entry into the main draw of the French Open."

Carlos finally started realizing what he had done. "I'm sorry, Fritz."

The girls were laughing at him when he hung up. "That's quite a story you made up Carlos, we think you deserve a reward."

Three hours later Carlos arrived back at the hotel and headed for his room. His headache was back and he badly needed sleep. The temporary euphoria he felt from the funny cigarettes the girls had given him was starting to wear off.

Fritz was waiting for him, but took one look at Carlos and walked away without saying a word.

Sunday, Carlos had nothing to do but roam the courts and think of what could have been. The boy's finals weren't scheduled to begin for another hour so Carlos wandered over to watch the girls' championship match. The 15-year old French girl that was thrashing her opponent immediately captivated him. She not only was good, but she was beautiful.

Match point was a powerful overhead from the service line that put an exclamation on the 6-1, 6-2 drubbing. She threw her racquet high into the air and waved to the large, partisan crowd. The 500 French fans went wild. It's been a long time since they had a French-born tennis player that was this good.

Carlos needed to meet this girl and waited by the gate. "Excuse me, Miss, but I wanted to congratulate you. You've got game."

She looked up at the handsome boy and immediately reverted from the confident champion that just won the European Junior Championship, to a 15-year old girl that just met the boy of her dreams. "Ah, thank you," she managed to utter. "Did you play?"

"I lost in the semis," Carlos replied without elaborating. "I'm Carlos, what do they call you?"

"Ambre."

"Maybe we can hit some time?"

"Any time," Ambre replied as her coach and trainer pulled her away.

"That's the kid that got drugged up in Paris Friday night and never showed for his semifinal match. Stay away from him. He's bad news."

Ambre turned and found Carlos still watching her. She gave him a smile. So t _hat's the guy everyone is talking about. He is quite a player from what I hear and he sure is good looking._

The grand opening of the Mexico City stadium was scheduled for a week from Saturday. Jim and Mary were scheduled to get in Friday night for the VIP party hosted by Mexico's President. Ken and Marco were also invited.

"Jim, Chris Lewis is on the phone," Grace announced. "It's so good to hear from her again."

"Chris, is it really you? To what do I owe this honor? It's been awhile." Jim was trying to remember the last time they had spoken; three or four months at least. It had been almost two years since she had broken off her engagement with Ken. Chris quit her job with the DEA to accept a position with an International Consulting Firm and was doing a lot of traveling to Europe. There were unsubstantiated rumors that her new job was a cover and Chris was still a government employee.

"I know, Jim, but I've been so busy and, well, you know, it's still a little awkward with Ken. Is he doing okay?"

"Yeah, he seems to be doing fine. Business is good and his golf game is better than ever. I can't comment on his love life because no one could replace you. I think he is considering the priesthood."

"That's not the Ken I knew and loved. Listen, Jim, there is something I need to talk with you about. I'm in town and could be over in a half-hour. Is that convenient?"

"Come on over, Chris. It will be great to see you. I love mysteries."

"Okay, see you in 30 minutes."

"What could she want?" I asked Ken. I had walked over to Ken's office to warn him that Chris was on the way over. Surprises weren't good when someone was still carrying a torch.

"I have no idea, but it probably has something to do with her work. I think she is still some kind of spook. We'll find out soon enough."

"Do you mind hanging around in case you are needed?"

"Sure, why not. It will be good to see her again," he said without conviction.

It was less than four years ago that I had hired Chris to work with Ken on the Cabo casino project. She was fresh out of Harvard Business School with little business experience, but it was obvious from day one that she would fit in. Not only was she smart and fluent in Spanish and French, she was drop-dead gorgeous. Tall with short black hair and a slim, athletic figure, she could easily have gotten by on her looks alone, but didn't. I knew from the first day that she had a great future. Little did I know at the time that she moonlighted as an undercover DEA agent and was using our company as a way to get closer to Mario and his Miami drug ring. Chris managed to perform both jobs well and in her spare time, fall in love with Ken. Despite her motives, she had been a great hire,

Chris showed up five minutes early accompanied by two men. She was all business as I led them into my office. "May we close the door" Chris asked as her partner closed the door. "This is Special Agent Fred Reese and Special Agent Ray Barlow with the CIA. As you might know, I'm not with the DEA anymore." We shook hands all around.

"It's that traffic ticket, isn't it? I told Mary to pay it."

"Jim," she admonished, "just listen to what Ray and Fred have to say."

"Have you ever heard of the ETA, Jim?" Ray asked.

"I think so. Aren't they some kind of terrorist group over in Europe? I also happen to know that they have a strong presence in Mexico and South America"

"That's accurate, Jim. They're most known for being the terrorist wing of the Basque Separatist movement that wants an autonomous country covering parts of Northern Spain and a little bit of France. What isn't widely known is that they are stronger in Mexico and Central America than they are in Spain."

"And this has something to do with me, or if I can guess, the Mexico City stadium project?"

"Both," Fred interjected. "We have reason to believe they will try something to disrupt the opening ceremonies next weekend. In addition, Ray just received evidence that you may be targeted by a kidnapping ring during your visit."

"Did you put a contract out on me, Chris?" I joked, trying to absorb what they had said.

Chris remained silent. She knew I was stalling as I tried to assimilate what they had just told me. It's not every day that a person receives this kind of news.

"Okay, can you tell me what you have? I'm still finding this hard to believe. And Chris, can we get Ken in here. He is going with me to the grand opening ceremony next week."

'Sure, that will be fine."

I buzzed Ken's office. "Ken, come on in here for a minute. You need to hear this."

"Chris," Ken said as he took a seat.

"Good morning Ken," Chris replied as she greeted Ken and introduced her associates before quickly recapping the conversation.

"Wow," was all Ken said.

Ray laid out the information the CIA had collected. The agency had intercepted several cell phone conversations between suspected terrorists alluding to a major event coming soon and last week intercepted a truckload of explosives on route to Mexico City. The truck driver is a known member of an ETA cell group.

"The evidence that they are targeting the sports arena is circumstantial, but compelling," Chris added.

Fred's evidence about the possible kidnapping was less circumstantial. He handed me an envelope. "Recognize anyone?"

I opened the envelope and saw my picture and a short bio. I also saw a list with my name circled and a date written in the margin. "That's a week from Saturday," I said as I handed Ken the envelope. I recognized a couple other names on the list. "Why me? These other guys on the list have a lot more money than I do."

"You know why, Jim. This project is controversial, particularly since an American company is building the stadium. That makes it a perfect target for the ETA, particularly when they are talking some nonsense about an autonomous government in four or five Mexican States."

"It's nonsense, but this grand opening next Saturday ties right into their rhetoric," Fred added. "It would be tremendous boost to their cause if they could disrupt the ceremony and hold the president of the American firm for ransom. It makes perfect sense from their perspective."

"What do you suggest we do? I certainly don't want to take Mary along although she will be disappointed."

"We can't force you to do anything, Jim, but we are asking you to proceed as normal. If Mary doesn't go, they might be suspicious. Believe me, we will do everything we can to ensure your safety. We are also going to need to do a complete background check on your entire construction crew. It's possible they have someone on the inside."

" _Bait?" I thought to myself._

"Chris, did you say you would do anything to ensure Jim's safety?" Ken asked with a straight face.

"That's what I said, Ken," Chris answered hesitantly. She knew Ken well enough to see he had something on his mind.

"Okay, then you should agree to be my date for the weekend. You can ride in the car with Jim and me and take care of him at the party, without raising any suspicion."

"But ..." Chris started as she tried to escape the trap.

"It's perfect," Fred said.

"What a great idea," Ray agreed.

I couldn't help it and started to laugh and was soon joined by Ken. Chris managed a smile. Fred and Ray were clueless.

13

Grand Opening

Carl Lindner called the next day. "Jim, I have George Hunt on the line."

"Mr. Hunt, it's a pleasure to hear from you."

"Jim, Carl tells me your firm rescued us from a small problem in Tampa and then sent us a $450,000 check to boot. That was totally unexpected and I don't often get surprises like this. I like it."

"It shouldn't have been a surprise, Mr. Hunt. Your firm did us the favor by throwing us a great opportunity. It's only fair that you get reimbursed for the bid-work you did."

"I know, I know, but it's still something that isn't done much anymore. Carl said that 50% would have been fair, but you sent the entire amount. It was a class act. The Europeans would have negotiated us down to nothing and the Japanese, well, I don't want to get into that. It's the reason why I like to deal with American owned firms like yours."

"I appreciate your calling me. That too is a class act."

"Thank you, and by the way, I just mentioned to Carl that we have another project in Europe that you might be able to help us out with. He will call you. Anyway, thanks again for the check. Good luck."

"Thank you! Mr. Hunt."

Later I related the story to Ken and Marco.

"I guess you made the right decision when you paid them the $450,000 without quibbling" Ken observed.

"How is the Tampa job going, Marco? Any problems?

"No problems, boss, everything is on schedule. Next week we implode the old stadium and start clearing the debris. You won't want to miss that," Marco said with a gleam in his eye.

"I'll be there, assuming we get through this weekend," I replied showing my concern. "Have we done everything the CIA requested?"

"We gave them everything they asked for and just completed a thorough search of the stadium. There is no way we could have missed even a stick of dynamite. If they are going to blow us up, it will be a BYOB party."

"Bring Your Own Bomb," Ken interpreted.

The French Open was six weeks away and Ambre couldn't wait to get back on the practice court. Her victory at the European Open in Paris, earned her a wildcard into the main draw. She was only 15, but had prepared for this day for nine years. She was ready.

Ambre was born in a small town just outside Nice to wealthy parents that made a fortune in shipping and spent most of the time traveling the world. As an only child, she spent her early years with few friends and a plethora of au pairs who never could tolerate the spoiled child for more than a year. Ambre's escape was tennis and she hit thousands of balls against a backstop erected on the family's private tennis court. She started taking tennis lessons at age six, and by age eight she won her first tournament. Ambre was on a fast track from that point on. At age 12, she won the French 16-and-under junior title. At 13, she won the 18s. The country couldn't wait for her to grow up. It had been a long time since the French had a woman champion they could truly call their own.

There have been French Champions. In 2000, Mary Pierce beat Conchita Martinez of Spain 6-2 7-5 and the country celebrated. Pierce's mother was French and she claimed France as her home country despite the fact that she had been born and raised in the United States. The circumstances are similar to Great Britain claiming Canadian-born Greg Rudinski as their own. It might be legal, but it's not the same. Every Englishman would prefer Tim Henman to win Wimbledon.

Ambre was born and bred in France and reminded older French fans of Suzanne Lenglen, the greatest French women's tennis champion of all time. Lenglen dominated women's tennis from 1920-1926, winning the French women's singles five times and women's doubles twice. From 1919 to 1923 and again in 1925 she won the British women's singles and doubles crowns. In 1920 she took the tennis honors of the Olympic games at Antwerp. Lenglen passed away in 1938 at the age of 39, but center court at Roland Garros is a testament to her greatness.

Ambre had the potential to be the next Suzanne Lenglen and the looks to be the next Anna Kournikova. Ambre appeared on the cover of two fashion magazines before she was 13, the inside layouts making her look like a woman five years older. It appeared nothing could stop her from her destiny with greatness, unless it was her penchant for trouble. At 14 she was caught in bed with a 19-year old tennis instructor who swore that Ambre had been the instigator. Six months later she was caught in a raid on a late-night Paris dance club with a blood alcohol content of .22, well above the legal threshold for sobriety. Just three months later airport security found twenty ounces of marijuana in her purse, just below the limit where she could be charged for drug trafficking. The French Tennis Association managed to bail her out each time, but their patience was wearing thin. Everyone close to her knew she was headed for trouble.

Ambre's debut at Roland Garros was dramatic center court match against the defending champion Jennifer Capriati, who had beaten favored Kim Clijsters of Belgium, 12-10 in the third set to win last year' title. Suzanne Lenglen stadium was packed and thousands watched outside the stadium on the Sony Jumbotron scoreboard.

The crowd wanted a miracle, and Ambre was not about to disappoint them. Surprisingly it was Capriati that felt the pressure. She double faulted the first point and was never in the match. The crowd roared with delight every time Ambre hit a winner, and every time Capriati made a mistake. It was not good sportsmanship, but the crowd was drunk with joy. When the match mercifully ended after only 75 minutes, Capriati had won only three games. Never had a defending champion been beaten so badly in the first round.

French fans cheered for ten minutes while Ambre stood at center court blowing kisses to the crowd. She was enjoying the moment and basking in the crowd's adulation. The crowd celebrated the dawn of a new tennis era for France.

Ambre won two more matches before a Russian girl beat her in the round of 16. It didn't matter, the French knew Ambre would be back next year and for many years to come. The crowd thought so and so did Ambre. It was her destiny.

The phone rang and Agbu answered, "hola."

"Buenas tardes, hermano pequeño, have you been keeping out of trouble, little brother?"

"Is that you, Anton? It's great to hear your voice again. Where are you? When are you coming home?"

"Soon, little brother, maybe in a week or two. I have so much to tell you, but it's not good to talk on the phone. Read the papers Sunday, there should be an exciting futball game in Mexico."

"I will, Anton. I miss you."

"Goodbye, little brother, I hope to see you soon. "

"Adiós hermano mayor, yo le perderé ( _Goodbye big brother, I will miss you_ )."

"Listen to this," Ray said as he burst into Chris' office. "We intercepted this call last night," he said as he played the tape.

"Who are these guys?" Chris asked.

"The one making the call is Anton Galan, an ETA member from Spain that is a prime suspect in a fatal kidnapping two years ago in France. The CIA in Mexico has been watching him for six months and monitoring his cell phone calls. The other person is his younger brother, Agbu, a high school student in Spain. Here's a picture we took of him last month."

"It sounds like Anton is part of whatever is planned for Saturday" Fred offered. "The question is what to do next. Should we pick him up or let him make his move?"

"Let's give him some room and see if he leads us to anyone else," Ray said. "I have a hunch that Anton is just a small cog in this weekend's plans. What do you think Chris?"

"I agree. He has been in Mexico less than two years, there is no way he could be leading an operation this big. Do we have a tail on him?"

"He can't make a move, much less a phone call, without us listening in."

"Good. It looks like everything is scheduled for Saturday but we better not relax our guard. There will be a lot of important people at the VIP party Friday night. It would be a perfect target."

"Fred and I will be on the job," Ray said with a wink at Fred. "Of course we won't be drinking and dancing with an old boyfriend like someone we know."

"Congratulations, you two geniuses finally figured it out," Chris retorted. "Don't worry about me, this weekend will be all business." It sounded hollow even to Chris. She couldn't help but wonder if she had put Ken behind her. Part of her was looking forward to the weekend on a social level. Her job always came first, of course. _Wasn't this what caused the problem in the first place?_

Mary, Ken and I had the eight-seat Boeing jet all to ourselves. Chris had taken the additional precaution of reserving first class seats on a Delta commercial flight in case anyone was tracking our scheduled arrival, but insisted on the private jet for security reasons. Mary and I had never flown on a private jet and we all took advantage of the hors d'oeurves and open bar. The co-pilot served Mary a bloody mary and Ken and I joined her just to be courteous.

Chris was waiting at the terminal when the private jet arrived, transportation furnished by an old friend and co-worker in the DEA. Chris greeted them as they taxied to a stop and the co-pilot yanked open the door. "Did you all enjoy the flight?"

"We did, it's quite a plane. I'm glad to see my tax money is being spent wisely."

"Don't ever say the DEA doesn't fly their guests in style. I wouldn't mind if we had one of these ourselves. You might thank the Columbian drug smugglers for donating the plane; American tax payers had nothing to do with it."

"I didn't know you still had friends in the DEA. You are still full of surprises, my dear," Ken quipped with a smile. "Do you have any other surprises for us?" Ken asked as he slid his arm around her waist.

"That's enough, big boy. This is all business, and don't you forget it," Chris replied somewhat unconvincingly. "There is a limo waiting outside that will take us to the hotel, and from that point on there will be at least two agents that will be with Jim and Mary at all times."

"Any possibility of driving past the project site on the way to the hotel? Mary has never seen it and it's been four weeks for me."

"No problem, as long as we stay in the car. I don't want to get out and walk around until we pick up the other agents at the hotel."

"Okay, grab your luggage and let's get going. Let me go first," she directed as she led our small group through the terminal. "Unless someone needs to use the facilities, I suggest we catch our ride."

"Ladies first," Ken said as he opened the terminal door leading to the parking lot.

The limo was parked about 30 feet from the front door. Chris took just two steps before coming to an abrupt stop. "Get back inside," she said firmly as she drew her gun. There was no mistaking the serious tone in her voice. Something was up.

Two men rose up from behind the limo brandishing semi-automatic weapons and all hell broke loose. Gunfire erupted and the noise was deafening. Mary and I were in the doorway when the first shots were fired, and I managed to pull her roughly back into the terminal. The pilot and co-pilot shouted for us to get down as they raced past us to help Chris. Our "waiter" who had served us drinks only an hour earlier now had a semi-automatic pistol in his hand and was firing rapidly through the doorway.

Moments later the co-pilot staggered backwards as blood spread across his chest. While Mary stemmed the flow of blood I carefully retrieved the co-pilot's pistol from the open doorway. I fiddled with a couple switches but had no idea if there was a safety or button that you needed to release before firing. I had never fired a gun in my life.

The gunfire stopped abruptly. "Chris, are you okay?" the pilot whispered. There was no response. "Chris, talk to me," he yelled a little louder. There was no response. I was starting to worry when Chris' voice broke the silence.

"Drop your weapons or you're dead, scumbags." Chris was apparently alive and well as we heard her authoritative voice coming from behind our attackers.

The gunmen wheeled at the sound and opened fire in the direction of her voice. Ten seconds later the shooting stopped. "All clear, Bill," she yelled to the pilot. Come on out."

Chris had managed to reach the limo and sneak around behind the two men. One gunman was dead and the other severely wounded, but still holding his gun. The man wisely threw it down on Chris' command.

The pilot was helping Mary staunch the flow of blood from the co-pilot's wounds, so I walked out to see if I could help Chris who was handcuffing their prisoner. I stopped abruptly when I saw a third gunman appear from the side of the building. Chris' back was turned to the new threat.

"Usted muere," he shouted and extended his right arm with his automatic pistol pointing at Chris' back.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion as I watched the gunman slowly tighten his finger on the trigger. "It was pure reflex," I told Chris later. I wasn't even aware that I was still holding the co-pilot's gun. "I just pointed and pulled the trigger. I was more scared than anyone when the bullets started flying. I must have accidentally set it on automatic." I'll never forget the perplexed look on the man's face as my bullets tore into his chest and he realized he was dying, nor the look in his eyes as he stared at me as he fell to the ground. It was pure hatred.

Chris had wheeled around to confront the new threat, and immediately grasped that she would have been too late. "I owe you one, Jim. There is no way he would have missed me at that range," she said as she gripped my arm. "Are you all right?"

I nodded, and a moment later she was all business again. "Is everybody okay in there?"

"Mary is fine," I responded. "The co-pilot is hurt pretty bad. I didn't see Ken."

"Get an ambulance," the pilot shouted from the terminal, "Ken's been shot."

"Oh no," Chris uttered as she raced to Ken's side, leaving me to watch the prisoner. Ken was unconscious and losing a lot of blood. There was nothing they could do until the ambulance arrived except to hold towels over the two bullet holes in his chest. Chris held Ken's head in her lap until the ambulance arrived. "Don't you dare die on me," she implored. "I'll make it up do you, just don't die on me."

Three days later Ken regained consciousness, and a day later he was strong enough to talk. Chris, Mary and Jim had taken turns sitting by his bedside although Chris had taken most of the turns. She was there when Ken awoke Tuesday morning and looked up into Chris' eyes. "Am I dead? If I am, this must be heaven. What are you doing here? You should be at the VIP party with Jim."

Tears of relief welled up in Chris' eyes. "I was just passing by," Chris answered, "and by the way, it's Tuesday. The VIP party was four days ago."

Ken let this sink in and he struggled to remember what had happened. "The last thing I remember is holding the door open for you and Mary just when you started screaming at us and people started shooting. What happened? Are Jim and Mary okay?"

"Jim and Mary are fine and should be back here any minute. They stayed with you last night and had just left when you started to wake up."

"Did the party and grand opening go okay?"

"Everything is fine. The terrorists had big plans, but we managed to stop them before they got started. Everything went smoothly."

Mary and I burst into the room. "Ken, what a relief," Mary cried as she gave Ken a gentle hug and peck on the cheek.

"We didn't think you were going to make it for a couple days," I added. "I was wondering who I was going to golf with next week."

"You can't get rid of me that easy," Ken smiled. "And thanks to both of you. Chris told me you have been keeping me company for the last few days while I pretended to sleep. I appreciate it."

"Don't thank us," I said. "You need to thank the lady sitting next to you. She refused to let you die."

Ken smiled up at Chris. "I hope she gives me another chance to thank her for the rest of our lives."

"I do," Chris whispered.

"Jim, let's go downstairs for some coffee," Mary suggested.

"But, I don't want any more coffee," I was saying as she pulled me out the door.

Chris joined them in the cafeteria fifteen minutes later. Ken was weak and fell asleep soon after they left.

Mary noticed immediately. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Yeah," she replied holding out her left hand for inspection as tears welled up in her eyes. "Apparently Ken had brought it with him on the trip. He just proposed to me, or re-proposed I guess. I'm not going to let him get away again."

"Congratulations," I said sincerely, "sometimes it takes things like this to bring people together."

"I knew how I felt when I saw him lying there bleeding," Chris said emotionally. "I felt like it was part of me that was dying." Mary reached over and hugged Chris for several moments; women have a better sense of when hugs are needed.

"By the way, Chris, what did happen out there?" I said changing the subject. "What tipped you off? How did they know we would be at the terminal?"

"We assumed they wouldn't try to kidnap you until after the attack on the Stadium; that's why we didn't have more people at the airport. Besides, there was no way they could have known about you arriving on a private jet."

"What went wrong?"

"This isn't public knowledge, but it will eventually get out. Keep it to yourselves for a while. The ETA had planned to load explosives into two private airplanes and fly them into the skyboxes during the Soccer match. It would have been the first time they used suicide bombers and the first time they had used airplanes. The airspace over the stadium during the ceremony was restricted, but it might have worked. They planned on grabbing Jim and you too, Mary, during the confusion."

"Wow," Mary exclaimed, "so what made them change their plan?"

"They got lucky; at least they thought they did. They kept the planes at the airport we flew into and happened to spot our limo. One of their pilots knew the flight controller and found out the jet was coming in from Tampa with you aboard. We had filed a flight plan and passenger list which is required on all international flights."

"So they decided to change their plans at the last minute," I guessed.

"That's right, they couldn't resist the opportunity. All they saw was a limo driver and a woman and figured it would be easy."

"That was their mistake wasn't it? They didn't know who you were. But how did you spot them?"

"Well, I was caught off guard, but fortunately I had worked out a signal with the limo driver. I told him to flash his lights when we came out the door if everything was okay. When I didn't see the signal, I reacted. Unfortunately for Ken, I was a little slow."

"Not from what we saw, Chris. You looked like Annie Oakley. By the way, how is the limo driver?"

"He is fine. As soon as the shooting started he hit the floor and stayed there."

"How did you find out about the suicide planes?"

"It was a combination of luck and good police work. We were lucky that the second gunman told us a few things before we took him to the hospital," Chris said with a wink. "Once we learned that the attempt at the airport wasn't preplanned, we figured there had to be a reason they were there in the first place. We surrounded the private terminal and searched the hangers until we found them. The planes were already loaded with explosives and ready to go."

"Did the second kidnapper recover?" Mary asked.

"No, he died of his wounds. The doctor said he might have made it if they had operated on him a little sooner. He had lost too much blood." Mary and I did not vocalize what we were both thinking. This sounded similar to a situation in Cabo San Lucas three years ago.

"What happened to the guy you suspected, the one from Spain that you showed us the pictures of?" Mary asked. "Was he captured?"

Chris glanced at me before answering. "I thought you knew. That's the man that Jim shot, Anton Galan from Basque country." I wired his picture to the Spanish and French authorities. They confirmed he is the same man that they were after for the fatal kidnapping of an American tourist, Bill Peterson. Peterson was killed during a rescue attempt a year ago in a small village in Southern France. Anton's brother, Raul, was also killed, but Anton escaped and made his way here to Mexico."

"Well, I don't think many civilized people will miss him," Mary commented, squeezing my hand for support.

Mary was not completely correct. Agbu was devastated when he heard the news.

Chapter 14

National Clay Court Championships

Pete's game continued to improve under the tutelage of Gregg and Mary. He finished his first year in the Florida 16's ranked #12. The next year his ranking improved to #4. He had developed into a good, all-court player without a significant weakness. Pete had the groundstrokes to rally with the clay court players and the serve-and-volley game to play on hard courts.

The top tennis colleges were starting to call. Florida, Illinois, Georgia and others had all sent letters of interest. Pete was too young to sign a letter of intent but the college coaches wanted to get their names out front. Recruiting was a tough business.

It's tougher for the boys to get a tennis scholarship. Title 19 requires universities to give an equal number of scholarships to men and women. It sounds good in theory, but in practice it punishes boys in the minor, non-revenue sports such as tennis. Eighty or ninety scholarships are given to football, which pays the bills for all sports with the exception of men's basketball which is a break-even sport at most schools and a profit center at some of the big programs such as Duke and UCLA. There are only a few scholarships left for boys in the other sports. If a school has a dozen scholarships available for tennis, eight or nine usually go to women. Florida for example might offer one or two full rides to the boys, and give half, or quarter scholarships to the rest of the varsity team. Pete's #4 ranking would probably earn him a full ride to many schools. Last year's ranking of #12 would get him only a partial ride. The pressure for ranking points was intense.

"Mary, see that fellow across from us in the straw hat. Do you recognize him?" Gregg asked. They were watching Pete in the finals of a designated tournament in Jacksonville beat up on the number two seed who was ranked #6 in Florida.

"Should I know him? Who is he?"

"That's Leon Harris, head coach at Stanford. They are in town playing the University of South Florida this weekend. I wonder if he came to see Pete or the other kid?"

"Wow, I hope he likes what he is seeing." Mary knew Stanford was one of the top programs in the country and defending NCAA champions.

Pete finished up a convincing 6-3, 6-3 win with an acrobatic cross-court forehand off the dead run. It was an exclamation mark on a great tournament.

"He is walking over this way," Mary whispered.

"Mrs. Simpson, Let me introduce myself. I'm Leon Harris, tennis coach at Stanford University. Your son's a real nice player and looks like a great kid. You should be proud of him."

"We are," Mary replied. "It's been fun watching him grow up, and Gregg here has done a wonderful job as his coach."

"You have done a nice job. Pete has good strokes and a nice all court game. He will be a top player when he develops a weapon. I'm looking forward to watching him progress over the next two years. Good luck," the coach added as he walked away.

"That was nice of him to say, wasn't it?" Mary asked.

"Yeah, I guess so," Gregg replied. "I think he was telling us that Pete has a nice game, but without a big serve or crushing forehand, he won't be getting a scholarship from Stanford. That's what I heard."

Mary answered suddenly deflated. "Any suggestions?"

"The coach is right; Pete doesn't have that one killer shot that most champions have. His serve is darn good, but not like a Sampras or Roddick. His forehand is pretty good, too, but not like Roger Federer's. The two-handed backhand is consistent, but more of a defensive shot."

"What can we do about it?"

"It's not that easy, Mary. "If it were, everyone would do it. All we can do is continue stressing the fundamentals. My coaching philosophy is that if you move your feet and get into the correct hitting position, your groundstrokes improve. If you bend your knees and hit up through the ball, your serve improves. We need to keep working on the fundamentals."

It wasn't the magic panacea that Mary wanted to hear. For the first time Mary started to wonder if Gregg had taken Pete as far as he could. Maybe Pete needed someone else to take him to the next level?

The Nationals in Kalamazoo, MI were coming up in August. It would be a true test of where Pete's game was compared to the top players in the United States. Florida and California liked to think they were the only states to play good tennis, but there were great players from all over the country.

Pete was seeded #27, not bad considering he hadn't played outside Florida. This was his first exposure to big time, pressure tennis. Kalamazoo has hosted these championships for 25 years, and was the most prestigious tournament of the year for American junior tennis players.

Pete drew an unseeded player from Michigan in the first round. The tournament is played on hard courts, which play a lot faster than clay courts, and it took a few games before Pete caught up to the boy's fast serve and powerful ground strokes. Pete had been practicing for two weeks on hard courts at the local high school in Tampa, but these courts were faster. Despite the "Go Wolverines" cheers from the partisan crown, Pete eked out a tough 7-6 (4), 6-4 victory. There were only three service breaks in the match, none in the first set. It was a good start.

The second round match was against the #18 seed from Mexico. This style was completely different than Pete's first round match and more like the tennis Pete saw in Florida. Rather than a power game, Pete was confronted with spins, slices and looping topspin. Pete fell behind 1-4 before he realized that he had to be patient and wait for a short ball to attack. Pete lost the first set, but came back to win a hard fought, competitive, three-hour match, 4-6, 6-4, 6-2.

"I would hate to play that kid on clay," Pete said later.

Pete's 3rd round match was against an unseeded player from California that had upset the #14 seed in the 2nd round. Gregg had seen part of the match and warned us that this kid was tough and he was right. The boy did everything just a little bit better than Pete and won easily, 6-2, 6-1.

I was pleasantly surprised to see Pete was up beat. "I guess we know where my game stands compared to the best," he commented dispassionately. "There was nothing I could do." "The guy was just too good for me."

"Reaching the 3rd round of the National 16s isn't too bad," I replied, "but yeah, that kid is good. I hope he wins it all." The Californian won his next match, but lost to a kid from Texas in the semis, who lost to the eventual champion. There are a lot of good players out there.

It wouldn't get any easier. The Orange Bowl was next.

Agbu realized that his uncle was shaking him. "Wake up, Agbu. I have terrible news."

Agbu struggled to make sense of what his Uncle Enrique was saying, but managed to sit up. When he saw his face, he knew it was about Anton. "Is it Anton?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it is. He was killed yesterday in Mexico City."

Agbu wanted to cry, but the tears would not come. Instead, he felt emptiness inside. "I had a bad feeling when he called two days ago that I would never talk to him again. Is there anything on the news about a big bombing or kidnapping over there?"

"No, nothing. My friend just said Anton had been shot and killed Friday afternoon."

Agbu knew that his brother had failed in his plan. Agbu swore that when it was his turn he would not fail.

"What happened? Do you know how Anton died?"

"My friend said he was trying to surrender when he was shot in the back by an American businessman. Anton didn't even have a gun."

Agbu was quiet for a few moments, the rage building inside. He finally asked the question. "What is the American's name?"

"Jim Simpson."

Ambre's success at the French Open made her a national celebrity, at the age of 15. Always a prodigy to the French people, she was now a star. She didn't handle it well and her tennis suffered. It seemed the rest of the year was devoted to modeling shoots, interviews and celebrity tennis gigs. Everyone wanted a piece of her and she was too vain to say no; she loved it! It got to the point where it was difficult to find the time to play in tournaments, much less practice.

The situation came to a head when she was upset in the 2nd round of the Marseille tournament by another French girl whom she had beaten several times before in straight sets. Her coach pulled her aside, "Ambre, I can't watch you throw your future away like this, I've had it with you. Either start concentrating on tennis or we are finished."

"Coach, come on. I wasn't feeling well today, I just started my period. Don't worry about it. I'll be fine."

"Ambre, listen to me, I'm tired of your excuses. You either change your attitude, or find yourself a new coach. I love you like a daughter, but I can't watch you do this to yourself, I just can't."

Ambre looked up at the 60-year-old man that had coached and watched over her since she was six. She had always just called him "Coach" and suddenly realized that he was the one constant in her life. Ambre started to cry and continued until "Coach" took her in his arms.

"I'm sorry, Ambre, it's just that I care about you so much that I can't stand to see you waste your life away. You can be one of the best players ever if you put your mind to it. What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

"Did you mean it? Do you really love me? No one ever said that to me before."

In that moment he realized the loneliness that Ambre must feel. She had been shipped off to tennis camps since she was eight, and seldom saw her parents. Millions of people cheered her and purchased the magazines with her picture on the cover, but she had nobody that held her and told her they loved her. He had forgotten that she was only 15.

Coach reached for Ambre and pulled her close. "I love you Ambre. You are a kind, gentle young lady that has brought so much joy to me. I only want what is best for you," he sobbed as tears ran down his cheeks. "You are the daughter I never had."

Ambre cried into his chest for several minutes, oblivious to the people around them. For the first time she felt loved and appreciated. It was more important than being adored by thousands. She finally leaned back and said, "Coach, I'll be at practice early tomorrow, we have a lot of work to do to get me back in shape. I won't disappoint you again."

"I believe you," Coach said with a smile. "We will need to work hard. The Orange Bowl in Miami, Florida is in four weeks."

"I'll be ready, Coach, count on it."

"Carlos, have you ever been to Miami, Florida?" Sergio asked.

"You know I haven't ever been out of Europe," Carlos answered as he looked at Sergio Brugerra with interest. "Is there some reason for asking?"

"No, not really. Fritz and I were talking about taking a couple kids over to the States and play in the Orange Bowl over Christmas, but you probably want to spend the time with your family."

"What family? You guys are my family. Are you joking or are we really going to Florida?"

"It's a tough tournament. There will be a lot of good players. Can you handle it?"

"Don't you worry about me, I'll be ready."

Carlos didn't sleep that night. He lay awake thinking about going to the U.S. and winning the Orange Bowl.

Chapter 15

The Orange Bowl

Gregg had exaggerated a little when he told Pete he was playing in the Orange Bowl.

"Pete, what's wrong?"

"You said I was playing in the Orange Bowl, now you tell me I have to play a qualifier to get in. You lied."

"No I didn't. You can't expect to play in a tournament this big without an international ranking. This is an International Tennis Federation tournament, not a USTA event. You never played an ITF event before, this is the big time. We were lucky to get a chance to qualify."

"This is my first tournament in the 18s, and now you tell me I need to qualify to get into the main draw. What chance do I have?"

"Pete, grow up. If you are afraid of the competition, let's go home. I happen to think you will do okay, but it's your decision. What's it going to be?"

Pete sensed this was a crossroads in his career. "Let's play."

The odds were not good. There were 16 players playing for just one spot in the main draw, and Pete was playing as an 18-year old for the first time. The 2nd place finisher would be the first alternate or "lucky loser" if someone withdrew. Pete would need to play the best tennis of his life if he hoped to earn a spot in the main draw.

Pete was relaxed as Gregg warmed him up an hour before his first match. The main draw started Monday and the courts were beginning to fill up with players trying to work out the kinks of a long trip and get acclimated to the speed of the courts. Half the players were from other countries.

Pete couldn't help but notice the girl warming up next to him. She was wearing short cutoffs and a sports bra that highlighted a sensational figure, and was hitting the ball as hard as Pete. To top that off, she was absolutely gorgeous and seemed oblivious to the crowd watching her.

"Who's that girl?" Pete asked Gregg as they took a short break.

"Which one?" Gregg deadpanned. "I hadn't noticed."

"Yeah, right. You might be old, but you're not dead."

Gregg smiled like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Okay, that's the 15-year old French girl that reached the quarters at the French Open. She is the top seed in the 18's. Her name is Ambre."

"Ambre, I like that."

Ten minutes later their paths crossed as she retrieved a ball that rolled onto his court. "Good luck this morning," Ambre said with a smile that could have melted an iceberg. "Be aggressive."

Pete was tongue tied and could barely murmur "thanks" as she walked away. It was one of those moments he wished he could have over. All the witty things he wanted to say came to him too late. _She must think I'm a jerk._

His opponent was from the Ukraine and had the biggest serve that Pete had ever faced, and an overhead to match. At 6'4", he was impossible to lob. There were no service breaks in the first set and Pete won in a tiebreaker. The second set was deadlocked at four-all when Pete was broken at love; two service return winners, a missed volley and a framed passing shot that landed on the baseline were all it took.

The Ukraine boy broke Pete again in the third game of the third set and was serving at 4-3 when the momentum of the match changed. Until then Pete had managed only one break point that was quickly erased by a service ace. Pete heard a voice from the crowd shout encouragement. "Come on Pete, this is your game. Get aggressive."

Pete glanced over and saw the French girl giving a thumbs-up. He nodded and then got down to business. Pete started to anticipate the direction of the boy's serves, and guessed correctly on the first point and ripped a hard, low return at his feet. He missed the volley and Pete was ahead love 15. From that point on it was Pete's match; he got into a zone. His opponent's serves seemed slower and Pete ripped winners at will. He won the next three games, dropping only two points.

Pete shook hands and accepted congratulations from his opponent. As he walked off the court he searched for Ambre, but she was gone. "Great match Pete, you did it," Gregg shouted as he gave Pete a high-five. He was more excited than Pete.

Mary and I offered our congratulations. "That's the best I've ever seen you play. Did it happen to have anything to do with that girl that was cheering for you?"

"What girl?" Pete deadpanned.

Three more matches and Pete was into the main draw. I had never seen him play better. The four of us were at every match; Gregg, Mary, me and the cute cheerleader that seemed to bring out the best in Pete.

Business was never better. More importantly, the business seemed to be running itself. I hired good people and had the good sense to let them alone to make their own decisions. I expected them to let me know if there was a problem, but otherwise I gave them the freedom needed to do their job.

Sally (equipment leasing), Roger (commercial mortgages) and Ken (special projects) had been with me for several years and I trusted them to tell me if there were problems before they got out of hand. This trust is vital and earned over a period of time. Marco was the only one that I was not sure of. There was no question that Marco was competent, but did he have the good sense to know when he was in trouble and needed help?

We were celebrating Pete's victory in Miami Sunday evening when I received a phone call from Tim Hughes, the Tampa Sports Authority commissioner. We had become good friends over the past 12 months. After the usual pleasantries, he got right to the point. "Jim, you should know that some of the commissioners are getting upset and are talking about yanking your contract."

"Did I hear you right, Tim? My understanding is that we are on schedule and everything is looking good. What's the problem?"

"The problem is that your team is running roughshod over everyone, particularly our consultants. Your people refuse to consider any changes that are outside the original specifications. They tell us to make a note of it and they will look at it after the job is done as contracted. They aren't being reasonable, Jim, and my people are mad."

"Have you talked to Marco about it?"

"Marco is the problem, Jim. We had a meeting yesterday and made it clear how we feel, but he won't budge. Some of the changes we are requesting could be done at a small cost now, but after the job is finished the change orders will cost millions."

"I'll talk to him and get back to you tomorrow. Thanks for letting me know." I hung up and considered my options. My first inclination was to call Marco and hear his side of it, but knew it would be a difficult discussion to have over the phone. I thought of calling Ken to get his input, but figured Ken would have told me if he knew the problem was getting out of hand. Besides, this wasn't Ken's problem, it was mine. I needed to get back to Tampa.

"Mary, Pete is going to have to win tomorrow without me. I need to get back to Tampa."

"Jim, do you have to go?" Mary asked.

"Yes, there is a problem with the Tampa Stadium job and it's not the kind of thing I can handle over the phone. I'm sorry, but I need to be in Tampa tomorrow. Petie, I'm sorry, I'll try to get back in a couple days if you are still winning."

"When are you going to stop calling him Petie?" Mary said with a smile as she helped me pack. "He is almost 17 and taller than you are, and you know he doesn't like it."

"I know, but doesn't it was only yesterday when he was crawling around the floor in diapers? I hate to let go."

"I know how you feel," Mary replied squeezing my hand.

"Jim, what a surprise," Marco said as he walked into my office. How is Pete doing this week?" It was only 8:15 but I was already on my 3rd cup of coffee.

"Pete's doing great. He won the qualifier and is in the main draw. In fact, he is probably warming up for his first-round match right about now."

"Why did he have to qualify? I thought his ranking was good enough to get right in to the main draw."

"It's a long story, but basically it's a big tournament with good players from around the world, and this is his first year in the 18s."

"Why aren't you down there watching?" Marco asked, starting to realize that maybe Jim's return was for a reason.

"Grab a cup of coffee and come back in say, 10 minutes. There are a few things I need to talk with you about."

Marco looked at the papers on my desk and saw that I had reviewing the job file. He now was a little more than concerned. "Is there something wrong?" he asked.

"Let's hold off until we get a cup of coffee, I have a couple calls to make." Actually, I wanted to give Marco a few minutes to think about the job and formulate his thoughts. I liked Marco and needed his expertise. There was no benefit to ambushing him and putting him on the defensive. That's not to say I wasn't going to admonish him if he deserved it, but I had learned that there is a right way and a wrong way to do these things. There were no winners if we didn't walk out of the meeting on the same page. We didn't necessarily need to be friends, but we had to understand each other and work together.

"What's this about, Jim?" Marco asked as he sat down with his cup of coffee.

"Marco, I just reviewed the file on the stadium job, and I must say it looks good. It's on schedule and under budget. Is that how you see it?"

"Yep, things are going pretty well, but I'm guessing that there is a problem or you would be in Miami watching Pete this morning. Am I right?"

I got up and closed the door. "Marco, yesterday I got a call from someone at the Sports Authority who expressed some concerns about how we are handling change orders. Does that ring a bell?"

"Okay, now I know what this is about. The commissioner called you, didn't he?"

I nodded.

"Friday their engineers gave me three more change order requests. That's a total of 43, not counting the ones we discussed and turned down out of hand. Jim, the changes they want are not in the specifications, and they know it. We will lose money on this job if we say yes to everything."

"I know what you are saying, Marco, but some of these look pretty reasonable. They might not have been in the specs, but can't we give them a little wiggle room?"

"Jim, they are out of money and can't pay for them. These changes will come right out of my budget and pretty soon you will be sitting there telling me I don't know how to manage a big job. I've been through this before."

Good, I thought. We had gotten to the core of the issue faster than I anticipated, at least part of it. "Marco, let's get it all out on the table and then we can see how we can fix it. What's really concerning me is that I should have heard about this from you, not from the client."

"Jim, I don't want to bother you when you are on vacation, and besides, you told me this was my job and I had full authority to handle anything that came up."

Marco was digging in for a fight, and I had to watch my Irish temper or the meeting would be over and the battle lines would be hardened. I wanted to tell him it was his job, but it was my company. I wanted to let him know who was boss, but I stopped myself. Besides, maybe he had a point.

"Marco, I'm sorry; maybe I haven't made my long range goals more clear. I have a vision for this company that I would like to share with you." I noticed Marco relaxed a little when he heard the magic words, 'I'm sorry'. I couldn't help but smile as I remembered the phrase used in some old gangster movie; "I'm sorry, but I have to kill you."

"First, let me say this about my vacations. Someone once said that people that own their own business are never are on vacation, you are working all the time. I find that adage to be true. In my case, I can enjoy my vacations as long as I know that I will be notified if there is a problem that needs my attention. If I don't have that trust, I could never truly enjoy a vacation. Marco, this was one of those times that I should have been called."

"You said this was my job. Should I call you every time someone stubs his toe?"

Now I was getting a little pissed, but I held back. "Marco, part of your job is to bring the job in on time and under budget, but that is only part of your responsibility. I want this company to be around for a while and to be respected in the community. My idea of a good job is to leave a happy client. Geez, Marco, we live in Tampa!"

"But at what cost, Jim?" Marco argued. "I've been canned once before for bringing in a job over budget. The client was pleased as hell. We did a great job for him, but I got canned."

"That won't happen here. I told you I don't like surprises, but you can be sure that you won't be fired for being over budget as long as there are good reasons. Marco, I want this job to be the start of something real good here. We need a good reference from this client, not too mention making a good impression on the Hunt people."

Marco took a moment to think about what I had said, and I was pleased to see the tension disappear from his body. "I see your point, Jim. It won't happen again."

"Good, let's get a refill on the coffee and go over these change orders one-by-one. I'd like to get back to the client and offer them a compromise."

Pete had a hard time getting mentally psyched for his first-round match. Winning the qualifiers had taken a lot out of him and he was flat. His opponent was an 18-year old from Korea, seeded #13. The Korean started strong and jumped out to a 3-0 lead in the first set with 2 service breaks. The match was over in less than an hour; 6-4, 6-1. It hadn't helped that Ambre was playing a match at the same time and had been unable to provide that spark in Pete's game.

"What happened?" I asked when Mary called with the news. "Was the Korean kid that good?"

"Not really, it was more of a case of Pete being flat. He was a step slow and just couldn't get going."

"How is he taking it?"

"He's a little down, but is looking forward to playing doubles. He teamed up with a boy from the Netherlands that needed a partner. Doubles will be good for him and let him hang around and see what kind of game the top players have."

Pete hung around and received a rude awakening. Some of these other kids were clearly out of his class. "Gregg, that kid is unbelievable. I don't think I could get a game off him."

They were watching Carlos beat up on a boy from Texas in the third round, and Carlos had just hit an unbelievable running, backhand winner up the line. "I don't think Federer could beat this kid today," Gregg agreed. "He is good, but seriously Pete, your game isn't that far away. You just need more experience playing these kids. We need to play more of the big tournaments this year."

Mary was listening and thinking. She would like to believe what Gregg was saying, but knew in her heart that Pete's game wasn't near the level she was watching Carlos play. She would talk to Jim when they got back to Tampa. Maybe it was time to look into a tennis camp?

Ambre was at the top of her game and cruised through the first three rounds without losing a set. The extra practice she had gotten by arriving four days early was paying dividends. When they weren't practicing, Coach had kept a close watch on her, but it was fun. They had dinner in South Beach, swam with the Dolphins and went shopping in Miami Beach, but this trip was all about tennis. Flirting with Pete Simpson was a pleasant diversion. He was so cute and really wasn't a bad player.

Ambre was the #1 seed and played like it until she ran into a South American girl in the quarterfinals. Ambre was down a set and an early break, before she turned it around and won 3-6, 7-5, 6-2.

"What happened out there, Ambre?" Coach asked, already suspecting the reason for her poor performance. "It looked like you were sleep walking for two sets." It was the first time her coach had yelled at her since the day they had bonded after her early round loss at the Avignon tournament in Marseille. For the past month Ambre had been a pure joy to coach and her game had never been better.

Ambre knew what had happened, but she couldn't tell her coach. It could be summed up in one word, Carlos.

It started innocently enough with a chance meeting at the University Rathskeller. Ambre was having a coke and playing video games with a few other girls in the tournament when she heard someone behind her. "So, where is that French girl that everyone is talking about? They say she is beautiful."

Ambre turned and looked into the dark, green eyes of one of the most handsome guys she had seen. She recognized him immediately as the tennis player she had met at the European Championships in Paris. "Is this the guy that forgot to show up for the semis in Paris?" she retorted.

"Ouch", this French feline is beautiful and dangerous too. May I buy you a coke, young lady?"

Ambre and Carlos spent almost three hours talking tennis, swapping stories and getting to know each other. He was two years older and full of life. She had never met a more interesting and self-confident young man.

Carlos was also seeded #1 and had lost only nine games in six sets. There had never been a player that so thoroughly dominated the Orange Bowl. He played like he was on a mission to erase the memory of his Paris failure.

That afternoon he finished his match and caught the final few games of Ambre's 3rd round match. She won easily, 6-2, 6-1 against a Californian ranked #32 in the world. "Boy, she is good," Carlos remarked to Fritz. "I need to get me some of that."

"After the tournament is soon enough," Fritz pleaded, but he knew he was talking to a brick wall. Hormones were better than earplugs for teenage boys.

That afternoon Carlos ran into Ambre playing video games at the University Rathskeller and took a chance. He wasn't disappointed. She was interesting and easy to talk to and was even more beautiful up close. He called her later that evening.

"Ambre, Carlos. A few of us are going to South Beach tonight. Would you care to join us?"

Ambre had been thinking of Carlos constantly and was hoping he would call. "I shouldn't, Carlos, I play at nine tomorrow."

"Me too. Don't worry, we are just going to drive around for a couple hours and do some people watching. I hear that's great entertainment on South Beach. I'll get you back early."

It was 2:15 AM when Ambre sneaked back into her room. South Beach at night was everything she thought it would be, and so was Carlos.

Coach laid awake waiting for Ambre to return. When he finally heard her sneak into the adjoining room, he relaxed slightly, but couldn't fall asleep. He wondered if Ambre was sliding back into her old habits. Ambre's behavior the last four weeks had been wonderful and she was playing the best tennis of her young life. Was this the start of something bad?

While Ambre struggled to win, Carlos easily advanced to the next round in singles and doubles. That afternoon he called her room.

"Ambre, congratulations, I see you won this morning."

"No thanks to you, Carlos, I was lucky to win. I'm beat and I still have a 3:00 doubles match."

"You'll be fine, trust me. What do you say we go over to the Beach for dinner tonight? Remember that outdoor café at the end of the strip?"

"I can't, Carlos. I really need to get some sleep tonight, and besides, Coach is really pissed at me. I think he heard me come in last night."

"Okay, I'll call you. Good luck tomorrow." Carlos wasn't used to being turned down and didn't like it. Maybe he would let her cool her heels for a while.

"Bye!" Ambre had mixed emotions. She had wanted to say yes, but didn't want to disappoint Coach. Besides, she really was tired.

It took two days to identify 17 change requests that we thought fit into the overall concept of the project and could be done at a reasonable cost. Marco's job estimator priced the changes at $4.5M, which was about 25% of our anticipated profit on the job. It took Marco a couple hours to recognize that my criteria were different than his. He started off looking at whether the change request was in the original specs that we had bid on. This was the typical criteria for most contractors.

My criteria were twofold; the change could either be done relatively easy or it would significantly enhance the overall quality of the job. For example, we added a Pirate Ship to the South end zone that would cost over $1M to build. It wasn't in the specs, but we agreed with the TSA that it would be a signature trademark for the new stadium.

Wednesday we emailed the Sports Authority a list of the change requests we had approved and requested a Friday meeting. I hoped they would be pleased.

They were ecstatic, although that didn't stop them from asking for three more changes. Marco approved two on the spot and asked for more time to study the cost impact of adding 18 more bathrooms for the ladies.

The Commissioner took me aside after the meeting. "Jim, I appreciate your help, and we know this is costing your firm big time. We will try to get you some of the money from next year's budget."

"Money is good," I answered, "but that's not why we are doing this. Marco and I want to make sure that we do a quality job for you."

"This is quite a turnaround, Jim. I would have liked to have been a fly on the wall during your meeting with Marco," he said with a knowing smile.

"Trust me, Marco is on your side" I replied. It would not do me any good to undercut Marco.

The next week Carl Lindner called and congratulated me on the work we were doing on the Tampa Stadium. Hunt was obviously monitoring the job, not surprising since they had recommended us and their reputation was on the line. The more I learned about Hunt, the more I liked them. They were a class act, the kind of company I wanted Simpson Construction to become.

Pete made it to the third round in doubles before losing to a team from California. It was Thursday and Mary and Pete agreed it was time to go home. Gregg had headed home Monday after the Pete's singles were over. "What are you thinking, Pete? Are you happy we came to Miami?"

"It was a great experience, Mom. I'm just a little down because I played pretty well and still got my butt kicked."

"You did play well, Pete. Remember, this is your first year in the 18s. You have another chance next year."

"I know, but I'm no where close to beating guys like that Spaniard. That kid is unbeatable."

Chapter 16

Pete Moves to Saddlebrook

"Pete, what do you think about a full time tennis camp?" Mary asked as we finished dinner Monday evening.

"That would be great," Lisa chimed in. "Do I get his room?" Lisa was 15 going on 25 and a pretty good tennis player in her own right, but until recently had never taken the game seriously. Soccer was her sport.

"No way, sis. I'm not giving up my room just so you have a more room to play with your dolls."

"Okay, that's enough, children. Let's get back to your mother's question. Pete, what do you think about going to a Saddlebrook or Nick Bollettieri's for a year?"

"Live there?" Pete asked. "Why couldn't I just stay here and drive out there every day? It would be a lot cheaper, wouldn't it?" Saddlebrook was only about 30 minutes north of Tampa.

"That's an option," Mary answered, "but the people we talked to don't recommend it. They feel you need to devote yourself to tennis full time if you are going to get to the next level."

"You talked to them already?"

"Pete, you remember last year when you beat that Canadian boy at the New Port Richey tournament?

"Craig; he trained at Saddlebrook, didn't he?"

"He still does, in fact. His coach, Sammy Baston, came over after that match and left us his card in case you ever wanted to give them a try. I called him Friday and your mother and I drove out there this morning. They have quite a program."

"What about school?" Pete asked. "I heard that they are pretty weak and some colleges don't give full credit for some of their classes."

"We asked about that because we had heard the same thing," Mary answered. "Their headmaster told us they had problems three years ago because a few of their teachers didn't have current teaching certificates. They corrected the problems and beefed up their program and the school. The school is now fully accredited."

"It wouldn't be easy, Petie. They play tennis for two hours in the morning, go to school from 10 to 3 and then practice tennis again from 3:30 to six. Everything revolves around tennis."

"It sounds like a drill camp," Pete responded with a frown.

"Don't they get burned out and sick of tennis?" Lisa asked. "I know I would."

"A lot of them do. Sammy said the turnover is high. They lost eight kids last year, but most of these kids are the ones that realize their game isn't good enough to compete at the next level. Some of the kids make it and these are the kids you read about that are now on the tour. A few like Hingis, Sharapova, Agassi and Sampras basically grew up in tennis camps."

"It's got to be your decision, Pete," Mary said as she sat down next to him and grabbed his hand. "Don't do it because you think we want you to, you need to want it for yourself. Okay?"

Pete was silent for almost a full minute, as he weighed his decision. It was all I could do to keep silent.

"Let's try it," Pete proclaimed in a strong voice. "Ten years from now I don't want to say that I could have made it on the pro circuit, but was afraid to take my opportunity. When do I start?"

Two weeks after his decision Pete moved into a dormitory room at Saddlebrook. It was only 15 miles from home, but it felt like 1,000 miles. Despite Lisa's pleadings, we told him his room was ready for him if he decided to come back home.

Five months later Pete lay awake wondering if he had made the right decision. Lisa had been right. Four to five hours of tennis six days a week, was boring. Worse, his tennis game wasn't getting any better.

The first couple weeks were fun as he got to know the other kids at Saddlebrook. His two roommates were okay and showed him around the grounds. This was their second year at Saddlebrook and they were well into the routine. Pete showed them a few restaurants and nightspots in Tampa and introduced them to a few girl friends from high school that they ran into in Ybor City. School was easier than the advanced classes he had taken at his old high school, but Pete didn't mind. He was usually too tired from tennis to concentrate on homework assignments.

Pete soon found his spot in the camp's pecking order and ended up on court two or three. One teaching pro was assigned to each court. There were four boys per court, placing Pete's ranking in the six-to10 range. A couple kids were clearly better, but Pete thought he could beat the rest if he played his best tennis. The problem was that he wasn't playing well, and after a few weeks was playing on court three almost every day. To make it worse, his Canadian friend, Craig, was assigned to court two after easily beating Pete in a head-to-head challenge match.

The situation came to a head two months ago when he had been called into the camp director's office after another disappointing practice. The director, Fred Liu was waiting along with the head pro, Sammy Baston, and Ron, another teaching-pro who was Pete's instructor on Court three. Pete knew immediately that something serious was up. _Was he being kicked out of Saddlebrook?_

"Pete, have a seat," Liu started. "We want to discuss your progress over the eight weeks and tell you what we can do with your game to improve. We do this with all our kids after we have had a chance to work with them a while."

Sammy knew this wasn't completely true, but thought his boss did a nice job of getting Pete to relax. It was never easy to tell these kids the truth. They came here thinking that they would be the next Roger Federer or Serena Williams, and soon found out that they didn't have the game. Pete had some promise, but he wasn't going to make it without some major changes.

Pete sat down and waited silently. _What is this about?_

"Sammy, turn on the video. Let's take a look at Pete's strokes in slow motion and tell us what you see. Ron, chip in whenever you want."

Sammy stood and grabbed the remote. "Pete, in the next hour or so, we are going to dissect every part of your game. You might not like or agree with everything we say, but please hear us out. We can talk about it after. Okay?"

"Let's get it over with," Pete replied sitting back in his chair. He had a bad feeling about this.

The video showed Pete warming up before practice. The camera focused in on his feet. "See how open your shoulders are on your forehand," Sammy lectured as he paused the video. "That results in loss of power unless you whip through the shot on your follow-through. You don't do this all the time, but when you do your forehand is inconsistent."

"I kept track of your errors in your match against Craig last week," Ron added. "I counted thirty-five unforced errors on your forehand side alone."

This one-two attack continued through every phase of Pete's game. "You're dropping the head of your racquet on your volleys, you are a step slow getting to the ball, you aren't getting your racquet back soon enough on the overheads, you don't break your wrist, you aren't getting your legs into your serve," and so it went for 70 minutes. Pete was close to tears.

Mercifully, the video finally ended and Fred Liu called a much-needed time out. "Pete, I ordered some sandwiches and cokes. Let's take a 10-minute break before we continue. I'm sure you need a few minutes to gather your thoughts. I know we were pretty rough on you. We can get your input and see what we can do about fixing some of these weaknesses when we come back."

A half-hour later Sammy Baston delivered the coup de gras and Pete found out what the meeting was all about. "Pete, we want you to convert to a one-handed backhand."

"No way," Pete shouted emotionally, "the two-hander has been my best shot since I started playing. Now you want me to drop the only shot I can depend upon. No way!" he repeated as he got up to leave.

"Hear us out Pete," Liu ordered. "Sammy, why don't you explain our reasoning?" Pete sat back and looked over at Sammy. His face was readable to everyone in the room; _I thought you were my friend._

Sammy knew that Pete wouldn't like it, but was a little taken back by his vehemence. However, he believed that the change was in Pete's best interest and continued with the message. "Pete, your two-hander is a nice shot when you get in position, no question about it. You can hit it all day without missing, and that has been enough to get you this far, but it's not enough to get you to the next level. The kids you're playing now aren't bothered by the heavy topspin. They are taking your short balls and coming to the net. You need a more aggressive shot off your backhand side."

"We also believe the grip used on the two-hander makes it difficult for you at the net," Ron chimed in. "Your volleys aren't consistent because you are forced to change your grip."

"We haven't even mentioned the fact that the two-hander causes you to be a step slow going to your left," Sammy added. "You are fast, but not fast enough to give up the half-step."

There was complete silence for a few moments as they waited for Pete's reaction. No one so much as twitched as Pete searched for a response.

"Let me sleep on it," Pete said finally. "It's too big a decision to make on the spur of the moment. I also want to talk with my mom." He made the 30-minute drive home in 20 minutes.

"Pete, what a nice surprise," his mother exclaimed as he walked in the front door. "Is there anything wrong?" she asked with a mother's intuition. "Come here and give your mother a hug."

"Not a thing is wrong, Mom," Pete said as he threw his dirty laundry on the floor, "except they just told me that my game sucks and they want me to change to a one-handed backhand. Other than that, I'm doing great."

Lisa came bouncing out of her room just in time to hear what her brother said. "Get real, don't let them do it," she said with conviction that only a fifteen-year old girl can muster. "Tell them you would rather cut off both hands. I'm serious."

Pete saw that Lisa wasn't kidding and burst out laughing, which broke the tension and got the women laughing too. It was good to be home.

"What made you such an expert in tennis?" Pete asked Lisa giving Lisa a brotherly embrace.

"Didn't you hear? I'm the club's new prodigy or something like that. I've been taking lessons from Gregg for a couple months. I could probably beat you now."

"That will be the day," Pete answered with a grin. "You wouldn't even get a game off me. What started this? What's his name?"

"She is getting pretty good. You would be surprised," Mary interjected, "and his name is Randy. Now let's get back to your problem."

Three hours later they were still at the kitchen table. Lisa had gone to bed an hour ago, her mind unchanged. Her last words were, "don't let them do this to you."

"Okay, Mom, I'll give it a try for a few months. Changing to a one-hander paid off for Sampras; maybe it will work for me. If it doesn't, I can always go back to my two-hander."

They didn't say it, but both knew that if it didn't work out, Pete's tennis career would be limited to college tennis and the satellite tour. He would need to pay his way into Roland Garros.

Now, three months later, Pete knew his game was even worse. Part of it was the switch to the new backhand, but it was more than that. The teaching pros were spending less time with him; a sure sign that they thought his future was limited. Yesterday he had been demoted to the 4th court and practiced with three fifteen year-olds. His confidence was shot.

Pete woke up this morning and resolved to give it one more shot. Next week there was a double elimination Saddlebrook tournament. This would allow him to show Sammy and the other pros that they had given up on him too soon. There were only a couple boys in camp that Pete had not beaten and he was determined to change that statistic.

Monday morning he felt ready. Pete normally went home on the weekends, but this time he stayed and practiced like never before; ten hours on Saturday and eight on Sunday. He had never hit so many backhands in his life, and he was starting to feel comfortable coming over the ball on service returns. He was hitting his volleys and overheads with authority. He looked forward to the tournament.

Pete drew his friend Craig in the first match. It was a good draw. Despite losing in a challenger match a couple months ago, Pete seemed to have Craig's number ever since he had beaten him in that New Port Richey tournament two years ago. He usually played well against Craig.

Pete started fast and jumped to a 4-1 lead before his Canadian friend slowly clawed his way into the match. He held serve easily and got the service break back when Pete was long on a backhand passing shot. The momentum of the match had turned. Craig was playing well and Pete started to lose confidence. Craig started to kick every serve in the ad-court high to Pete's backhand and follow it to the net. Pete had no answer. The ball was getting too high too allow him to come over his return with the one-hander, and left Pete trying to slice his returns low to Craig's feet. Craig easily took the volleys inside the service line and put away the weak returns.

On Pete's second serves, Craig chipped and charged to Pete's backhand side, forcing Pete to come up with passing shots. Pete's game collapsed under the pressure and his fragile confidence was gone. He lost 5-7, 1-6.

After congratulating Craig on a well-played match, Pete sat alone on the bench slumped over in despair, realizing the significance of this loss. Tears glistened in his eyes and he knew his days at Saddlebrook were numbered. Unless a miracle happened soon, Pete's was finished as a competitive tennis player.

Lost in his own thoughts, Pete was not aware that someone had walked up behind him. He turned when he heard the familiar voice.

"Hi Pete, remember me?"

Ambre had won the Orange Bowl championship. At 15, she was the youngest women's winner in the eighteen-and-under age bracket since Chris Evert in 1971. She also fell in love with America.

"Let's stay a few days, Coach," she pleaded after the match. "I want to go to Disney World. Can we? Can we?"

"Okay Ambre, you deserve it. That's the best tennis you have ever played. We can spend three days at Disney and another in day in Tampa. There is a tennis camp I would like you to visit."

Ambre had been to Disneyland Paris, but that didn't compare to the Orlando theme parks. The Magic Kingdom was great, but Epcot and MGM Studios were better and Animal Kingdom and the water park were awesome. Ambre made friends easily and met several families staying at the Disney Hotels. After the first day at Disney, her coach stayed by the hotel pool and Ambre was on her own with her new friends. She had a blast.

"Why do we have to see this tennis camp?" she asked as they were making the 70-mile drive to Tampa. "I wanted to stay another day in Orlando."

"There's a tennis camp called Saddlebrook that I want you to see," Coach replied. The Harry Hopman junior program comes highly recommended plus they get a lot of touring pros stopping here. You probably heard that Pete Sampras was at Bollettieri's when he was a kid, but after he turned pro he bought a house at Saddlebrook and played there. Let's take a look and see what they have. You might want to come here some day."

Saddlebrook Tennis center is part of a gated, residential community just North of Tampa, just East of 1-75 on Highway 54. The guard at the gate had them on his guest list and gave them a visitor's pass, brochure and directions.

"Wow, some of these homes are awesome," Coach exclaimed.

Ambre was looking at the map. "It says here that they have two eighteen-hole golf courses, three swimming pools, four restaurants, 27 clay courts, 8 hard courts and 2 grass courts. Nearby they have horseback riding and fishing. At least there is something else to do besides play tennis. This place is out in the sticks."

It's only twenty minutes from Tampa and 75 minutes from Disney World," Coach pointed out as they pulled up in front of the hotel which also housed the corporate offices.

Dick Browning, the General Manager of the entire facility, met them at the front desk and proceeded to give them a quick tour of the facility. They finished the tour at the Tennis clubhouse where they were turned over to Fred Liu, the Director of Tennis.

"Ambre, I have heard a lot about you. Congratulations on your Orange Bowl win. That's quite an accomplishment."

"Thanks," Ambre murmured politely. She was accustomed to the compliments.

"Recognize that woman playing on the second court?"

Ambre thought one of the woman on the left looked familiar, but wasn't sure until she turned their way. "That's Martina Hingis. Wow, why is she here?"

"She lives five minutes west of here in Wesley Chapel, and trains here when she is home. Right now she is getting ready to launch a comeback. Hingis hadn't played in almost three years, but she says her is almost 100% recovered from her foot injury."

_Was it a foot injury or was it the William Sisters,_ Ambre wondered to herself. She had heard the rumors that Hingis had retired because her all-court game didn't match up against the new, hard-hitting girls like Davenport and the Sisters. She sure has great groundstrokes, Ambre thought as she watched Hingis hit.

"That girl she is playing with us Conchita Perez, one of our top juniors. Giving our juniors the opportunity to play with pros like Hingis and Sampras are one of the benefits we offer at Saddlebrook. Conchita is 16 and made it to the finals of the European Championships last year. Do you know her, Ambre?"

"I heard about her, but I don't think we ever played," Ambre replied politely.

"I asked them to join you for lunch, just the three of you. Feel free to ask them anything you want. I'll warn you, Martina is our best ambassador."

"That would be great," Ambre replied with genuine interest. Hingis had always been one of her role models. "I have always wanted to meet her. Will Martina mind if I ask her about her injuries and if she is going to try a come back?"

"Not at all, in fact, while we wait for them to finish let's take a look at our training facilities. That's one on the reasons Martina likes it here."

Ambre was still watching Martina and Conchita hit. It seemed to her that Martina was ready now. She was hitting the ball hard and her movement was as good.

Three hours later they were in the car and heading to the Tampa Airport for a direct Delta Flight to Paris. "Well Ambre, what do you think?"

"I like it. Martina rides horses, plays a little golf and does a lot of things to make training fun. This will be a great place if I ever decide to come to the United States."

"Well, if it's okay with you, I enrolled you in their camp starting this summer, after you finish school. I think a change in scenery will do you good."

Five months later, Ambre was off to Saddlebrook, arriving just in time to see the last few games of Pete's first match in the Saddlebrook tournament.

Pete turned and saw this beautiful girl with the beaming smile, and his heart stopped. Had she watched the match?

"It's my cheerleader from the Orange Bowl," Pete said as he smiled up at Ambre. 'What are you doing here?" he asked lamely.

"I live here, starting today. I just got in an hour ago."

Pete's heart started pumping faster and faster and his spirits soared. Somehow he found the courage to ask her to join him for lunch.

"Sure, I'd love to. You can tell me what happened to your backhand. You had a great two-hander the last time I saw you, and now you're flailing away like you're trying to swat mosquitoes. Why did you change?"

There was no film, no slow motion, and no analysis; just a teenager's insight.

"I don't know anymore, Ambre, but I just changed back."

Chapter 17

Ambre and Pete at Saddlebrook

Pete fell in love with Ambre while picking at a ceasor salad; at least he thought it was love. He had never felt this way about a girl. She was the most fascinating person he had ever met. She made him feel important - like he could do anything.

"Pete, I saw you play and I saw your new backhand. Your problem is a lack of self-confidence, not your two-hander. Your game was good enough to beat anyone at the Orange Bowl, except maybe a couple players. You just don't play with enough confidence. You need to believe in yourself and hit out."

Pete basked in her praise and felt his self-esteem growing the more they talked. "This is a double-consolation tournament and I have a match at 3:00. Let's see if I can remember how to hit the two-hander. Will you come watch?"

"Sure, I wouldn't miss it. Its only 1:30. Let me get my racquets and meet you at the courts in 15 minutes. You need someone to help you get the feel back for the two-hander before your match. They told me I had the day off but I could use the practice. Come on, let's go," Ambre said as she jumped up from the table.

The word spread like wildfire around the camp. There was a bigger crowd for Pete's practice session than there was for any of the matches. The other kids had heard about the new girl and wanted to see for themselves. Ambre had changed into tight shorts and a sports bra and looked like a model. Pete could hear the comparisons to Kornakova and Sharipova. She also had game.

Hitting with Ambre was like practicing against a wall. Everything came back at the right pace and height. She started off giving him easy backhands while he regained the feel of his old two-hander. He barely had to move his feet. Gradually, as Pete started returning the shots consistently, he found himself moving from side to side. Ambre motioned for Pete to hit up the line, and then cross-court. Ambre returned his shots effortlessly, always seeming to be in perfect position when the ball arrived. After 30 minutes they took a break.

"The backhand looks good, Pete, I think you are ready."

Pete was beaming inside and out. "Have you missed yet, Ambre? I can't believe how consistent you are."

"I've missed a bunch, probably more than you have," Ambre answered deflecting his compliment. "Let's try a few volleys and call it quits."

Ten minutes later Pete was ready. Ambre went back to change into dry clothes, while Pete changed shirts and waited for his match. Several kids stopped over to ask Pete about Ambre, but Pete just laughed and said it was tough to be so good looking.

"Your game looks good, Pete," one of the boys commented. "Is that backhand here to stay?"

"Count on it," Pete replied.

Ambre almost missed Pete's match because of the attention the pros gave her after the practice session with Pete. It was the first time they had seen her hit, and she had been impressive. Everyone knew there was a new queen in camp. It was 3:45 when she finally got to courtside. "What's the score?" she asked.

"6-1, 30-love, Pete. He is killing him. I've never seen him play this well."

"Come-on, Pete," Ambre yelled as he put away an overhead to go up four-love.

Pete looked over and gave Ambre a quick nod and a silent thank you. He was back.

The finals were scheduled for 3:00 PM Friday and the stadium court was packed. Martina Hingis and several other players from the pro tour were there, but Pete only had eyes for Ambre. She had missed two of his matches because of her own practice schedule, but left no doubt with her instructors that she would be there for this one. Pete had never beaten Jose, a seventeen year-old Argentinean, but everyone knew that Pete was playing his best tennis. It promised to be a great match.

Pete had breezed through the consolation bracket without losing a set, and avenged his first-round loss to Craig, 6-2, 6-3. The same tactics that had worked so well Monday had no impact on Pete in the second match. Kicking serves high to Pete's backhand were like feeding a cannon. Pete's two-handed backhand allowed him to get on top of the ball and rip service-return winners at will. More important, Pete was moving extremely well and hitting out with confidence on big points. Fred Liu and Sammy Baston watched in awe and wondered what had happened to Pete, but all the kids knew. Her name was Ambre.

Pete had invited Mary and me to the finals, but only told us he was playing an important match. We didn't need any details for us to rearrange our schedules. I wondered if this would be the last time to watch Pete play competitively. We were surprised at the large crowd and even more surprised when we learned that Petie was playing for the championship. We arrived during warm-ups and were rewarded with a big smile and wave. Moments later we got another surprise. Pete had not mentioned he had changed back to the two-hander.

The first set was even at three-all when Pete got his first break point opportunity, and ripped a backhand winner up the line off a 2nd serve. It sent a message. "Don't come at me with that 85-mile junk." Pete played nearly flawless tennis and went on to win 6-3, 6-3. Most of the crowd seemed to be solidly behind Pete, particularly a young girl that continually yelled encouragement to Pete on big points.

Mary and I were stunned. We had spoken to Pete often and knew that he was close to throwing in the towel. Pete had just asked them to come and watch a match and had neglected to mention the importance of the match and that he was using his old backhand. "Wow," Mary exclaimed, "he has never played this well. What happened?"

"I agree. It's not just the two-hander. He is much more aggressive than I've ever seen him before. Something happened to him in the last couple weeks."

They received their first clue when the young girl jumped into Pete's arms after the match and gave him a long hug. She looked familiar but I couldn't place her. They waited as Pete accepted congratulations from the staff and other players.

"Here he comes, Mary, and he's bringing that girl. Doesn't she look familiar to you?"

"Yes, I can't place her, but she sure is beautiful. I think we know what's behind Pete's improvement."

"Mom, Dad, this is my special friend, Ambre."

"Ambre, what a beautiful name," Mary said giving her a warm hug.

As I shook Ambre's hand it came to me where I had seen her before. "You were at the Orange Bowl, cheering for Pete that day he won the qualifier, weren't you?"

"That was me, I'm his number one cheerleader," Ambre replied with a smile at Pete.

"You played the Orange Bowl, didn't you? How did you do?" I knew I had asked a dumb question as soon as the words were out of my mouth, but I didn't know why.

"Daaad, she won the 18's and is ranked #2 in the world. Excuse him, Ambre, but he had to leave early that week on business."

"That's okay," Ambre said. "No big deal."

"Well, Pete. If you had played the way you did today you would have won it too," I replied changing the direction of the conversation. "You were awesome. Your Mother and I are really proud of you."

"Thanks Dad. Ambre got me to believe in myself again and that made all the difference."

"And the two-hander?" Mary asked, looking directly at Ambre. "Was that your idea too?"

"I saw him play for five minutes and couldn't believe the difference in his game since I saw him in Miami. He wasn't the same player. They destroyed his self-image when they changed his backhand. Pete didn't believe in himself anymore."

Mary and I looked at each other in disbelief. How can I fifteen-year old girl have such insight into their son, I thought? In ten minutes she had diagnosed and fixed something that we had been agonizing over for months. Pete had put his trust in her and it had paid off. It didn't hurt that she was young, beautiful and a great tennis player.

Mary looked at her son who was watching Ambre as she spoke. She realized that their relationship was changing and that Pete had left the nest. It was inevitable, but sad.

"I'm so happy for you," she cried as she hugged her son.

"Ambre, thank you so much for helping Pete," she smiled as they embraced.

"Dinner anyone?" I asked. "We would be happy to treat you to pizza or something to celebrate."

"No thanks, Dad. There is a small party in the clubhouse tonight and I told them we would go. Maybe next week."

"What party?" Ambre asked as they walked away.

We were financing deals all around the world and we had more construction projects than we could handle. Our equipment leasing business was doing $2M per month with an average commission of 3.5%. The commissions on commercial mortgages averaged only 1.5%, but the average size of our commercial deals was $18M. We closed 43 deals in the first quarter.

The weekly staff meetings were fun and usually over in less than an hour. Ken was back and almost fully recovered from his Mexico City injuries. His romance with Chris was going strong and they were planning a September, or November, or December wedding. The guys in the office had a pool going with "never" being the most popular choice. I disagreed, but who knows with Ken. Chris was still traveling a lot, which made things more difficult, particularly with the travel that Ken was doing.

"Ken, give us a quick update on the projects you are working on and tell these folks about our latest venture." Ken was coordinating the funding of international projects and had hired three brokers that reported directly to him.

"In a nutshell, we have more projects than we can handle. We received 12 new requests for funding last week. Five I rejected out of hand as a waste of time, but the other seven look decent. There are two real estate development projects that are interesting. One is a mixed use Resort Development in San Miguel, Mexico. It's on 30 acres on a lake 6,000' up in the Sierra Madre Mountains; golf course, 150-suite boutique hotel, 1,000 home sites, equestrian center and the works. I need to go there."

"I gather Chris is working in Mexico," Sally commented with a wink.

"Don't forget to wear your bullet-proof vest," Tom suggested. "Your last visit to Mexico wasn't too pleasant as I recall."

I interrupted the kidding before it got out of hand. I could see Ken was just waiting to respond. "Ken, get to the point. Tell them about Paris."

"Can't I tell these doubters how I threw my body in front of you and probably saved your life? I took one for the team and all I get is heckling from the uneducated masses."

"Ken, we don't have time for this," I said with more than a little exasperation.

"Okay, but I'll get my revenge when they visit our new offices in Paris and try to write their vacations off as a business trip. The IRS will be notified immediately."

"Paris," Roger exclaimed. "Are we going international? What led to this?"

I spoke up before Ken could answer. "Since Ken is determined to keep us here all morning, let me explain our thinking. The opportunities in Europe are unlimited for someone with reliable funding sources and the ability to separate the chaff from the corn. There are a lot of bogus projects and scams over there, much more than here in the U.S. We felt it would be to our advantage to be closer to the large European banks and have someone over there that can do site inspections and due diligence."

"Ken, when do I transfer?" one of Roger's mortgage brokers asked.

"Don't hold your breath, Earl," Ken retorted. "We hired a local guy who is going to run the office. For now it will be just Pierre and an assistant. We are considering an office in Tuxtla Gutierrez, Mexico if you are interested."

"No thanks; I think I'll take a pass on whatever that city you just mentioned. I'll wait for Paris to open up."

"Actually, there is some truth to what Ken said. We are considering an office in Mexico or somewhere in that region, Maybe Puerta Vallarta. As Ken said, there are a lot of opportunities in Central and South America. Let's see how the Paris office works out."

"Marco, would you like to add anything?"

"Sure, Jim. As you know, the Tampa Raymond James Stadium is almost finished. All we need to do is finish the Pirate Ship and the landscaping. The Sports Authority is pleased with our work and is giving us glowing references. We recently started two new jobs in the Midwest and have bid on several other large projects. Yesterday afternoon we were awarded the Boston Fenway Park renovation. That's about it. Everything is going well."

"Thanks, Marco. I might just add that Marco has also received several RFP's for European jobs. Marco will probably need to open a second office in Europe if we get any of them."

"Any questions? If not, let's get back to work. Someone needs to pay for Ken's travel expenses."

"Jim, you have a call from Dick Browning."

"What did Pete do now?" I wondered as I picked up the phone. Dick Browning was the top man at Saddlebrook and presided over the hotel, golf, banquet facilities as well as tennis. We had spoken several times at Saddlebrook, but he had never called me at work. I had spoken with Pete over the weekend and everything seemed to be fine. Still, I was a little concerned.

"Dick, it's good to hear from you; to what do I owe this pleasure? Is there anything wrong?"

"No, nothings wrong Jim. In fact, everything I hear about Pete is that he is doing great both on and off the court."

I smiled at his reference to Pete's romance with Ambre.

"I called to ask if you could find the time to come out here this afternoon. My owners are in from Chicago and have a business proposition that they would like to discuss with you."

What can this be about? I thought. "I have a meeting at 3:00 but I could be there by 5:00 or so. Is that too late, Dick?"

"That will be fine, Jim. I suggest you bring a sharp pencil. They are on a fast-track and are ready to talk numbers. I think you will like what they have in mind."

"You have piqued my interest, Dick. I'll see you around 5:00."

The 5 o'clock meeting turned into a dinner meeting at Saddlebrook's Dempsey's Steak House and it was 11:00 PM before I finally headed home. I called Mary and asked her to wait up for me.

"Okay, what's your big surprise?" she asked as I stumbled slightly coming in the door. I hope you finished your negotiations before you finished the bottle of wine." Mary could tell by the grin on my face and the big hug I was giving her that I was a little too happy.

"Well, almost. I'll find out tomorrow if we can do what I promised. I think we concluded our business before we ordered the cognac."

"Okay, let's have it. I'm starting to worry."

"No need, honey. I just signed an agreement to build an indoor tennis and training facility at Saddlebrook. The only catch is that we need to complete it by June 15th."

"That's wonderful, but why June 15th? That's pretty fast, isn't it?"

"It sure is and I'm sure Marco will raise the roof when he hears about it, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to help them out. The Women's Tennis Association promised them a spot on their calendar if they could have a new facility built in time. They needed a guarantee from a reputable construction company that the new stadium would be completed in time or they would lose the opportunity. I gave them the guarantee."

"I hope you know what you are doing. Shouldn't you have gotten Marco's input on this before you committed?"

"Don't worry, I know what I'm doing. I married you, didn't I?"

"It does sound exciting," Mary agreed as she relaxed and embraced me warmly.

"Then let's celebrate," I suggested as I led her to the bedroom.

Chapter 18

Thanksgiving Dinner

Pete was never happier than he was the next six months. Winning the intra-club tournament gave him the confidence he had been lacking and his tennis jumped to the next level. Proving his victory was no fluke, he started to dominate his peers and quickly moved up to the #1 court There was no one at Saddlebrook that could beat him and only a few could give him a good match. Pete looked forward to playing the pros that visited Saddlebrook for rehab or to take a break from the week-to-week grind of the pro tour. Ambre was a constant companion and the light of his life.

More and more Pete practiced with Ambre. His service game was too strong for Ambre to beat him in a head-to-head match, but their groundstrokes were almost equal. Take away the serves, and they were evenly matched. More importantly, Ambre had the knack of working on the area of his game that needed improvement. Conversely, Pete gave her the pace she needed to prepare for the big girls on tour. It no longer was just the Sisters and Davenport that were bashing the ball, it was the teenagers from Eastern Europe with names ending in "ova" or "eva". Martina joined the drills once a week in preparation for her scheduled comeback.

Ironically, some of Pete's success could be traced back to the ill-fated experiment with the one-handed background. The experiment had been a disaster, but there were residual benefits. His court coverage had improved tremendously, mostly because of the work he put in on conditioning and footwork drills, but part of his success was a result of using the one-hander when stretched wide to his left. He now had the ability to come over the ball and hit passing shots rather than simply slicing the return.

Another difference was Pete's sliced approach on short balls. The one-handed sliced approach allowed him to knife his approach shots. The ball stayed low and forced his opponents to hit up as he took the net. The two-hander created more topspin resulting in a high bounce and an easier passing shot for his opponent. That's one reason why many players with only a two-handed backhand are reluctant to come to the net.

Pete's improved tennis was only half the reason for his happiness, the smaller half. His relationship with Ambre soared. He had never been happier than he was when they were together. He dreaded the weekends when one of them played an out of town tournament.

"Ambre, what are you doing Thanksgiving?" Pete asked one evening while they were sitting at a restaurant in north Tampa. "Do you have a tournament that weekend?"

"I don't think so. What do you have in mind?"

"I was hoping you would come home with me for the holiday weekend and join us for Thanksgiving dinner. We could hang out with my family and maybe play a little tennis at our club if we feel like it. It's going to be pretty dead at Saddlebrook."

"Sure, that sounds like fun. It's a date. Do I get a separate room?" she asked with a coy smile.

Pete blushed, despite himself. It had been six weeks since their first night together, but he still had trouble talking about sex. Ambre was not nearly as inhibited and usually was the aggressor. It must be her European background, he thought. Europeans didn't have the same Catholic hangups about sex that Americans did.

"Don't even think about it," Pete replied. "I couldn't, not in my parent's house."

"We'll see," Ambre said with a twinkle in her eye.

Groundbreaking for the new Saddlebrook Sports complex was scheduled for September 1st. The land was cleared and we were ready to start construction. It had been a hectic three months.

Marco was all right with the construction schedule as soon as he learned that Saddlebrook had already secured most of the required building permits and the Pasco County building commission had approved the site plan. It had taken only six weeks to review and modify the rough drawings and develop the final architectural plans thanks to a new computerized CAD system that cost over $125,000.

Marco had nine months to complete the project, more than enough time we told him.

"I promise you I will kill the next person that tells me what else you can do in nine months," Marco said without humor.

Thanksgiving came around sooner than Pete expected. He had just returned from the National Clay Court Championships where he had lost in the semifinals to the top ranked junior in the United States. Pete had served for the second set at 5-4 but had missed two easy volleys and was broken. He eventually lost the tiebreaker and the match. Still, it was a good showing. His Florida ranking had risen to number three and he was ranked #22 nationally, more than enough to get a full tennis scholarship to almost any school.

Ambre returned Monday after competing in the U. S. Open in Flushing Meadows, New York. She had received a wild card into the main draw as a result of her win at the Orange Bowl. She won her first round match in straight sets before losing in a televised match to the thirteenth seed. Her game was almost there. She was ranked number two in the world juniors, 18 and under. Ambre had just turned 16.

Saddlebrook was almost a ghost town by the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Most of the kids were already heading home including half the Europeans. Those not going home were invited to spend the weekend with a friend or coach. All were accounted for.

Ambre had spent so much time traveling to tournaments that she had three makeup exams to take before the holiday, the last one a 9 AM Chemistry exam Wednesday morning. Her roommates left Tuesday, making it an ideal study environment. About 10 PM Ambre called and asked Pete to come over and quiz her on the elements. Pete quickly learned that Ambre was the teacher and he was the willing student. It wasn't the first time they had made love, but it was the best. In fact, it was also the 2nd, third and fourth best. Pete had never met anyone that was so open about sex. It was almost 8:30 AM when Pete woke up the next morning with his arms still holding Ambre. "Wake up; you'll be late for your exam."

"We still have time, Pete. Besides, I wouldn't want to miss the test after all the studying we did last night. Let's take a shower."

"No, get your pretty little butt moving. You need to pack so we can leave right after. I want to get home for lunch. Get moving."

"It's your fault. If you weren't so good in bed I would be ready," Ambre whimpered as she kissed him gently before heading to the shower. Pete lay back in bed and thought how lucky he was.

"This is it Ambre, we are home," Pete said pointing to the four-bedroom ranch home that he had lived in since his parents had moved down from Wisconsin eight years ago.

"It's beautiful, Pete. I like it. It's just like you told me."

"Mom, Dad, is anyone home?" Pete called as they entered the house. "Where is everybody?"

There was a note on the refrigerator; "Pete & Ambre, make yourself at home. We're at work - should be home by five - Lisa; tennis practice after school - sandwiches in the frig - Love you!"

"Let's put our stuff away and I'll show you around." The ranch house was a split plan with the master bedroom on one side and the three bedrooms on the other including the guest room where Ambre would stay. A fifth bedroom had been converted to an office.

"Why can't I sleep with you?" Ambre asked as she pressed her hips against him.

"Don't even think about it," Pete replied too quickly as he pulled back quickly before Ambre could feel the reaction she had caused. Come on, I'll show you the back. In fact, let's get some lunch and eat out by the pool."

"This is so peaceful," Ambre commented as they looked out on the golf course and the large rose garden. "It's so private." It was indeed private. The house was U-shaped with the bedrooms sheltering the neighbors on either side and waist high hedges provided privacy from the golf course.

"I like to sit outside and read," Pete answered as he laid back on the chaise lounge, remembering the times he had spent out on the pool deck with his parents and sister. Still tired from last night and content from lunch, Pete was starting to nod off. The 78-degree temperature didn't help. He must have dozed for a few minutes because he was startled by the loud splash.

Ambre apparently had other ideas about how to spend the afternoon. Pete jumped up in time to see Ambre come to the surface, her nipples erect from the cool, November water. She was obviously naked. "Come on in, the water's great."

Pete hesitated for only a moment before he threw off his clothes and jumped into the water, trying to hide his growing erection. Pete swam to Ambre and lifted her out of the water and held her against him while she purred in contentment.

Fifteen minutes later Ambre was astride him on the lounge cushions that they had pulled down onto the pool deck. Pete wasn't sure why, but his first afternoon delight was even better than last night; or this morning. It might have been the outdoors or the risk of making love in the house he grew up in, but Pete was in heaven although he didn't think heaven would be this loud.

Lisa had been looking forward to this weekend for two months, ever since Pete had told her he was bringing Ambre home over Thanksgiving weekend. Lisa was now ranked #14 in the State 16s and was eager to match her game against Ambre's. They were approximately the same age and Lisa reasoned that there couldn't be that much difference in their games. Pete had cautioned her that Ambre was very good, but Lisa was confident.

School was over at noon and coach had canceled practice. Lisa couldn't wait to get home and was happy to see Pete's car in the driveway. "Pete, I'm home," Lisa called as she came in the front door and into the kitchen. "Where are you?" she called.

Lisa heard noises and a loud shriek that seemed to come from the swimming pool area. Alarmed, Lisa ran onto the patio just as Pete and Ambre were simultaneously reaching utopia. Lisa, a virgin, couldn't believe the noises that she heard and the ferociousness that this girl was pounding down on her brother. Lisa was shocked, but seemed rooted to the ground. Her feet wouldn't move as she stared into Ambre's eyes.

Ambre looked up and saw Lisa standing, mouth agape. Ambre smiled, and redoubled her efforts and noise level. She was obviously enjoying the attention. Pete was oblivious to everything, lost in his own pleasure. His groans were matching Ambre's causing a four-some on the golf course to stop and look over at the unseen lovers.

After what seemed minutes, but was probably only 30-45 seconds, Lisa broke the spell and screamed, "Stop it, this is my house too," and ran back into the house.

Pete immediately sensed what had happened and tried to get up despite Ambre's attempts to prolong her pleasure. She was still turned on by the audience as well as Pete. "Ambre, get off, that was Lisa, wasn't it? Did she see us?"

"See us!" Ambre laughed. "She has been watching for the last 10 minutes" Ambre exaggerated.

"Get dressed, this isn't funny," Pete said in anger as he hurriedly slipped into his clothes. "I need to go talk to her."

"You had better do something about that bulge or she won't be able to concentrate on what you are saying," Ambre kidded.

"This isn't funny, Ambre," Pete said angrily.

Ambre realized Pete was done kidding and began to slip into her clothes, but not before she provocatively rubbed her hand over her still naked breasts and mouthed a silent "thank you" to Pete. His look told her that he was still mad, but she was forgiven.

Ten minutes later Pete came back outside where Ambre had dressed and straightened up the cushions. "Is she okay?"

"I'm not sure. She says it's no big deal, but she wouldn't let me into her bedroom. It's tough talking through a closed door."

"She'll get over it, just give her time. Your little sister probably didn't realize the meaning of big-brother until today."

Lisa was still in her room when Mary and I got home at 4:00, and begged off going to Chili's for dinner despite our pleas. "Let her stay home," Mary suggested, "it wouldn't be any fun for her with an upset stomach."

Mary's family tradition was to serve Thanksgiving dinner mid-afternoon, a tradition we normally continued. This year we pushed it back to 5 PM because all the kids slept until almost 11 and didn't finish breakfast until noon. Pete and Ambre were hungry and did justice to the waffles, fried eggs and sausage. Lisa was feeling a little better but just picked at her food before going back to her room. Dinner was more of the same, Lisa was still out-of-sorts and contributed little to the dinner conversation. It was obvious that something was bothering her.

"What's wrong with Lisa?" I asked Mary. "There seems to be some friction going on between her and Ambre, don't you think?"

"Something is going on, but I don't know what. Pete said nothing happened yesterday although I'm not sure."

"Well, let them work it out. They are supposed to hit Saturday morning and I know Lisa has been looking forward to that for some time. Maybe tennis will help break the ice?"

"I just hope Lisa doesn't think she can beat her," Mary replied. "She will be in for a rude awakening."

Saturday's tennis started on a light note with a doubles match; Pete and Lisa took on Mary and Ambre. I was watching from the clubhouse and it was apparent that Pete and Ambre were holding back while Mary and Lisa were playing all out. Pete was content with spinning his serves to his mother, and only occasionally going for a hard first serve against Ambre. He managed to ace her once out wide, but the other times the return came back hard and low to his feet. The second time Pete netted the volley and drew a "is that all you got?" dig from Ambre. The temperature was starting to rise.

Mary was serving to Pete at 30-40, 4-5 in the second set when it happened. Pete rifled a backhand up the line, which Ambre just managed to get a racquet on, popping the ball straight up and barely over the net. Lisa reacted quickly; "mine," she shouted as she closed in for the easy overhead. I couldn't tell whether it was intentional or not, but Lisa's overhead was struck solidly and caught Ambre directly in the chest from point blank range. The sound of the ball smacking into her chest was sickening. As Ambre fell to the ground people came running from all directions. Mary was the first to reach her and was holding Ambre upright as Pete hurdled across the net. "Are you okay?" Pete asked.

"Wow, if this is a friendly game, I hate to play with you guys when you get competitive."

"I'm sorry, Ambre" Lisa said unconvincingly. "I wasn't trying to hit you; I was just trying to close the net before the ball got too low. I'm sorry."

Ambre was struggling to her feet massaging a bruise below her left shoulder. "No problem," Ambre replied, "I've been hit a lot harder; I'll be fine."

"Why don't you take a break so you can check out your shoulder," I suggested. "Let's put some ice on it."

"No, that's okay Mr. Simpson. I don't need a break. Besides, I thought Lisa wanted to hit a little bit with me this weekend. What do you say, Lisa, do you want to play a set?"

It sounded innocent, but something told me that this wasn't an idle request. I glanced at Mary and could tell she too, was apprehensive. Even Pete seemed to guess that something else was going on here and suggested we go inside. If Lisa knew, she didn't let on. "Sure, Ambre, that would be fun."

In hindsight, I should never have let them play. My instincts told me that, but I didn't listen. It was the longest, most agonizing set of tennis that I ever witnessed. The set only took 20 minutes, but it seemed to go on forever as we watched our daughter get crushed by a more talented and spiteful girl. It was humiliating. Lisa was completely dominated in every aspect of the game. She managed only two points in the six games, one a double fault when Ambre tried to ace her on set point. Even Pete was embarrassed. The girls smiled and shook hands when the set was over but there was no warmth.

Mary later said that sometimes a parent can't do anything but watch, and this was certainly one of those times. "I feel sorry for Pete," she said to me as we lay in bed. "He is obviously smitten by this girl and it must have been difficult to watch what she did to Lisa."

"It wasn't just getting hit with the overhead," I offered. "There has been something going on between the two all weekend. They obviously don't like each other."

"I'll say this for her, she sure can play tennis. I just hope Pete is smart enough to see the anger in her and not just the pretty face and gorgeous figure. There was no excuse for what she did to Lisa today."

"I just hope it doesn't destroy Lisa's desire to play tennis. I think she has a good future if she applies herself. Maybe she isn't as good as Ambre, but she could be a pretty good college player."

"We'll see," Mary replied thoughtfully. "Lisa has only been playing competitively less than a year. She might surprise you."

Chapter 19

Carlos Comes to Saddlebrook

Carlos was 17 and ranked the #1 junior player in Spain and #3 worldwide. He has just returned from the European Championships where he lost in the finals. Carlos was up a set and a break when he pulled a hamstring. He continued playing, but was obviously slowed by the injury, eventually losing; 3-6, 6-4, 6-1. He was now looking at a four to six week rehab.

"Sergio, I hate to lose this kid, but he needs to get in better shape and he needs better competition in than we have here if he is going to continue to improve. He is starting to develop bad habits because everything is so easy."

"You're right, Fritz. He isn't quite ready to turn pro, but he is close. He will get some great competition at Wimbleton and the French Open junior tournaments."

"That's good, Sergio, but I was thinking of going a step farther. What would you think of sending him to the United States and let him train in Florida or California?"

"You mean something like Bollettieri's tennis academy in Florida? That guy is a prima donna."

"What do you think about Saddlebrook Tennis Resort in Tampa, Florida? Martina lives near there and raves about it and a lot of the pros train there. They have also have a great rehab center and sports psychologist, Jim Lenoir. This is exactly what Carlos needs right now. He has the game, but he needs to get in better shape and be tougher mentally to move to the next level. If nothing else, it would be a nice change of scenery for Carlos."

"I gather you have looked into this already," Sergio said with a shrug. "Have you mentioned it to Carlos?"

Fritz smiled, "He's ready to go. All we need is your say so."

"You were right before when you said it would be a shame to lose him, there won't be another like him in my lifetime. But, it's time. He can go on one condition, you go with him."

Carlos and Fritz were off to Saddlebrook.

Construction of the Saddlebrook indoor stadium was proceeding at breakneck speed and was on pace for the June grand opening. The WTA had scheduled their event for July and had requested a $500,000 non-refundable deposit from tournament sponsors. The pressure was on.

The main stadium would house four indoor courts with retractable stands that would seat 6,000 for the stadium court and 500-1,000 for each of the outer courts. The original concept called for a retractable roof but this notion was vetoed due to costs and time constraints. A visit to Milwaukee's Miller Park was enough to convince everybody of the potential problems and delays that could occur. The Milwaukee Brewer organization was continuing to have leakage and mechanical breakdowns two years after the park opened.

The plans also were modified and enhanced to include a 10,000 square foot spa and fitness center located on property just outside the Saddlebrook complex. The upscale facility would include an indoor basketball court, a 50-yard football field, exercise center and 1st class Spa and fitness center. Named "Sports and Field," it featured a private entrance and workout facility for "professional athletes," obviously trying to appeal to the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Lightning, Devil Rays and NY Yankees who had their spring training facility in Tampa.

Sports and Field was scheduled to open in March. Simpson Construction was the general contractor and retained overall control and responsibility although most of the work was sub-contracted to another construction company. Separating the two projects made it possible to achieve our deadline and also made it easier for non-Saddlebrook residents from the fast growing area known as New Tampa to have access to the training facility.

Marco gave the following report at a December staff meeting. "Jim, I don't want to jinx us, but it looks like we are a couple weeks ahead of schedule on both projects. The indoor stadium should be ready by mid June."

"That's fantastic, Marco. I was going to offer your team a nice incentive bonus if we meet our schedule, but I guess that won't be necessary."

"A lot can happen between now and then," Marco replied with a grimace. "I should have kept my mouth shut."

Marco wasn't worried. He knew that there was a bonus coming if they met the deadline. He knew me well enough to know this was my way of telling him. The others in the room knew it too although it didn't stop them from telling Marco how he screwed up.

Carlos and Fritz took a two-bedroom suite overlooking the ninth green of the Arnold Palmer golf course, about 500 yards and $300 per night away from the motel-like dormitory rooms where Pete and the other players stayed. The suite was courtesy of the Spanish Tennis Federation and supposedly justified by its proximity to the Spa and Fitness Center that Carlos needed to rehabilitate his leg.

Shawn Foster, the new head tennis pro that had replaced Fred Liu, met them in the lobby. "Go ahead and unpack and then let me show you around. How about meeting down here in an hour; dress casual because we will be riding around in a golf cart."

Shawn started with the guest facilities around the hotel including the spa and fitness center, outdoor swimming pools and restaurants. "Do either of you play golf?" Shawn asked. "There are two nice golf courses that are available to the tennis members during certain times of the day based upon availability. Guests obviously have priority."

"Why is that?" asked Carlos with a straight face.

"I assume because they pay the bills," Shawn answered, not sure if Carlos was kidding. Let's take a ride down to the tennis courts. The kids should be out of school and into their afternoon practice session."

Carlos looked at Fritz; "school, you have got to be kidding."

"Not to worry, Carlos, although I did sign you up for a Berlitz English class. I figure that might come in useful to learn conversational English and idioms."

"Stop here," Carlos yelled as he jumped out of the cart. He had spotted something or someone on the courts.

"That's Ambre," Shawn said when he figured out what Carlos was looking at. "She's the top ranked junior in the world."

"I know who she is," Carlos replied dismissively. "I think I'm going to like it here," he said as he sauntered over to the court.

Ambre noticed the commotion but tried to concentrate. She was at the net volleying against two girls that were drilling groundstrokes at her. After a few minutes, she rotated to the other side of the net she glanced over to see who was watching, and recognized Carlos immediately. "Well, if it isn't DQ himself" she said with a smile, referring to the first time they had met in Paris when Carlos had been disqualified for missing his semi final match. "To what do we owe this honor?"

Carlos was thinking that she looked even better than she did at the Orange Bowl last December. "I heard that you missed me and wanted to take me to dinner tonight," Carlos replied with a smile that made Ambre's heart flicker. "Do we have a date?"

Pete heard about it the next day, and the day after, and the day after. Everyone wanted to tell him the bad news and gauge his reaction. Ambre was the only one that wouldn't talk about it. "It's none of your business, Pete. I can see who I want. Besides, Carlos and I are old friends."

"But I thought we were kind of going together," Pete argued, feeling a little encouraged. "I thought we were having a pretty good time together, I know, I was. Let's go out for a pizza Friday night and talk about it."

"I can't, Pete. I already have plans for the weekend. We probably need a break from each other anyway."

Pete was beginning to see the handwriting on the wall, but tried to give it one more shot. "Ambre, I love you," Pete pleaded, but knew it was a mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. He had opened himself and ruined any chance he still had to get her back. Ambre didn't let him off easily.

"Grow up, Pete," Ambre retorted as she rolled her eyes and walked away.

Chapter 20

Another Orange Bowl

Carlos spent four weeks at Saddlebrook rehabilitating his injury at the Etcheberry Sports Performance Center and dating Ambre. Although he was a quick healer, a pulled groin muscle is a difficult injury for an athlete to overcome because there is little that can be done. Daily massages and heat treatments accelerate the healing process somewhat, but time and rest are the only cures. After a week the pain was gone and Carlos was felt he was ready to start practicing although he still had trouble pushing off from his right leg.

Carlos began hitting twice a day with Fritz and feeling pretty good. His leg was still weak from inactivity, but the groin injury was almost healed. Carlos used the time to work on his serve, which was good, but not great. Carlos never needed a big serve to win in the juniors, the rest of his game was that good. Heavy, topspin serves created enough short returns in the juniors that he never needed a flat serve. His groundstrokes were so powerful that any return that landed near the service line was dead meat. Carlos was on it like a vulture, taking the short ball on the rise and powering the weak return for a winner. The problem at the pro level was that Carlos would see few weak replies from his opponent.

European and South American clay court players don't work on developing a fast serve as juniors because the risk-reward isn't there. A 120 MPH serve on a fast hard court will stay low and skid through the court, making the serve appear even faster. On clay, a 120 MPH serve sits up making it appear 10-15 MPH slower. Opponents can return from deep behind the baseline and still have time to cover serves out wide. Clay courts in the United States are mostly Har-Tru, a synthetic man-made crushed rubber that American's call clay. It isn't. Har-Tru is slower than fast courts but much quicker than the red clay used in South America and Europe. It rewards hard, fast serves and explains why Americans such as Andy Roddick and James Blake developed better serves than their European counterparts.

Carlos serve wasn't bad, but wasn't the weapon he would need to get to the top level of pro tennis; particularly on hard courts. He typically had a first service percentage in the upper sixties but this was misleading. He normally spun his first serve in at about 105-110 MPH and would occasionally try a flat serve that would reach 120 MPH. At the pro level, 120 MPH is average and generates errors only when it hugs the lines.

"Legs!" Fritz admonished. "Get your legs into it, push up through the serve; reach for it!"

"Easy for you to say," Carlos laughed. "You're not the one with the pulled hamstring." It was good-natured banter, but Fritz knew that this was Carlos' way of showing frustration. Carlos knew he needed to improve and his lack of progress bothered him. Everything had come so easy for him. Thirty minutes later they took a break.

Pete was working with two other boys on a one-against-two drill designed to improve groundstrokes and footwork. It was Pete's turn to face the others. With two opponents it was as much a conditioning drill as it was a stroke drill, particularly when there was so much at stake. The player with the longest consecutive streak won a coke from the boy with the fewest. Pete was in third place and needed 15 to take 2nd place and 22 in a row to win. When he reached 10 his opponents started to hit harder and wider; by 18 they were drilling their shots into the corners. Pete reached 24 before missing and raised his arms in victory.

Fritz and Carlos were watching with interest. "That kid moves pretty well and has some nice shots. He is the only one out here with any potential. Why don't you see if he wants to play a set? It would do you good to test your hamstring a little. Just don't overdo it."

" _Why not?" Carlos thought. "I've beaten him at everything else."_

"Hey, can I take on the winner?" Carlos asked as he walked over to Pete's court. "Care to play?"

Pete had mixed emotions. Carlos had kept pretty much to himself since he arrived and their paths had not crossed. While Pete was playing tennis, Carlos was rehabbing his leg or practicing with his coach. There had been no occasion to talk, which had suited Pete just fine. Ambre was still in the forefront of his thoughts. Seeing Carlos brought his emotions to the surface. On the other hand, it would be a great experience to match his game against one of the world's best, even if he was coming off an injury.

"Sure, why not. Just one set though, I need to collect on my winnings from these two guys. Go ahead and serve."

Fritz watched from the sidelines along with the two boys that Pete had practiced with. They soon realized that this was no friendly game between two boys, and soon the crowd had grown to more than twenty as play on the surrounding courts stopped. Fritz was pleased at how well Carlos was playing after his long layoff. He was rusty, but the injury didn't seem to bother him. Maybe they could play the Australian Open next month?

Pete also got what he wanted. Maybe Carlos was rusty, and maybe his leg was bothering him, but it didn't diminish how it felt to break Carlos at five-all and hold serve for a 7-5 victory. The win felt good for many reasons.

This was the first weekly staff meeting in over a month. Holiday travel mixed with vacations made it difficult to get everyone together, particularly since we opened our office in Paris. Ken's new broker, Charles Cleveite, was doing an excellent job in developing new business throughout Western Europe.

"Marco, start us off. How are we doing at Saddlebrook?"

"We are two weeks ahead of schedule and pretty close to our cost estimates. The roof installation is complete and the audio contractor is installing the sound system. Wednesday we test the underground watering system for the clay courts. Friday we begin laying the hard courts."

"What are they," Jerry asked, "clay or hard courts? Make up your mind."

"Two of each" Marco replied with a grin. "Actually, all four are rubber. The clay courts are a synthetic rubber called har-tru while the two hard courts are actually a 60% rubber composition."

"Okay, that's enough of that," I interjected. "How is the Sports & Field training center coming along?"

"The inside is almost complete. The basketball court is done. All they really have left is the grading of the football field, plus a lot of landscaping and touch-up."

"How does it look inside?" Sally asked. "I hear it's plush."

"It will be. The private locker room and sauna for the pros are just awesome, and the facilities for the peons aren't bad either. The basketball court is full-size and the 2nd floor aerobics room is huge. Their grand opening is set for Labor Day and all of us are invited."

"Thanks Marco. Ken, what's going on in Europe?"

"We just started our first job, a $75M Renovation of a local sports stadium in Lyon. It's a small job, but it's a start. Cleveite also has four bids outstanding, including an $800M urban development project in Brussels and a $300M waste water treatment plant in Munich."

"What do we know about waste water treatment?" Tony asked.

"Not a hell of a lot Tony, but we are joint-venturing with a civil engineering firm with a ton of experience. We offer project management and financing. It's a good partnership and appeals to government municipalities that need something done, but don't have the money in their budget. It was a referral from a job we financed a couple years in South Africa."

"If they are broke, how do we get paid?" Tony persevered.

"Not having money in their budget does not mean a municipality is broke. The key is to provide them off balance sheet financing. They have the cash flow to pay our fees, but can't get the project approved as a capital expenditure until the next budget process. They pay us out of discretionary funds. It's a game that all governments play, even in the United States."

"And who provides the financing?"

"Good question. That's where Sven and his group come in, but even they won't make an unsecured loan. We usually offer some type of credit enhancement. Sometimes we provide an insurance bond or Medium Term Notes (MTNs) that provide a lender with a guarantee that the loan will be repaid. It's like an insurance policy for the lender."

"Thanks, Ken," I interrupted trying to stifle any more questions.

"Roger, how is the commercial mortgage business? Since Ken took most of your time allotment, you have five minutes."

Roger pretended to be hurt, but wasn't. "Well, I only need a couple. Business has never been better. We are looking to add a couple more mortgage analysts, which brings the total to fourteen plus two assistants. That's why we have a new manager. Tony, stand up and take a bow."

"Here-here," we shouted as we took turns congratulating Tony. He was only 32 years old, but competent, and had a good way with his co-workers.

"Drinks are on me tonight" Tony announced, drawing another round of cheers.

"Sally, we saved the best for last. Tell these fine people the good news about our leasing business, and don't omit the part about you threatening to quit and start your own company."

"That's not exactly how this happened," Sally began. "I had been considering a career change, but Jim made me an offer I couldn't refuse. I am buying the leasing business from Jim and setting up a new company under my own name. I've rented space on the fifth floor starting the first of next month, and will be taking the leasing staff with me."

Everyone was a little surprised. There were a few murmurs of congratulations, but nobody really knew what to say. This was a surprise to everyone except Ken.

"Let me add something," I said. "As most of you know, Sally has been running the leasing business by herself for the last couple years. It was time to recognize her contribution. Besides, now I can spend more time watching my kids play tennis," I said only half joking.

Tony came to the obvious conclusion. "I guess I won't have to buy drinks tonight after all."

Sally acknowledged her fate, "Okay, guys, I guess I'm buying."

"Now, if there is nothing else, let's break this party up and get to work. Ken, Marco, stick around for a few minutes."

Lisa was angry and embarrassed after that ill-fated Thanksgiving weekend, but kept it inside. She was angry with Pete for bringing that bitch to her home. She was angry with herself for losing her temper and taking the opportunity to drill Ambre with the overhead, but mostly, she was angry that she had let Ambre humiliate her on the tennis court. She had Ambre to thank for one thing, setting a high standard. Until then, Lisa had not realized how much she had to improve her tennis game.

Lisa swore that one day she would get her revenge. She knew that it would take a lot of hard work to get her game to Ambre's level, but Ambre had given her the motivation. Monday's practice did not come soon enough.

Lisa was taking daily lessons at the Bardmoor Tennis Academy in Clearwater, a 45-minute commute. With full time coaching and quality competition daily, her game took off. It didn't hurt that she had grown two inches in the last year, and at 5'7" her serve became a powerful weapon. She won two small junior tournaments in the Tampa area and a designated tournament in Orlando, beating the State's top ranked junior. Only 16, she was playing 18 and under and her State ranking improved to #3 in the 16s and #12 in the 18s. She was ready for the next step.

Lisa and Pete received invitations for the Orange Bowl. Pete had accumulated enough points to earn a #12 seed from the International Tennis Federation. Lisa was unseeded in the 18s and drew the #3 seed in the first round. It turned out to be a tough draw, for the #3 seed. Lisa dominated from the start and won easily, 6-1, 6-3. Mary and I were shocked. "I've never seen anybody improve this much, so quickly," Mary said to me. "It's unbelievable how much she has improved in six months."

"Do you think you can still beat her?" I asked tongue in cheek.

"There's still one person in this family I can still beat," Mary replied with a wink, "and it's not Lisa."

A week later we were on our way back to Tampa with extra hardware in our Ford SUV. Pete and Lisa had become the first brother-sister pair to win the Orange Bowl in the same year. We were halfway home and had just exited the Florida Turnpike at Yeehaw Junction, when I popped the question Mary and I had discussed at length. "Do either of you care to spend a few weeks in Paris this summer?"

It took a few seconds for it to register. The kids had been dozing in the back seat listening to music on their headsets." You're not serious, are you?" Lisa asked as she leaned over the front seat. "What about school?"

"Well, in case you didn't know, winning today earned you a spot in the main draw at this year's French Open Juniors. I'll be there anyway on business, so we might as well make it a family vacation."

"What about school?" Pete asked. "I still need nine credits to graduate."

""We'll work it out with your teachers," Mary offered in support. "I'm sure they will understand what an opportunity this is."

"Maybe I can write a term paper about French boys?" Lisa joked.

I glanced in the mirror and saw Pete was deep in thought as the impact of Lisa's joke cast a pall over everyone. It was hard not to read about the success Ambre and Carlos were having in Australia. We drove the next 200 miles in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

Neither Lisa nor Pete had forgotten Ambre.

### Part Three

### The Pro Tour

Chapter 21

Agbu Graduates

Agbu bided his time and finished high school, but never lost sight of his long term goals, to succeed where his brothers had failed and most important, to exact revenge on the Americans that had murdered his brother. Chemistry and Computer Science were his favorite subjects, but he didn't see himself going to work for Monsanto. Within a year, he could make his own car bombs and timing devices and was pleasantly surprised at how easy it was and how much information was on the Internet. All he needed was the raw materials that were readily available from ETA sympathizers.

Agbu studied his trade for two years and after a long weekend of practice in the mountains blowing up trees, he was ready to demonstrate his skills on live targets. He had gotten to the point where he could plant car bombs and wire the ignition within minutes, but decided that method of detonation was too risky. He became an expert at constructing timing devices that could be detonated with precision, but his specialty was remote detonation devices' using cell phone and radio signals that could be detonated on command. Agbu was ready to demonstrate his expertise.

Uncle Enrique took over for Anton as the local Basque cell leader. He was only five years older than Anton and had been Anton's best friend. Enrique made a point of keeping an eye on Agbu and making sure that he finished school, as Anton would have wanted. Enrique knew that eventually Agbu would follow in his brother's footsteps. There were few other choices in Vitoria-Gasteiz.

Agbu found Enrique at home, sleeping. "Enrique, come with me. I want to show you something."

"Can't it wait until tomorrow, Agbu? I'm tired."

"No it can't, the explosives are set to go off in 20 minutes."

"What are you talking about Agbu?"

"Get off your butt and take a look. We need to hurry."

Enrique was curious. "Okay, but this better be good."

It was. Twenty minutes later their car was shook by an explosion as they drove past the headquarters of the Spanish security force. "What was that?" Enrique gasped.

"Just a test, no one got hurt unless they were sitting on the wrong commode. Let's go see how our other experiment is doing." Enrique was too dumbfounded to ask any questions.

They reached the train station at exactly 5:15 PM, just in time to witness a second explosion, much larger than the first. Enrique couldn't believe what he was seeing. "That's one train that won't be on time," Agbu said with a smile.

"Let's go, we have one more stop." Exactly 10 minutes later they parked on a hill overlooking the main highway. Enrique watched as Agbu dialed a number on his cell phone and moments later the small military convoy destined for Barcelona exploded into pieces.

Enrique was stunned and held his questions until they were seated at a small Tapas bar on the outside of town. "That was absolutely amazing, Agbu, but why did you do it? What's the point?"

"For one, I wanted to show you what I could do and that I'm ready to do my share. I'm not a kid anymore."

Enrique grabbed Agbu by the arm. "I know you are ready, Agbu, you have been ready for some time. But Anton wanted you to finish school. He always regretted dropping out. What's your second reason?"

"I wanted to show our people that we can fight for a Basque homeland without creating civilian casualties. I want to see the reaction in the newspapers tomorrow. Remember the car bombing two years ago when the judge's wife and kids were killed. The newspapers blasted us and police cracked down hard on the ETA. What was the benefit of that?"

"I see your point. A bunch of us were forced to hide out in France for more than six months and the entire leadership of the Herri Batasuna, the ETA's political wing, was sentenced to seven years in jail."

"There is a better way to get what we want."

"Who knows you did this?" Enrique asked. "Can anybody trace this back to you?"

"I don't think so. I've been pretty careful. Anton had most of the explosives and timers hidden at our cabin up North; the rest I stole from you when I came to visit."

"I was wondering why you visited me so often. You know, I thought we were missing some detonators, but I couldn't be sure; you thief."

They laughed, but Enrique added in earnest. "Let's keep this between you and me. I'll be your go-between with the ETA and get your assignments. The fewer people that know about you, the better."

"Okay by me, Enrique. For now, you will be the only person that knows that I have officially become a Basque freedom fighter."

"There is one person that you should get to know. I'm meeting with next week and he can help us. Why don't you come with me and see what they have to offer?"

"Who is that?"

"It's someone from a new group, supposedly with Al-Qaeda connections. They claim to have access to money and might be able to help us."

"What does Al-Qaeda care about the Basque people? They are nothing but terrorists."

"You're probably right, Agbu, but let's give them a chance. We might be able to work together. In the meantime, let's keep what happened today just between us. I'm looking forward to reading the paper tomorrow."

Carlos and Ambre left Saddlebrook and flew to Paris for the Christmas holidays before heading for Australia on New Years Day to prepare for the first leg of the Grand Slam. Their first stop was in Doha, Qatar, a small peninsula in the Arabian Gulf bordering Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates. Carlos had received a sponsor's exemption to enter the Qatar ExxonMobil Open. The 32-man tournament was a prestige warm-up for the Australian Open held two weeks later. Roger Federer was back to defend his championship.

There was no women's tournament in Doha so Ambre used the time to work on her game. She had no problem finding practice partners when she wasn't playing with Carlos. Nicholas Kiefer, the 2004 champion, was an old friend from junior tennis and became a constant companion on the outer courts of the Khalifa International Tennis Complex.

Doha has an arid, desert climate that was ideal preparation for the hot temperatures they would encounter in South America and Mexico in February. Ambre trained five hours a day and was getting into the best shape of her young life. Hitting with the men and facing their 125 MPH serves and heavy groundstrokes, was ideal preparation for the hard-hitting women that now dominated the women's tour. Ambre wanted to be prepared for the Williams sisters, Davenport and the other big hitters that would be in Sydney.

Carlos was fully recovered from his leg injury and started to fulfill the promise that Sergio Brugerra and other tennis experts had predicted. He easily won his first two matches before getting beat by Carlos Moya in the quarterfinals. Moya's conditioning and court coverage had fallen off slightly since he had briefly reached number one in the world, but he still had game. His serve and powerful forehand were the difference in a tough, 7-5, 6-4 victory.

Ambre and Carlos stayed in Doha another day to practice and then flew to Sydney, Australia where they were both entered in the Medibank International, the premier tune-up event before next week's Open. Ambre had been fortunate that the Australian Tennis Federation provided her a wild card entry into the main draw. Few people outside of France had heard of her. That changed in less than a week.

Venus Williams was Ambre's first round opponent. Williams exploded onto the tour with the biggest serve and hardest groundstrokes the women's game had seen. Although plagued by inconsistency and the dominance of her younger sister, Serena, she still managed to win five major titles. Ambre looked forward to the opportunity.

Venus opened with a 118 MPH serve up the middle that was a sure ace, or at worse a service winner, against most opponents. It looked slow to Ambre after practicing with Kiefer and the other men in Qatar. Venus was surprised when the ball came back to her at approximately the same speed. She had trouble getting out of the way and was late on her forehand. Williams missed the return and many others in the next two sets as Ambre completely dominated the 1-hour match. The final score was 6-1, 6-2.

Ambre won her next two matches to reach the semis and the Australian press took notice of this beautiful, vivacious young woman with the big tennis game. Her tough, three-set loss to Australian Kim Clusters did nothing to dampen her growing popularity with the Australian fans. The match was televised nationally and Ambre showed everyone that she belonged, forcing Clusters to a third set tiebreaker.

Carlos, meanwhile, was cruising. He dropped only 18 games in four, straight set wins to reach the finals. Known primarily as a clay courter, his work at Saddlebrook was paying dividends. His serve was becoming a powerful weapon and his groundstrokes were flatter and more penetrating. Carlos net game was improving, but still a liability on hard courts.

Federer skipped the tournament after winning at Qatar so the Sydney draw was wide open. Waiting for Carlos in the finals was Leyton Hewitt, former Australian Open Champion. Carlos' run to the championship ended quickly as Hewitt easily traded ground strokes and had the additional weapon of coming to the net when he got a short ball. Carlos got beat in straight sets, but was not totally displeased with his 2nd place finish. He was on his way.

Ambre and Carlos flew to Melbourne with new expectations.

Enrique and Agbu met with the Al-Qaeda leader and came away from the meeting with different impressions. Enrique was disappointed. It was clear that this group had no concept of Basque objectives and in the long run would only hurt their cause.

Agbu agreed, but was too smart to let his feelings show. The group was well financed and had access to sophisticated explosives and detonators, some of which Agbu only read about, but had never seen. The problem was the local Al-Qaeda cell had nobody trained to use these high-tech devices. It soon became clear that Agbu's knowledge and expertise were valuable and provided Agbu with a powerful bargaining chip in his negotiations. Al-Qaeda agreed to obtain the sophisticated devices if Agbu agreed to train their young recruits in the use of this equipment. Agbu requested one other stipulation, which would have a dramatic impact upon his life and the lives of the Basque people.

Al-Qaeda had access to drugs shipped from suppliers in the Golden Triangle and offered to provide Agbu with a shipment on consignment as a show of good faith. Agbu eagerly accepted and a plan quickly fermented in his fertile mind. Traditional Basque fundraising sources such as extortion and kidnapping were drying up and Basque membership was dwindling. They were losing their fight for an independent homeland. Drugs meant money, and money would allow Agbu to recruit young men and women from both sides of the French-Spanish border.

"We need to work together for our common cause," Agbu offered as the meeting was concluding. "We might have different objectives, but I'm sure there will be times when we can help each other."

"Yes, let us work together to destroy this corrupt society," the Al-Qaeda leader responded. At that moment the man's cell phone rang. After a few moments, he looked up at Agbu and smiled, "Our friends in London have exploded bombs in the London subway system. Al-Qaeda has expanded its scope of operations. The infidels will no longer be safe in Western Europe."

Agbu cared nothing about infidels and Muslim causes. The Basque wanted an independent homeland that straddled the Spanish and French border. Agbu also wanted to avenge the deaths of his brothers.

"Agbu, I don't agree with us dealing in drugs," Enrique said as they left the meeting. "Drugs are not something that we want in Basque country. You were wrong to accept their offer."

"You are right, Enrique, we must not allow drugs in our homeland. We will distribute them only in the big cities outside our territory; Madrid, Barcelona, Lisbon, Paris and other cities where drugs are now prevalent. Profits will be used to build schools and create jobs for the Basque people."

Enrique looked at his nephew with new respect. "Anton always said that you were the smart one in the family, and that soon you would become our leader. The time has arrived."

Pete and Lisa took a week off from training after their success at the Orange Bowl to celebrate Christmas. The four of us flew up to Wisconsin to celebrate the Christmas holidays with Mary's parents in Whitefish Bay, Wisconsin. It had snowed a week earlier and the kids drove up to Hurley to ski and snowboard. Mary and I prayed they wouldn't break a leg or twist and ankle, but fortunately the only accident was when Lisa lost her balance coming off the chair lift and skidded into a group of college students.

"It was worth it, Dad. They gave us ski lessons and taught us how to snowboard. I told them we would take them water skiing when they came down to Florida for spring break." Lisa was growing up too fast.

The hard work started the day we returned. Saddlebrook was closed for the holidays so Pete and Lisa practiced at the club under Gregg's direction. They also used my Bally's Fitness Center membership to work out mornings under the tutelage of a personal trainer. They took New Year's Day off, but every other day was the same; two hours at Bally's, including an hour of aerobics and an hour of weights and stretching, followed by two-three hours of tennis drills at the club. They broke for lunch and rested for a couple hours before finding a match against some club pro or college kid home for the Christmas break. It was getting tough to find them quality opponents.

Gregg talked them into entering a Pro "Futures" tournament played at the Hillsborough Community College tennis facility in Tampa located less than ten miles from home. "Believe me," Gregg urged, "you will get all the competition you can handle. The prize money is only $25,000, but there will be a lot of good players. Gregg was the Tournament Director so there was no problem getting a wildcard into the main draw.

The Futures tour ($25,000 prize money) and Challengers Tour ($50,000) are roughly equivalent to the old Nike tour in golf. It's the minor leagues of tennis, and a way to earn ranking points that are used to determine world rankings. The "points" are more valuable to an aspiring tennis pro than the money, because this is how you gain entry into larger tournaments. Each match is worth a point and a tournament win is worth between 55 and 85 points depending upon the tournament. It's dog-eat-dog as established pros compete against aspiring hopefuls trying to build their game and reach the next rung in the tennis hierarchy, with the ultimate prize being the opportunity to compete in one of the four grand slam events. Andy Roddick started playing the USTA Pro Circuit at the age of 15. Donald Young made his debut in Tampa at the age of 14, losing in the 4th round.

As amateurs, Pete and Lisa could accept free entry into the tournament and reimbursement of travel expenses from a sponsor, but couldn't accept prize money if they won. Free racquets, shoes and tennis clothes were also a no-no. Parents were not considered sponsors, so the kids had no problem in letting Dad pay their bills.

Gregg was right; the competition was a step up from what they saw at the Orange Bowl or the National Championships at Kalamazoo. Every player here had game. The sixteen hard courts were fast, and big serves were rewarded. Pete reached the finals before losing to a 23-year old former college player who had played #1 at Georgia. Pete failed to break serve, losing 7-5, 7-6. Pete was more disappointed that he lost than having to turn down the $1,000 runner-up prize money. $1,000 was not worth forfeiting the opportunity to play college tennis or compete in the juniors at Roland Garros. A month later Pete won his first pro circuit event, winning a small $15,000 futures event in Key Biscayne, FL. The prize money went to the runner-up.

Lisa didn't have that problem, losing in the 3rd round to a 20-year old girl from Canada that simply overpowered her. Lisa came away from the match knowing she needed to get stronger to compete at this level. The next two months Lisa worked hard to improve her strength and conditioning, and was rewarded by winning a $25,000 hard court tournament in Jackson, Mississippi. The $5,000 first prize money was tempting until I told her that she could not change her mind about her amateur status once she entered a tournament. "You mean Paula Creamer and the other women golfers couldn't accept the prize money when she was runner-up at the US Open?"

"You got it," I replied, "and by the way, no more hard court tournaments for awhile. Let's start getting ready for the French juniors."

Chapter 22

The Australian Open

Ambre and Carlos arrived in Melbourne Sunday Evening after the short flight from Sydney. By 7 PM they had checked into the Holiday Inn. Ambre's first match was Tuesday morning against a young Australian player that was given a wild card into the main draw. Carlos was originally scheduled to play Monday but his match was rescheduled for Tuesday, a courtesy given to players that reach the singles or doubles finals of the preceding week's tournament.

"Let's get something to eat and see a little bit of the town," Carlos suggested as he unpacked. "Some of the guys suggested a few places. Are you up to it?"

"Give me 15 minutes and tell me what to wear," Ambre answered as she headed for the bathroom. "Just so it's not too late. I need to practice tomorrow and get used to these courts. I heard the courts are really slow."

An hour later they were seated at an outside table at the Brunswick Street Fitzroy. It was people watching at its best. "This is almost as good as Miami's South Beach." Ambre whispered as a hippy couple walked by holding hands and sporting earrings in places that made eating and smelling a challenge. Moments later a middle age couple strolled by arm-in-arm, the woman sporting diamonds and a $500 Gucci purse. "What a variety of people."

"Hewitt said this area would give us a feel of what Melbourne is all about. Let's get a salad or something and get out of here. There are a couple other places he suggested we try."

"This is Highlander Lane," the cab driver commented as they drove down the tree-lined street in the middle of Melbourne. It was like an oasis in the middle of the city, an ideal off-the-beaten-path spot for a private club. "This is it, Eleven A," the cab driver said as he stopped in front of the brick building fronted by a purple canopy. "It's quiet now, but in a couple hours it will be slammed."

"Just an hour and then we need to get back," Ambre warned as they walked into the purple shaded club. The "Eleven-A" features a large bar and dance floor. The four-piece band offered funky, electro house dance music. Carlos and Ambre were not big drinkers so they spent most of the time on the dance floor, and it was well after midnight before they got back to the hotel, and after two before Carlos said enough and they fell asleep naked and intertwined. Ambre was insatiable, Carlos thought as he fell asleep happy, but totally exhausted.

Sunday both players were still alive, and looking forward to week two of the season's first grand slam tournament. Carlos had survived three tough matches including a five-setter with Andy Roddick, the number three seed. Ambre had a much easier time as she breezed through her matches without losing a set. They were in the round-of-sixteen and the competition would only get tougher.

The Australian media fell in love with this young couple who had taken the tennis world by storm. They both were great interviews and made no secret about their enjoyment of each other and the Melbourne nightlife. "There will be plenty of time to sleep when we are over thirty," Carlos was quoted, paraphrasing an old saying about the dead. _Was it Abbie Hoffman or Yogi Berra?_

Tabloid reporters staked out their hotel every night to see where the young couple would go, and were not disappointed. Every evening was someplace different, with the late evenings reserved for days they played and could sleep late the next morning. Tuesday they celebrated their first-round win by dancing until one AM at the Melbourne Metro Nightclub. Thursday it was the Evelyn Hotel on Brunswick, a Melbourne institution where many popular bands got their start. They were seen leaving the club after 2:30 AM. Friday was a quiet evening at Dan O'Connell's Irish Pub where they were spotted sipping Guinness and throwing darts with the regulars until midnight. "I can't keep up," one 30-year old reporter told his editor. Get someone else to follow them tonight; I need to get some sleep." Saturday night they celebrated their third round wins by pub hopping in St Kilda, and dancing until two at the Esplanade Hotel, before smoking pot and making love until morning.

The next morning they missed their 10 AM practice session but managed to get court time at 3:00 PM. They were both dragging and decided to stay in and get some sleep Sunday evening. They had steaks at the hotel's Clarendon St. Grill and were in bed by 10.

Ambre lost her first set of the tournament but eventually won 6-3, 2-6, 6-4 over Myskina. Carlos had a surprisingly easy match and won in straight sets to reach the quarterfinals. Two days later they won again and were in the semi-finals. The nightlife continued, but at a more leisurely pace. They realized the stakes were too high.

"Carlos, let's rent a car and head for Victoria's Great Ocean Road, I hear the view is fantastic," Ambre said as they finished practice Thursday. "We can be back by eight or nine." Three hours later they reached Torquay, the start of a 160-mile drive of deserted beaches, small towns and fantastic scenery. They made it as far as the Shipwreck Coast at Princeton, and its famous rock formations including the Twelve Apostles and the remains of the London Rock formation that collapsed in 1990.

"We better turn back, Ambre, if we want to get back by nine. I'm getting a little tired of all this beauty."

"I've never seen a more scenic drive. The highway through the Alps along the Spanish border is breathtaking, but this is even better. This compares to Italy's Amalfi Coast along the Mediterranean. Let's stop at Lorne on the way back for a bite to eat."

Friday their fabulous ride through the Australian Open came to an end. Federer easily beat Carlos in straight sets, displaying an all-court game that kept Carlos on the defense throughout the match. Federer was 22 for 27 on approaches to the net while Carlos only approached eight times, winning just five points. Ambre played a great match but Lindsey Davenport was too strong at the end. She managed to break Davenport only twice in three sets, while losing her serve five times. The final score was more than respectable, 7-5, 6-7 (4) and 6-3. The Australian crowd gave them each a huge ovation as they exited Rod Laver Stadium.

Chapter 23

Hawaii – The Hard Court Season

Carlos and Ambre were exhausted and needed a break before starting their spring schedules. Travel is a necessary evil on the pro circuit, and anybody that travels a lot knows that it's not as glamorous as it sounds. Airports are the same whether they are in Dusseldorf, Doha or Dayton. The WTA and ATP tours seldom overlap making it difficult for tennis players to carry on a romance. Carlos decided a week in Hawaii was just what they needed.

They were fortunate to get a suite at the Ritz Carlton on Maui. The Mercedes golf championship had just ended, but it was still the busy season. Vijay had won, but all eyes had been on Michelle Wie who finally made the cut and finished in the top twenty.

Ambre was impressed. "How did you get us such a great room?" she asked Carlos as the bellboy took the $20 tip and closed the door.

"They initially claimed they were booked full when I called yesterday, but then I told them who I was."

"Wow, I'm impressed. Are you famous?" Ambre purred as she put her arms around his waist.

"Apparently not, because they were still booked-up until I mentioned that I was traveling with you. Then all of a sudden he found a cancellation and a room became available. I am honored and humbled to be with you, your highness. I am at your service."

Ambre pulled Carlos onto the king sized bed. "Well, then service me," Ambre commanded as she unbuckled his belt. "This is what you are famous for."

"The view is awesome," Ambre said an hour later as she stood on the balcony clad only in a Ritz Carlton robe that was open in front. "Let's shower and go play Bocce Ball before dinner."

"I'm still at your service, your highness," Carlos smiled as he pulled her close.

"You better not be bluffing," she whispered as she untied the sash to his robe.

The next week was idyllic. Helicopter rides, nature walks, scuba diving, surfing, whale watching, bocce ball and lots of lovemaking. They played golf twice, once on the Plantation Course where the Mercedes championship is held, and once on the Bay course where their signature hole is a black lava peninsula that juts into the Pacific Ocean.

The nightlife at the Ritz Carlton was non-existent, but they soon discovered Lahaina, a 19th century whaling village once described by a missionary as "one of the breathing holes of Hell." Today Lahaina maintains the charm and flavor of its salty history, and is the only town on Maui offering restaurants, lodging and nightclubs within a few square blocks. They enjoyed a wonderful dinner at David Paul's Lahaina Grill and then walked Front Street looking for some late entertainment. Moose McGillycuddy's offered live DJ music, and $1.00 drinks on Tuesdays. Carlos and Ambre danced until 2:00 AM and spent a bundle on drinks. At $1.00 a drink, it was easy to buy a round for their new friends. By Thursday they were regulars and invited to a private party after the bar closed. Carlos smoked only pot, but Ambre tried everything on the menu. It was 5:00 AM before Carlos got her out of there. Ambre passed out on the way home and the next morning only said that she drank too much. Carlos and Ambre seldom talked about drugs.

They didn't pick up a tennis racquet the first five days. "What say we hit a few balls tomorrow morning?" Carlos suggested Saturday. "Fritz called earlier and reminded me I'm playing in Marseille next week. That's only three days from now."

"I'm playing someplace in Hyderabad, India. I never heard of it. Are you still scheduled to play Indian Wells in March?" The two-week tournament in California would be the next tournament that would host men and women. It would also signal the end of the hard court season for Carlos. Ambre had a Nasdaq-100 tournament the following week in Miami, before commencing her clay court season leading up to the French Open in May.

Ambre was scheduled to play in India, Antwerp, Dubai and the United Arab Emirates. Carlos had tournaments in Marseille, Rotterdam and Scottsdale, Arizona. All were hard court tournaments. Both players decided against playing the winter clay court season, which many of the South Americans and European players did to prepare early for the French Open. Carlos and Ambre preferred to develop their all court game and be competitive in all four Majors. They didn't talk about it, but both players envisioned winning the four majors, if not all in one season like Budge and Laver, at least a career grand slam like Andre Agassi.

Sunday morning they said goodbye to the Ritz Carlton and made the one-hour drive to the airport. They both had connecting flights through Honolulu, before separating to start their lives on the pro tour. It had been a good two months for both of them, both on and off the court.

Six weeks later they shared a bed again in Indian Wells. Ambre had finally fallen asleep. Carlos marveled at how Ambre was insatiable in bed. He wondered what she did in the five weeks they were separated. He decided there are some things that were better left unknown.

Both reached the semis at Indian Wells, a fitting end to his hard court season. Carlos had won in Rotterdam and had reached the semi finals in two other tournaments. His ranking had risen to #12 in the world and with a victory tomorrow, he would crack the top 10. He would need to beat his nemesis, Roger Federer.

Ambre's hard court season was even better, winning twice to go along with a runner-up and semi-final finish. Her only poor showing was Dubai, where she lost in the first round to a qualifier. She later admitted to tanking the match due to exhaustion; "too much tennis," she said.

"Too much partying after her win in Antwerp," others claimed.

Carlos lost to Federer in straight sets for the third time this year. He had no answers for Federer's all-court game. Carlos tried to play defensively in the first set, staying back until Roger made a mistake. Federer foiled this strategy by taking the net on any ball that landed near the service line and volleying Carlos' passing shots for winners. Carlos tried lobbing, but soon recognized that Federer had one of the best overheads in tennis.

Carlos changed strategies in the second set and took the net on every opportunity, forcing Federer to come up with quality passing shots. He did. On match point Federer hit a cross-court backhand passing shot from 10 feet behind the baseline to complete a 6-4, 6-3 drubbing. Carlos could only smile as the crowd cheered the impossible shot.

Ambre lost in three sets to Kim Clijsters, now fully recovered from the wrist injury that hindered her the previous year.

"Let's go into Palm Springs tonight," Ambre suggested. "Our flight to Miami doesn't leave until noon. I hear the Crobar is fantastic."

"I was in a Crobar in New York City and it was rocking. They say this one is even better."

They didn't arrive until 11 PM and the club was in full swing. Carlos had the good sense to have Fritz call ahead to put their names on the celebrity list. They ignored the long waiting line and pulled their car into valet parking and were admitted immediately, with VIP privileges. After three hours of dancing Carlos suggested they take a break and headed for the celebrity lounge.

"Are you okay?" You don't look like you are feeling well." Neither Carlos nor Ambre drank much alcohol.

"I'm fine, Carlos. I just need to splash a little water on my face. I'll be right back."

Twenty minutes later Ambre returned form the powder room looking much better and full of energy. "Come on Carlos, let's dance." It was 3 AM before Carlos could finally get her into the car. She passed out on the way home and Carlos had to literally carry Ambre to their room. Fortunately there no witnesses at 5:30 AM.

They missed the noon flight to Miami and barely made the 6 PM flight. Their first matches in the prestigious Nasdaq-100 Open were Tuesday so they would have a day to rest. Carlos managed a couple hours of practice with another Spaniard, but Ambre spent Monday in bed. Tuesday she claimed to be as good as new and convincingly won her opening match. It caught up to her Thursday and she lost to an unseeded player after winning the first set easily. She had no legs.

"I need a break, anyway," she rationalized later as they were enjoying room service in bed. "I've been playing too much tennis. I'm going to go home and get away from tennis for a couple weeks. Maybe I'll come down and watch you play in Monte Carlo. It's only a few hours from home."

"That's a good idea, and while you are at it, why not stay away from the nightclubs and whatever it is you've been smoking," Carlos suggested.

"I'll stay home every night, I promise," Ambre said with a smile. "I just need a little of that good loving to keep me happy. Why don't you put that food down and come over here for a little dessert?" Ambre suggested as she rubbed some cream soufflé on her belly.

The next morning Carlos dropped Ambre at the airport. "See you in Monte Carlo in a couple weeks."

"I'll be at the Casino," Ambre shouted as she waved goodbye.

The Saddlebrook job was progressing on schedule. Sports & Field had opened the previous weekend and was an instant success. Located just outside the Saddlebrook on Highway 56, it was a perfect compliment to the resort and another amenity for Saddlebrook guests. The grand opening party was scheduled for this weekend.

All the Tampa pro sports teams were represented. Martin St Louis, the 2004 NHL MVP headed up a group of six Tampa Bay Lightning players. Warren Sapp and John Lynch still maintained homes in the Tampa area and joined a group of current Buccaneer players that included Derrick Brooks and Ronde Barber. Hideo Nomo and Aubrey Huff represented the Devil Rays. Many participated in the charity basketball game against a team of local sports writers and a sprinkle of former USF players including Rodenko Dobras who showed he could still hit from beyond the 3-point line. The honoree referee was none other than George Steinbrenner who maintained a Tampa residence and horse farm in nearby Ocala.

Drinks and hors d'oeuvres were served and the Sport & Field fitness staff was kept busy giving clinics on their world class Nautilus equipment. Four masseuses raised $4,500 for local charities by offering ½ hour massages for $100.

"Nice job, Marco," I said as we listened to the jazz music.

"Thanks, Jim. Let's hope the Saddlebrook Tennis Center opens this smoothly.

"I'm sure it will, Marco. As you know, I'm leaving for Paris in a few weeks for French Open juniors, but if there is a problem or anything you need, just call me."

"I will, I won't make the same mistake twice," he replied with a smile. "By the way, don't forget to visit our Paris office. They are starting to get some work for us over there."

"I will, in fact my tax accountant insists on it. Do you think I can get Petie and Lisa on the payroll for a couple weeks so I can write off the whole trip?"

Marco chuckled, "that's between you, your conscious and the IRS. I'm staying away from that one."

Agbu methodically rebuilt the Basque ETA network. He needed a broad base of supporters in order to carry out his long range plans. Membership had never recovered from the raids in Spain and France in 1998 that resulted in the arrest of 200 ETA members and sympathizers, including the ETA leader Mikel Albizu and his girlfriend. There were less than 10-12 hard-core members remaining plus another 10-15 that could be recruited for specific jobs. Huge caches of arms and explosives had been discovered and destroyed, robbing the remaining ETA members of the means to fight. Worse, they had lost the support of the Basque people. The political kidnapping and assassinations made the ETA unpopular with the average Spaniard who thought the ETA extremists had gone too far. Agbu set out to change this image.

Agbu started recruiting in the small towns surrounding Vitoria-Gasteiz, the capital of Basque Country. He visited towns from Logrono in the South to Bilbao and Donostia-San Sebastian in the North. His goal was to establish small, independent cells of four to six loyalists in each town that would carry out his directives. His message was the same. "We need to reenergize the Nationalist Movement by attacking the financial infrastructure of Spain's ruling party. We will attack buildings not people. No more kidnappings or random acts of terror."

The response was always the same. "How are you going to pay for this? We are a poor people. We can't quit our jobs."

"I will provide you with money soon," Agbu promised. "In the meantime, we will learn about explosives and how to disrupt the Spanish government until they understand it is in their best interests to grant us independence."

A month after the initial meeting, Al-Qaeda provided the heroin shipment they had promised. Agbu began to establish a distribution network in the large cities, never in Basque Country. He and Enrique met with Basque sympathizers in Madrid and were introduced to the appropriate people. Rather than attempting to distribute the heroin to the end user, Agbu was smart enough to deal directly with wholesalers that had the street contacts to distribute the product. There were three groups that covered Madrid, and therefore, only three customers. Agbu priced his product at 50% of the street value, leaving him a 25% net profit after he paid Al-Qaeda. His profit on this shipment would be over a million Euros. Wholesalers would be responsible for dealer costs. It was a fair arrangement that could be repeated in many cities. Agbu had found the means to finance the Basque movement.

A week later Agbu received a phone call from an old friend. "Agbu, why aren't you in jail?"

It had been over two years, but he recognized the voice immediately. "Carlos, it's great to hear your voice. You are so famous now that I thought you had forgotten about your old friend."

"Never, Agbu. I will always remember my best friend from Vitoria. In fact, I'm playing in a tournament in Monte Carlo and hoped we could get together."

"Just tell me when and where."

"Let's shoot for Wednesday or Thursday. I'll call you and let you know where we are staying. My girlfriend, Ambre, will probably be there too. You'll like her."

"I'll be there, my friend."

Mary made the trip to Raleigh, NC with Lisa and watched her reach the semi-finals before losing to a woman that played four years at Duke. "She was awesome," Mary reported enthusiastically. "She just needs a little more pop on her serve, and a better volley, and Lisa will be ready to play with anyone, even girls like Ambre."

"The French Open Juniors will be a good test for her," I replied trying to curtail her exuberance. "Let's see how she competes against the older girls before we worry about the pros." I was surprised Mary had mentioned her name; Ambre was still a sore subject in our household. Pete was still hurting and for whatever reason, it was clear that Lisa didn't like her. I wasn't sure how I felt, but I knew she was a great tennis talent. So did the French. That's all the French Press was writing about with the Open just around the corner. "Ambre, France's next great hope to win the Country's championship," the headlines declared. I couldn't help thinking that the pressure on Ambre must be unbearable.

Chapter 24

Monte Carlo – The Clay Court Season

The Monte Carlo Country Club sits on a hilltop above the opulent city offering a magnificent view of the Mediterranean. It has been judged the most beautiful club in the world, Donostia/San Sebastian an opinion not disputed by the 1,800 club members, who have access to the 40 tennis courts, modern clubhouse, squash, fitness center, swimming pool and restaurant. It is a place where world business is conducted over lunch amid the splendor of the French Riviera.

The Principality of Monaco is packed tightly into one square mile of land, 20% of which is land reclaimed from the Mediterranean Sea. The Country Club is in Roguebrune-Cap-Martin, a small town situated on the Principality's eastern border. Built in 1928, center court stands on a tract of land once owned by Rex Ingram, a Hollywood filmmaker.

The Principality's two ports are equipped to greet pleasure-boats:  The Port Hercule offers mooring and anchoring possibilities for five hundred vessels some of which are extremely large. The  Port of Fontvieille contains 160 reserved births limited to boats under 30 meters in length.

Monaco offers year around entertainment including opera, an internationally renowned dog show, concerts and firework festivals. The Monaco tennis masters series tournament is held in April, sandwiched between the Monte-Carlo Spring Art Festival and the world-famous Formula 1 Grand Prix in May. The tournament has grown in stature over the years. Initially a tune-up for the French Open held the following month, it is now a Super-9 tournament that offers double-points to participants in their quest for world ranking. It is a can't-miss tournament in the men's clay court season. All French Open hopefuls are in Monaco in April.

Carlos flew into the Nice-Côte-d'Azur International Airport Sunday afternoon and took the 10-minute helicopter ride to the Monica heliport. The ride over the sandy beaches and 300-foot yachts that dotted the French Riviera from Nice to Beauleu is breathtaking. A shuttle took him to the Columbus Hotel. Ambre was not due in until Wednesday.

"Agbu, it's Carlos. I'm at the Columbus Hotel. Give me a call when you get the message." Carlos left both the hotel number and his cell number. He looked forward to seeing his friend. Monte-Carlo is only a one-week tournament, which meant that there were no off days. Carlos had a 1st-round-bye into the second round and wasn't scheduled to play until Tuesday afternoon, where he opened on center court. Tonight would be a good time to get together.

Ten minutes later the hotel phone rang. "Carlos, good to hear from you."

"Where are you, pal? I was hoping we could get together tonight or tomorrow. I don't play until Tuesday."

"No-can-do, I'm still in Madrid on business. Can we get together Thursday for dinner? I have a friend that is hosting a party on his yacht."

Carlos was disappointed. "It's been a couple years, I guess another few days won't hurt. I'll see you Thursday unless I have a night match, and don't forget to put Ambre on the guest list."

Thursday, Carlos was fortunate to play in the early afternoon and easily dispatched Alberto Gomez to move into the quarterfinals. Ambre had spent the afternoon shopping. "Dressy casual, doesn't mean sandals and tank tops," she pointed out.

The cab driver dropped them off at the Port of Cap d'Ail, which is only ten minutes from Monaco. It was known as a choice destination for pleasure-boats, and this was indeed a pleasure boat. "Wow, it must be over a 150 feet," Ambre exclaimed in awe when they saw the yacht."

Agbu was watching for them and greeted his friend with a warm embrace. "Agbu, this is Ambre," he said proudly when the two friends parted.

Agbu greeted Ambre in French fashion with air kisses to both checks. "The newspaper photographs do not do you justice," Agbu gushed. "You are more beautiful in person." _This is one, sexy lady, Agbu thought. If she wasn't with Carlos, I might ..._

"Are you sure you are Spanish and not French?" Ambre countered, obviously pleased with the warm welcome. She guessed Agbu was about six feet tall, lean and not bad looking. He didn't have Carlos' drop-dead looks and charm, but he had a presence about him. There was something about his eyes that set him apart.

They held eye contact a moment more than necessary, until Carlos broke the mood. "Okay, that's enough of this. Agbu, you haven't changed a bit. You never could keep your eyes off the girls."

"You haven't either, buddy, you always ended up with the most beautiful girl and I was left with second best. Anybody hungry?"

It was just like old times for Carlos and Agbu. They picked up their friendship without hesitation or awkwardness. Agbu had followed Carlos' tennis career through the newspapers and was proud of his friend's success. Carlos was pleased that Agbu was apparently doing well, although it was no surprise. Agbu was always the smart one in their gang of thieves.

"Was it six years ago since you left Vitoria?" Agbu said aloud, not expecting an answer. "It seems like just yesterday that we were stealing beer and cigarettes from that little store." Neither wanted to mention that last evening when they had robbed the store, ending up with just 25 Euros and boxes of drugs.

"Yeah, it's fun looking back, especially since we both are still alive and healthy," Carlos mused, "at least we're not in jail. Did you get what you wanted, my friend? I only wanted to play tennis, and you were going into the family business. Did it work out that way for you?"

Agbu was quiet for a moment, obviously thinking back over the past six years. "Yes, I got most of what I wanted and now am in a position to help my people. Money is no longer a problem, and with money, I can build the grass-roots movement that is needed to obtain an independent Basque homeland."

"Then, what's bothering you my friend? Why do you appear sad when you should be happy?"

Agbu's eyes glistened as he answered. "Because my brothers Anton and Raul are dead, and won't be with me to celebrate our victory. Anton was the true leader of our people before he was assassinated in Mexico."

Carlos was about to ask Agbu what happened when they saw Ambre coming back with a plate of hors d'oeuvres. Agbu's mood changed at once. "That girl is a fox, Carlos. She might test our friendship."

"Never, my friend. No girl is more important than our friendship. In fact, your timing is excellent," Carlos said with a wink as he made a feint at Agbu's midsection. "It's time I moved on."

"Gracious, my friend," Agbu replied, accepting the invitation.

"Am I interrupting?" Ambre asked as she sat down. "I assume you have been talking about me," she said with knowing look.

The evening passed quickly and soon it was time to leave. "Agbu, I need to get back and get my beauty sleep. I play at 1 PM against Roddick. His serve is fast enough without me giving him any advantage. Are you ready, Ambre?"

Ambre hesitated for a moment and Agbu took advantage. "Ambre, I would be happy to see you home later if you care to stay awhile longer. The party is just beginning."

"Do you mind, Carlos? I'm really not tired."

"No, go ahead and stay. I'm sure my friend will take good care of you. Agbu, it's been great seeing you again. Let me know if you need tickets to the French Open or anything. We need to keep in touch."

Ambre kissed Carlos goodbye, and watched as he walked down the pier to a waiting cab. She knew it was a kiss goodbye, and she knew it is what Carlos wanted.

"Ambre, let's see what's happening down below in the owner's suite," Agbu said as he led her downstairs.

The next day Carlos beat Andy Roddick in a third set tiebreaker, after losing the first set 6-2. It had taken a set to shake the cobwebs. Ambre had not come back last night, which did not surprise him.

Carlos found a note when he returned to the hotel. "Sorry I missed your match, I hope you won! Agbu invited me on a two-day cruise to the Greek Isles. I hope you don't mind. Good luck! See you in Paris! Always, Ambre."

It had been great fun while it lasted, Carlos reflected to himself without regret.

Pete's final tune-up for the French Open juniors was a May 2nd Challenger event in Ponte Vedra, Fl. Challenger tournaments offer prize money between $50,000 and $75,000 to attract top players. Pete managed to win two matches before running into Fernando Gonzales of Spain, a touring pro ranked #29 in the world. Gonzalez was rehabilitating a bad shoulder and using this tournament as a warm-up for the pro tour. Pete took him to three sets before losing 3-6, 7-5, 6-2.

Pete called me in Paris after the match. "I played pretty well all week, but Gonzalez just wore me down. You can't believe how difficult it is to hit a winner against this guy."

"It sounds like just the type of match you needed," I replied. "Are you ready for Paris?"

"I'm looking forward to it, Dad. I still can't believe I'm going to play in the French Open, even if it is just the juniors."

"You'll do just fine in Paris," I said encouragingly.

The French Police had been watching the yacht for some time and routinely took pictures of guests arriving or departing.

The next morning two agents routinely reviewed the pictures taken the previous evening. "Look at this one," the older man said holding up a photo of Carlos and Ambre kissing goodbye on the lower deck. "Not bad!"

The second agent was a tennis buff and recognized both players immediately. "Isn't she a beauty?" he commented. "I'd like to play a couple sets with her in the bedroom," he added.

"Keep your mind out of the gutter," the other analyst answered. "The question is why were Ambre and Carlos there in the first place. Do they know Al-Qaeda drug smugglers own the yacht?"

"For all we know they might have been there just there for the food, but let's run it up the pole and let somebody upstairs decide."

"Why not give her a break? Something like this could damage her reputation if it gets out," the tennis buff suggested.

"That's not our problem, besides, I want to know who that other guy is, the one in the background."

A week later in Warsaw, Poland, Ambre savored her victory as she shook hands with Kim Clijsters of Belgium. The 6-4, 3-6, 7-5 win was particularly satisfying as she came back from a 4-1, 3rd set deficit. It was her fourth title of the year, but only her first on red clay. She would play Rome next week and then take a week off before the French Open. Everything was falling into place.

Ambre waved to the small crowd that had stayed for the awards ceremony and followed Clijsters into the locker room. "Nice win, Ambre," a WTA official said as Ambre collected her personal items from her locker. "Before you leave, I need to get a sample from you."

Andre panicked. She wasn't prepared. "Can't this wait?" Ambre replied hastily. "I'm not feeling well. I really need to get back to the hotel."

"It will only take a couple minutes, Ambre. You know the rules."

Ambre knew the rules. Players could be tested up to 12 times a year on a random basis. They were automatically suspended for one year if they refused a request. Tour officials had tightened the loopholes since England's Greg Rusedski had won his appeal in 2004.

"Give me a minute," Ambre said as grabbed a small packet from her makeup kit and headed for the bathroom. "I'm still dehydrated from the match." The official should have followed Ambre into the bathroom, but she didn't. She did not see Ambre swallow the four capsules and drink as much water as she could hold.

Super Quick Caps add various proteins and natural herbs such as Gingko Bulba to your bloodstream. The frequent urination resulting from the water intake quickly reduces the toxins in the urine that are indicative of drug and amphetamine use. The quick fix is good for approximately five hours.

Ambre waited as long as she could before she came out of the rest room. "Okay, let's have it, we might as well get this over with." Ambre took the capsule and returned to a stall. Ideally, Ambre would have been warned that she would be tested and would have been better prepared. In Miami she had substituted synthetic urine that contained all the ingredients of natural urine, and included a heat pad to warm the temperature to body temperature. There was no time today.

She passed as much urine as she could before filling the vial. There was nothing else she could do. She knew the odds of her beating the test were 50-50 at best. She had broken several of the guidelines recommended by the manufacturer. Super Quick Tabs were to be taken 45 minutes before the test. Ambre was only able to stall for 20 minutes.

Ambre had smoked marijuana and free-based cocaine the previous evening and knew she was in trouble. The manufacturer recommended abstinence for 48 hours before a test. The coke shouldn't be a problem. It is naturally cleared from the body anywhere from a couple hours to three days maximum, depending upon weight and activity. Ambre had home-tested herself several times and found that she tested negative after 14-16 hours. She was cutting it close. Traces of marijuana stayed in her bloodstream anywhere from three to 10 days. _Let's hope the Super Quick Caps worked, she thought._

Drug testing is commonly a four-step process: collection, screening, confirmation, and review. The tour official that collected Ambre's urine sample did everything by the book. She placed a temperature strip around the vial to ensure that the contents were at body temperature, and then placed a tamper-evident tape over the specimen container. Ambre initialized the attached form to show chain of custody. The container was locked in a safe overnight and then hand-delivered by the collector to the drug testing facility. The lab technician signed a receipt to show who handled the specimen and to ensure the drug results are not called into question due to improper handling.

Cozart is a specialist medical diagnostics company that specializes in laboratory drug testing. The specimen was tested for drugs and drug metabolites and the preliminary results were known within minutes. Ambre had tested positive.

Specimens that test positive for drugs in the initial screen are examined further in the laboratory through a second analytic technique called gas chromatography/mass spectrometry (GC/MS), which is actually a combination of two specialized techniques. Technicians use gas chromatography to separate the various substances in the specimen, and then make a positive identification through mass spectrometry. The results were forwarded to a specialist to determine if illicit drugs were the cause of the positive test results. The specialist, who in this case was a medical doctor with 20 years experience in the field, confirmed the results.

Ambre's cocaine level came back at 315 ng/ml, slightly above the 300 ng/ml limit set by the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration. By itself, Ambre might have appealed the result, but the marijuana level was 97 ng/ml, almost double the 50 ng/ml guideline. It would be hard to overturn the test result on appeal.

Ambre had just won her semifinal match in Rome when she was summoned into the Tournament Director's office. She knew it was bad news when she saw Joan Wilson, the WTA Tour Director and the WTA attorney seated at the desk with Pam Shriver, the players' union representative.

"Ambre, please sit down," Joan started, "we have disturbing news. You have tested positive for two banned substances and are looking at a probable suspension. Do you have anything you might want to say at this time in your defense?"

Pam Shriver interrupted. "Ambre, I strongly urge you not to say anything until you have the benefit of legal counsel. Nothing you say now will change their conclusions. The union can help you fight this down the road."

Ambre nodded and remained silent.

"In that case, Ambre, we have no choice but to recommend you be suspended from professional tennis for twelve months. Our attorneys feel the test results are irrefutable. You, of course, may appeal and have a hearing within 45 days."

Ambre beat another Belgian, Justine Henin-Hardenne, in the finals for her second clay court title in succession. She was playing the best tennis of her career, which was good enough to win in Paris.

Ambre filed her appeal. She had little chance of winning, but the inevitable suspension would not be enforced until after the French Open.

Chapter 25

The French Open Juniors

"I can't believe it, Daddy, we're really here!" Lisa gushed with the enthusiasm that only a 16-year old girl can muster.

"Lisa, it's just another airport," Pete offered with the worldly wisdom of an 18 year old.

"Like you've been to Paris?" Lisa retorted.

"Kids, cool it. Let's get our bags and get to the hotel. I'm bushed," I interjected. If you stop arguing I might even have the cab driver take us past the stadium on the way."

"I thought we leased a van," Mary pointed out.

"They're quiet, aren't they?"

The promise of seeing Roland Garros Stadium kept their bickering to a minimum and we managed to claim our luggage and clear customs in less than an hour. There were five of us including Gregg, so I rented an 8-passenger minivan from Hertz. We would need it to commute back and forth for practice sessions and matches.

Gregg offered to drive, which left me time to think back over the progress Pete and Lisa had made over the last three months. I hoped they were ready. Pete was playing his best tennis and I thought he had a good chance of doing well next week. My main concern was his conditioning and mental toughness, necessary components for the slow, red clay of Roland Garros. The clay courts back home are almost like a hard court surface compared to European red clay. Pete wouldn't get as many fast, cheap points that he was accustomed to getting. We talked about it, but only time would tell if my advice had sunk in. Do teenagers really listen?

I was afraid that Lisa wasn't ready for this level of competition. She was playing well, but didn't have the experience of the other girls she would face. Most had been playing competitive tennis since they were eight. I hoped I was wrong. Either way, it would be a great learning experience.

The x-factor was Ambre. You couldn't read a sport section or turn on the television without seeing her face. Ambre had won two clay court tune-up tournaments and the French saw a realistic opportunity for Ambre to be the first French-born French Open women's champion since Francoise Durr in 1977. The hype was comparable to England's annual hype for Tim Henman to win Wimbledon. How would Pete and Lisa react to seeing her face on French television and on the front page of every French newspaper for the next two weeks? I had a hunch Lisa would use it for extra motivation.

"There it is, kids, Roland Garros Stadium, home of the French Open," Gregg announced as he pulled into Bois de Boulogne park. We drove through the vast park for minutes before we saw the stadium.

"Wow, it's huge," Lisa exclaimed. "May we go in and look around?"

"Gregg, see if you can find the tournament offices. Maybe they have our passes ready." The tournament started tomorrow, but the junior tournament didn't start until the second week. I wasn't sure if the passes would get us in today, but it was worth a try.

Thirty minutes later we were inside the stadium grounds. I had not been getting anywhere with the French tournament director when Lisa came back with five, one-day passes. She had charmed an official. "Your 16-year old daughter is growing up too fast," I commented to Mary. "She must have been watching her mother in action."

"Nope, she didn't have to watch me. Some things just come naturally to women," Mary said with a wink.

The outer courts were filled as the players were getting in some last minute practice. The Williams sisters were hitting two courts down while their mother looked on. Their dad was busy taking pictures. Pete and Lisa recognized many of the pro players although they looked so different in their casual workout clothes.

There was a large crowd surrounding a practice court. "Let's see who that is," Pete suggested.

"We don't have time, Petie," I answered quickly. "We need to check into the hotel before they cancel our reservation." I figured that only Agassi or Ambre would draw a crowd like that, and I wasn't sure about Agassi. It wasn't worth the risk.

"Do we have time to take a quick look at the Philippe Chartrier Court," Pete asked.

"Five minutes," I said, "and then we need to go."

"We need your help," Muhammad implored, as they were having lunch on the same yacht where he had met Ambre four weeks ago. Agbu's mind drifted back to that evening and the good times they had that first, long weekend. They had cruised for four days before dropping Ambre off in Athens so she could catch a flight to Warsaw. In those four days, Agbu had fallen in love. He looked forward to seeing her again in Paris."

Agbu quickly came back to the present. He needed these people and their drug connections. "Tell me what you need, my friend. I'll do what I can."

"Before we get into that, tell us why you want to triple your supply of product. My partners don't see how you could possibly have grown your distribution network in so short of time."

Agbu smiled as he looked around the table. "You underestimate the Basque people and the support we have throughout the Europe and South America, particularly in the France, Portugal, Italy and of course, Spain. There has been a network in place for many years despite the crackdown by Spanish and French authorities. My brother Anton helped build this network and the Basque are waiting for someone to lead them. Basque nationalism is very much alive."

"The Basque have never been in the drug business, Agbu," one of the men stated. "Why do they help you distribute the product?" Nobody used the words heroin or cocaine.

"No, they are not in the drug business, but they have contacts with distributors in all the major cities. We offer these distributors a quality product and protection from their competitors. There are many judges and police that are Basque supporters. We take a small percentage for this service."

"Can you really move the product you requested?" The Al-Qaeda leader was developing a new respect for this 19-year-old who was assuming the leadership of the Basque people. This was a person to be reckoned with, and potentially a valuable asset to their cause.

"We can move ten times the product we requested, but I don't have the money to pay in advance, and I don't want to continue asking for shipments on credit. We are expanding into other cities every day. We will have enough cash after we sell the next shipment and in six months, we will be able to distribute anything you can deliver."

"You are basically just a middleman, aren't you? You buy our product, mark it up, and then resell it at a huge profit. Is that about it?"

Agbu didn't like where this conversation was heading. Were they looking to cut him out of the deal or were they squeezing him for more money? "Please don't underestimate the importance of the Basque network and the value of our services," he pointed out. "However, we certainly need the product you provide," Agbu acknowledged.

"Gentlemen, we are all friends here," Muhammad interrupted. "Agbu, we will approve your request, and if you really believe you can move ten times this amount, I will see about getting you a credit line. It's the least we can do for friends that are fighting a common cause against the Western establishment."

"Thank you," Agbu responded too quickly. He knew immediately that it was too easy. They hadn't been trying to squeeze him at all. There was something else.

"Now, let's get back to the other matter that you may be able to help us with. As you know, the French Open tennis tournament will be taking place next month in Paris. We plan to blow up the stadium during the tournament and we need your help."

Agbu couldn't believe what he had just heard. Images of Ambre flashed through his mind, but mostly the damage this would do to the Basque movement if they were blamed. Random violence and killing of innocent civilians would undermine the support he had so carefully cultivated. On the other hand, the Al-Qaeda leader had been subtle, but had made it clear; no help, no product to sell. Agbu was dependent on these shipments from the Golden Triangle. The Basque had no other source of supply, particularly at the price he paid. "What help do you need from us?" he asked. "We will do what we can."

"Excellent, that is what we hoped you would say. Here is what we need you to do."

Pete and Lisa were as ready as they would ever be. If they didn't play well, it wouldn't be for lack of effort. Practice time the first four days of the main draw was impossible to schedule for juniors. The pros took all the courts. But as both the lady's' and men's draw were reduced from 128 players to 64 by Tuesday, court time started to open up. The kids hung out at the courts and jumped on every opportunity. Monday a player twisted an ankle in the first set on court 32 and retired. Pete and Lisa practiced for an hour before they were booted off for the next match. Tuesday they got an hour on court 25 after the last scheduled match of the day. It was almost dark when the groundskeepers kicked them off. Wednesday and Thursday they managed three hours of practice each day. By Sunday, they were totally comfortable with the red clay. They were ready for their Monday morning matches.

"What a strange week," Mary said, as we got ready for bed. "The kids didn't get to see much of Paris, did they?"

"No, they were pretty much tennis junkies weren't they? They did take that bus tour, Monday, but that was about it. They just wanted to hang out at Roland Garros."

"Thank God for Marta. At least we didn't have to drive them every day." There was a Marta subway station less than a block from the hotel that provided a direct shot to Roland Garros. I visited our Paris office on two occasions and was amazed at the opportunities that were out there for small construction companies such as ours. Getting the financing and the construction bonds is the key.

"That was too bad about Ambre, wasn't it?" I commented to Mary. "The French were so sure she would win this year. What a disappointment." Ambre had easily won her first three matches, but today had been forced to retire after three games in her quarterfinal match against Patty Snyder.

"She certainly looked sick and I give her credit for trying," Mary said graciously. "You can't help but wonder if it had anything to do with the drug rumors that have been floating around all week."

"If the rumors are true, she's played her last match for quite a while. Gregg heard from a trainer that she definitely failed an official ITF drug test a couple weeks ago and appealed just so she could play this week. Gregg said it's a foregone conclusion that she will be suspended for one year."

"Whew, that means she won't be allowed to play in next year's French Open either. That's a tough break, although it couldn't happen to a nicer person," Mary said with a straight face as she turned off the light.

Neither Pete nor Lisa had mentioned Ambre since we arrived.

Saturday evening Agbu and Ambre had dinner at a small, casual restaurant in the Spanish Quarter. They sat at an outside table watching the people stroll by and talked about their planned trip to the Greek Isles after the tournament Ambre wanted to be far away from Paris when her one-year suspension from tennis was announced. Agbu was more than happy to be her escort.

They talked about the tournament and her fourth round match tomorrow morning against Patty Snyder. "Do you expect a tough match tomorrow?"

"Not really, I usually play well against her, especially on clay. However, I'm not taking anything for granted this week. I need this trophy."

Agbu thought about the failed drug test and regretted having provided Ambre with the cocaine and marijuana she used before her failed drug test in Warsaw. At the time it seemed like a natural thing to do after the four nights of partying on the yacht. Ambre was like a kid in a candy jar, having to try a little of everything. Naturally she wanted to take some with her when they dropped her off in Athens.

Agbu also regretted what he had done a half hour ago, but it was the only way he knew to protect her. He had laced her food with a non-lethal poison. The doctor assured him Ambre would be sick tomorrow and there would be no way she could play her next match. He hated seeing Ambre lose her dream of winning the championship, but he had no other choice. Ambre couldn't be in the stadium when the bombs went off.

The package Al-Qaeda asked him to place in the women's locker room was large enough to kill anyone within 100 meters, which included anyone in the adjoining men's locker room. Forfeiting a tennis match was better than her being killed.

Muhammad also asked Agbu to use his Basque contacts to plant explosives throughout the stadium Monday morning. The explosives would be set off remotely from a cell phone using detonators developed under Agbu's direction. Agbu was careful not to use materials that could be traced back to the Basque, but he couldn't be sure. He couldn't allow this to happen.

Agbu was walking a tightrope. The Basque needed Al-Qaeda to provide the raw heroin and cocaine, but the Basque objectives would be thwarted if they were again associated with wanton destruction and murders of innocent civilians. The image he had carefully constructed for the New ETA would be destroyed along with Roland Garros stadium. Al-Qaeda measured success by the number of people they killed. Somehow Agbu had to stop them without Al-Qaeda knowing that he had blown the whistle.

The idea came to him suddenly Monday morning at breakfast. Agbu tossed it around in his mind for an hour and decided to go for it. It wasn't perfect, but it might work. Agbu went to a pay phone and called the editorial office of Gara, the ETA's usual channel for announcements. Twenty minutes later the editor called the French anti-terrorism office and asked to speak to the director. "It's urgent," he instructed the operator. Within minutes, the director was on the line.

"Yes, whom am I speaking with?" the director asked.

The Gara editor identified himself. "I need your promise that you will not divulge the source of the information I am about to give you? I told you who this is only because it is important that you believe what I am about to tell you."

"You have my word." The director was surprised. He was not accustomed to receiving information from the ETA.

The message was simple. "It has come to our attention that terrorists plan to detonate explosives at the French Open, possibly this morning. Some of the explosives might already be in place. We suggest you sweep the grounds including the player locker rooms. Look for small packages of explosives that can be remotely detonated. The ETA has absolutely nothing to do with it."

"Where did you get this information?"

"I can't tell you that, but I assure you it is a reliable source."

"Why are you doing this? What is it you want?'

"We want you to deny any assertions that the ETA must have been involved. Somebody is bound to accuse us. It would be nice if you would explain that the ETA does not target national landmarks or murder civilians."

"Well, I'm not your PR agent, but if this information proves accurate, I'll do what I can."

"Good luck, just remember, you didn't get this tip from us."

The five of us arrived at the Stadium at 8 AM. Pete wanted to warm up a little with Gregg before his 10 AM match. Lisa was scheduled to be the second match on a nearby court. With luck, we would be able to see both matches.

Pete's match was turning into a typical, clay court marathon. His opponent, a 5'8" Chilean, got to everything, making Pete earn every point. Pete won the first set 7-5, when his opponent narrowly missed a passing shot on set point. The first match on Lisa's court was one sided and looked like it would be over soon. Gregg and Lisa had already started to warm up on a practice court.

Mary nudged me as Pete was serving to open the second set. "Have you noticed all the commotion?" she whispered.

I hadn't, until a looked around and saw the uniforms and police dogs. "What's going on? It looks like they are searching for something."

"Oh no!" I screamed as the first explosion resonated through the tennis center.

The first call was to the head of security for Roland Garros at 10:15 AM. Within minutes gate security was doubled and every package was being searched. Ticket holders complained as the entry lines started to grow. Inside the stadium, internal security guards started searching the locker rooms and premises. Player's bags were checked and lockers were opened. The lines outside continued to grow.

French police arrived within the hour to assist gate security personnel. The bomb squad and dogs arrived shortly after and began a sweep of the entire Roland Garros complex, starting with the players' locker rooms.

Officials would be criticized later for their decision not to stop play and evacuate the Stadium. They decided to keep the search low key. One reason given was that the most likely time for a terrorist attack would be mid-afternoon, when the matches would be televised live to the United States.

"They know something, they are on to us," the caller whispered. "There are police all over the place. Let's move up the timetable before they find everything."

"Okay, I'll get our people there right now."

Internal security found a suspicious package in the men's locker room and another package was found in a trash container next to the gift shops in the pedestrian mall. It took the dogs only seconds to verify the packages contained explosives and the packages were placed in reinforced steel bomb-safes. Experts saw that the detonators could be detonated remotely from a cell phone and an order went out to the telephone company to shut down all cell phone frequencies. A third package was found in the utility room, wedged behind the telephone system outside the press box. Two more bombs were discovered under the Philip-Chatrier stadium court.

It was a race against time, and time ran out. A uniformed policeman and his dog found a package taped to a steel girder supporting the grandstands surrounding the Suzanne Lenglen court where a round-of-16 match between Venus Williams and Mary Pierce had just started. The package exploded as he was placing the package into the steel safe. A few seconds later and the police officer would have lived. The priest would point out at his memorial service that the policeman had saved many lives. If he had not discovered the package the grandstand would have collapsed killing hundreds of people. That was small consolation to the policeman's wife and new baby daughter.

Five bombs exploded throughout the grounds, sending the crowd into a frenzy and people stampeded towards the exits. There were only 30 people watching Pete's match so we had no trouble getting to him. "Where's Lisa?" Mary shouted to be heard over the screams of the frightened crowd.

"There she is." Pete said, pointing to Lisa and Gregg as they ran towards us.

"Let's get out of here," Pete yelled as he headed towards the main gate.

"No!" I shouted, "Let's stay right here. We don't know what's happening out there."

"Okay, everyone, try to be calm," Mary said, in anything but a calm voice. Lisa was the first to start crying. It was apparent that we were all nervous and afraid. We huddled together for five minutes and were just starting to relax when the stadium shook from a huge explosion, followed quickly by another, and then another. The third explosion was deafening.

Mary and Lisa screamed with each blast, putting a sound to everyone's fear _. "Who could do something like this? I wondered._

That night we ordered room service and watched the news. The bombings at Roland Garros dominated all the national outlets including BBC. Initial reports indicated 76 dead and over 200 wounded; many of the wounded in critical condition.

The police were still trying to piece together the chronology of events. A spokesperson for the French Police was being interviewed. "Tell us what happened, and how was it that your bomb squad was at the stadium before the first explosion."

He proceeded to lie in order to protect their source. "We received a call from a stadium security guard who found a suspicious package in a trash bin. He thought it might be a bomb and our bomb squad was on-site in 20 minutes. They verified it was a bomb and we immediately started searching the entire stadium. My people tell me we found and disposed of seven or eight explosive devices before the remaining bombs were remotely detonated."

"How many bombs were there?"

"There were five explosions inside the stadium."

"What happened then?" the reporter asked. "There were several other explosions."

"People were trying to get out of the stadium when a young man walked into the crowd by the main gate and blew himself up. A second man did the same thing at another gate. Moments later a car plowed through a police barricade and was headed for the crowd by the main gate. Three policeman opened fire and apparently killed the driver, causing the car to swerve and crash into the stadium wall. The car was loaded with explosives."

"Has anyone claimed responsibility?" the reporter asked.

"Yes. The French Al-Qaeda cell called a news station and claimed responsibility. They said they were working in conjunction with the ETA, the militant arm of the Basque movement. Quite frankly, we don't place a lot of credence in this claim. This doesn't fit the ETA profile. I don't think they were involved."

The director had kept his word, Agbu thought as he and Ambre listened to the newscast.

"Is the tournament canceled?" the reporter asked.

"That's not my call," the police spokesman answered. "We are performing a thorough search of the premises as we speak, and so far we have not uncovered any unexploded devices. The stadium will be safe, but I say again, that's not my call. Thank you, that's all I have for now."

An hour later the Tournament Committee made a decision to cancel play on Tuesday, "We will decide by noon tomorrow if the tournament will be played."

"What do you think, Dad? Are they going to cancel the tournament?" Lisa asked with disappointment in her voice.

I felt sorry for her and Pete. They had put so much of themselves into this, and then to have it snatched away by some religious zealots. "I don't know, Lisa, but I think they should." She nodded in understanding.

The next day the Tournament Committee announced that the French Open would be played. They would not give in to Al-Qaeda or any other terrorist group."

"Pete and Lisa's initial excitement was dashed by his next statement. "Unfortunately, the Junior and Senior Championships will not be held this year. Several courts were damaged in the explosion and all available courts are needed for the professionals.

"Anybody care to stay and watch the main draw?" I asked, "or should we try and get an earlier flight back?"

"Let's go home, Dad," Pete answered. It was unanimous.

Ambre was feeling better, but was eager to get out of Paris and away from the prying questions from reporters and the reminder of what she had lost for the next 12 months. It would be two years before she would be eligible to play in another French Open. She and Agbu were on a flight from Paris to Naples, Italy Monday morning when the explosions ripper through Roland Garros stadium.

An hour into the trip Ambre made an off-hand remark that threatened to ruin their trip. "I feel sorry that I didn't get a chance to see the juniors," Ambre commented. "I know a couple kids from Saddlebrook that were playing. It would have been interesting to see how they did."

"Anybody special?" Agbu asked playfully. "Anybody that I need to worry about?"

"Nope, there's nobody but you," Ambre said coyly. "Pete Simpson and I were dating before Carlos came along, and believe me, his sister would kill me if she had a chance."

Agbu sat up suddenly. "Did you say Simpson?"

"Do you know him?"

"Does he have a father in the construction business in Florida?"

"Yes, I think he does. His father is building a domed stadium at Saddlebrook where I trained. Why, what's the connection?"

Agbu didn't answer, but continued his interrogation. "Did his company ever do a job in Mexico City?"

"I'm pretty sure he did. Agbu, what's this about? You're scaring me."

"Simpson murdered my brother," Agbu declared. Agbu was silent for most of the trip to Athens, brooding over his misfortune. He knew he had missed the perfect opportunity to avenge Anton's death.

Upon arrival in Naples, they immediately chartered a 50-foot sailboat and began a two-week tour of the Mediterranean Sea. Ambre didn't learn about the explosions at Roland Garros until a week later while having dinner at a restaurant in Malta.

"You're the tennis player," a man said leaning over from the next table. "Ambre," he said as if the name just came to him. "Would you please autograph this menu for my son? He is a really big fan of yours."

Ambre looked over and saw an American couple sitting with their teenage son who was obviously embarrassed at his father's request. He was only a couple years younger than Ambre.

"Sure, I'd be glad to. What's your first name?" she asked the teenager.

"Fre, Fred," he stuttered even more embarrassed.

"Fred's a pretty good tennis player, himself," Fred's father said proudly as Ambre wrote a brief note and autographed the menu. "Last year he played #1 singles on his high school team."

"Here you go, Fred," Ambre said as she smiled and handed Fred the signed menu.

"Thanks," Fred managed to say as Ambre turned back to her table.

"Wasn't that something at the French Open?" the father continued. ""I'm just glad none of the players were injured by the explosions."

Ambre looked back at the man, obviously startled by his revelation. "What explosion?" she asked. "What are you talking about?"

"You don't know?" the man replied, with a new sense of importance.

"No, we left Paris Monday and have been sailing ever since. What happened?"

"Well, Monday morning terrorists exploded a half dozen bombs in the stadium and then two suicide bombers blew themselves outside the main gate. At last count, 79 people are dead and a couple hundred wounded. The stadium is a mess."

Ambre hesitated trying to absorb the news. "Did they finish the tournament?"

"They did," Fred interjected. "Nadal beat Federer and Clijsters beat Pierce."

"They canceled everything but the singles," the father added, "doubles, juniors, everything. They say it will take years to repair the stadium."

"Thank you," Ambre said turning back to Agbu. "Let's get back to the boat. I'm not hungry anymore."

Agbu and Ambre didn't talk much on the way back to the boat. That night Ambre got stoned on heroin, which had become a daily routine.

A week later Agbu went back to work and Ambre went home to her condominium in Nice. Agbu had invited her to stay with him in Vitoria-Gasteiz, but she declined. Both promised to keep in touch, but they both knew their affair was over.

Chapter 26

Saddlebrook Grand Opening

The Saddlebrook grand opening was set for Saturday evening, two weeks before the women's tour event. A star-studded evening was scheduled featuring a silent auction, buffet dinner and a pro-celebrity tennis match featuring Pete Sampras and Jim Courier. The final event would be a one set singles match between Martina Hinges and Florida resident, Chris Evert.

Marco's team worked overtime to complete the finishing touches. Tampa received six inches of rain the preceding week, ending the typical winter draught and signaling the beginning of Florida's rainy season. The rain was welcomed by gardeners and golf course owners, but cost the construction team precious time. The hard rain had also revealed several leaks in the roofing membrane. Fortunately there were no structural problems and the roofing contractor made the necessary repairs.

Wednesday, two days before the scheduled opening, Marco declared they were ready.

"That's great, Marco," I replied. "For a while I thought this was going down to the wire. Gee, you have a couple days to spare."

"I said we were ready, Jim. I didn't say we were done. We will be doing touch up work and landscaping right up to the tournament, and probably after. We're at a point where the guests won't notice the little things that still need to be done."

"I understand, good job! Take the rest of the day off and celebrate."

Marco looked at his watch which read 6:30 PM. "Thanks, boss."

"Ten more minutes," Mary yelled from the bedroom. "I'm almost ready."

"The invitation said casual dress," I yelled back as I looked down at my slacks and Greg Norman golf shirt. You're not dressing up are you?" Saturday evening was no different than every other evening out in the past 20 years. I poured myself a small drink and turned on ESPN News to catch the baseball scores. My Milwaukee Brewers were playing the Cubs this weekend in an important series. The National League scores were flashing across the bottom of the screen, when Mary came downstairs.

"How do I look?" she asked.

She need not have asked, because she looked fabulous. "Wow" I gasped. "You look absolutely wonderful." She wore a tight black dress with a neckline that provided more than a hint of cleavage and sported the pearl necklace and matching earrings I had bought her for our 20th anniversary. "Are we going to the same party? The dress code said casual."

"It said dressy casual, which is completely different. You can bet that there will be a lot of women that are more dressed up than I am. There just aren't many places to go anymore where a woman can look nice. Did you notice the people wearing shorts to the Performing Arts Center last Saturday?"

"Well, you sure do like nice," I replied giving her a soft kiss on the lips. "Give me a minute to change my shirt and get my sport coat, and we'll be off. There is no way I'm wearing a golf shirt when you look so great." I looked back at the television screen and saw that the ESPN update line had advanced to hockey. I would have to wait until tomorrow to get the score. With over 100 games left in the six-month-long baseball season, it wouldn't hurt me to wait another 12 hours. St Louis was already running away with the division and the Brewers and Cubs were destined to fight it out with Houston and the Mets for a wild card spot in the playoffs. It wasn't easy being a baseball fan for a small market team, particularly a Milwaukee Brewer fan.

We arrived fashionably late, which meant that we got there just on time per Mary's clock. There were enough people mingling near the entrance to notice us valet park our new Porsche Boxer and make our grand entrance. It always amazed me that the women paid more attention to how the other women were dressed, than the men.

The silent auction was in full swing as guests appraised the merchandise and gifts that had been donated by local restaurants and businesses. I stopped at the open bar for a wild turkey and splash of water, and a glass of Kendal Jackson chardonnay for Mary. I scanned the crowd as we waited. Mary had been right, most of the women had taken the opportunity to dress up. Mary was soon talking fashion with several friends. It was a good time to make the circle of the silent auction tables. Local sports celebrities and tennis players with a connection to Saddlebrook donated many of the items. I noticed there was already a $500 bid for a Pete Sampras autographed racquet. The price jumped to $600, and then $750 as I watched. The proceeds of the auction would benefit the Florida USTA youth tennis programs.

There were also the typical donations from restaurants and resorts. I had just entered a $200 bid on a dinner for two at Bern's Steak House and a $450 bid on 3-day Caribbean cruise, when Dick Browning caught me by the shoulder. "Jim, its nice to see you here."

"Hi Dick," I said as we shook hands warmly.

"Your people have done a fabulous job. I never dreamed we would be ready in time when we started this last year."

"It's been a real pleasure working with your group. They provided us everything we needed."

"Jim, listen. I hate to talk business at a social event, but there are a couple gentlemen in my office that need to speak with you. They have a business proposition that I think you might want to hear. Do you have a couple minutes?"

"Sure, Dick, I always make my best decisions after a couple drinks. What's this about?" I asked as I put my drink down and followed him to one of the small administrative offices.

"I don't know the whole story so I'll let them tell you. All they asked me was if we were happy with the work your firm had done here and I told them we couldn't be more pleased."

"That's nice of you, Dick. I appreciate the kind words."

"Gentlemen, this is Jim Simpson, president of Global Development and Simpson Construction. Jim, these gentlemen are from Paris. Paul Gutreau represents the Province while the other two gentlemen, Georges Hewes and Emey Labrey represent the steering committee that operates Roland Garros. Gentlemen, it's your meeting."

After the obligatory handshakes and pleasantries, I took a chair next to Dick and waited to hear what they had to say. All three were impeccably dressed and I was glad that I had grabbed a sport coat at the last minute. At the mention of Roland Garros, the effects of the two bourbons quickly disappeared, replaced by the adrenalin of the moment. I had a feeling this was big.

George Hewes was first to speak. "Mr. Simpson, thank you for meeting with us on such short notice and interrupting your evening. We will try to be brief and let you get back to the celebration. Mr. Browning had told us that your firm has just completed a tough job in a tight timeframe and that is why we are here. We need your help."

Hewes paused for a moment and I took the opportunity to offer our services. "I hope we can be of service, but what is it exactly you are looking for?"

"I'm aware that you and your family were in Paris last week when terrorists attacked Roland Garros Stadium. I trust that none of your family was injured."

I leaned forward in my chair and gave Mr. Hewes my full attention. "My family escaped injury, but thank you for asking. I'm sorry for the hundreds of citizens that were not as lucky. You and your nation have my sincere condolences."

"Thank you. What you probably don't know is that in addition to the tragic loss of life, the explosions caused structural damage to the foundation to the exterior walls as well as to the two stadium courts. We are still looking into the extent of the damage but we don't think we can use the stadium until these problems are fixed."

"No, I didn't know the damage was that severe. I'm sorry to hear that. The news reports just said there was minor damage."

"Let me summarize our plight," Hewes continued. "We need to do whatever is necessary to make Roland Garros playable for next year's tournament, but at the same time, we want to make some long-range improvements that have been on the drawing board for some years. We want to enclose the two show courts, expand seating and do some work on the infrastructure surrounding the stadium. Mr. Browning and others tell us that your firm specializes in fast-track projects."

I sat back in my chair trying to assimilate what I just heard. "Just so I understand, there are repairs that must be completed in ten months, and long-range renovations including two domed stadiums that must be ready 12 months later. Is that correct?"

The three Frenchmen nodded in unison.

"I don't want to sound negative, Mr. Hewes, but that seems like an ambitious undertaking."

"Mr. Simpson, if I may add to what Georges has told you," Emey Labrey interjected. "The Roland Garros steering committee has been working on this refurbishment plan for almost three years and have detailed drawings, cost estimates and engineering take-offs for the entire project. We have paid Bouygues, the French construction firm, 2,000,000 Euros over the past two years and have detailed manpower needs and construction schedules. We are further along on this project than you might think."

Even after two drinks, the next question was obvious, "And what did Bouygues say when you asked them if they would do it? I assume they said no or you wouldn't be here."

"They said it was a three, or possible a four-year project," Georges Hewes responded with a wry smile, "but you know how pessimistic the French can be."

I couldn't help but laugh at his self-deprecating sense of humor. The tension in the room dissipated and I realized my mood changed from pessimistic to, _how can we make this happen._

Paul Gutreau entered the conversation. "Jim, there is one other problem. The foundation that operates Roland Garros is broke and neither the city of Paris nor the Province has the money to get started. You will get paid eventually, but we need creative financing up-front. We understand that also is your specialty. The French banks will help, but it's too big a risk for them to go it alone, especially with the terrorist threat."

"You have been busy," I commented with a smile. "Let me ask you, will Bouygues help? Would they be interested in a partnership or joint venture? We sure could use their expertise."

"They will help, as long as they get paid on time and are not held responsible if the project is delayed."

That should have been a warning, but I skipped right over it. I was in my _I can do anything, superman mode_ which Marco had come to fear. "Okay, I'm interested. May I suggest we meet tomorrow morning in my offices and get into the details with my construction manager and staff."

"Let's meet Monday. Tomorrow Mr. Browning has us scheduled to play the Palmer course." That should have been another warning, but I missed it completely.

"Where have you been? Mary asked as I sat down next to her to watch the Sampras-Agassi exhibition. Sampras was up a break, serving at 5-4 in their eight-game pro set.

"You have been begging to visit France again, without the kids. It looks like you will have your chance."

Pete and Lisa didn't touch a racquet for a week after we returned from Paris. Lisa, in particular, was devastated. "At least Pete got to play a set," she complained. "I didn't even get on the court."

Kids are nothing, if not resilient. They soon were back in their old routine. Pete wanted to finish junior tennis with a bang and was committed to climbing to the #1 ranking in the 18s before he said goodbye and left for college. There were two boys from Miami ranked ahead of him so Pete entered a designated tournament in Ft. Lauderdale, but at the last minute both boys withdrew. They were ducking him. Pete won the tournament, but didn't earn enough points to overtake them in the rankings.

Lisa regained her enthusiasm and starting training hard again. The 50-minute commute to Bardmoor was getting old so Lisa switched to Saddlebrook. She won a designated tournament in Jacksonville and her ranking is the 18s improved to #4. She was #1 in the 16s. Her next stop was Kalamazoo, Michigan, longtime host for the national championships.

Chapter 27

The French Proposal

Marco, Ken and I huddled in my office Sunday afternoon discussing the proposed Roland Garros renovation. Marco's three engineers were spread out in the conference room. Roger, our resident computer expert, was downloading project control and CAD information from the website that Emey Labrey had provided me. Two engineers poured over the drawings that Roger printed on our HP Engineering Printer. Marco and his team had been there since eight AM while the French played golf.

"Well, Marco, what have you come up with? Can we do it?"

"Oh, we can do it all right, if we have enough time. Bouygues wanted four years to dome the two stadium courts and do the other enhancements. Putting an upper deck on Court One will take over a year by itself. And that was before the damage done last month. There is no way we can do this in 22 months unless we take a different approach. No way!"

"Tell us how you really feel," Ken chided. "Don't hold back."

"There has to be a way," I said without conviction. "Is there anything in their construction schedule that can be split off and given to another team? Ken and I were talking about using several companies that would handle different facets of the job. Can this work?"

"I'm way ahead of you. Let me show you what we found so far. Keep in mind that the development of a project plan is predicated on having a clear understanding of the tasks involved, the estimated length of time each task will take, the dependencies between those tasks, and the sequence in which those tasks have to be performed. Additionally, resource availability must be determined."

"In other words, we need a PERT chart?" Ken summarized. "Did Bouygues have one?"

"Yes and no. A 'Program Evaluation and Review Technique' chart is supposed to depict task, duration, and dependency information. Their PERT chart doesn't show any dependencies."

"So, what's the problem?"

"Take a look at this example," Marco said as he turned his PC laptop towards us. Notice that tasks 4 and 5 are the limiting variables or funnels. Imagine O'Hare airport with only one runway, or the Golden Gate Bridge reduced to a single lane of traffic. These are bottlenecks."

"So, what are the bottlenecks for this project?"

"There aren't any, at least that's what Bouygues would have you believe. Bouygues doesn't show any task overlap on their time line, but on the other hand, they don't show any slack time. This set off an alarm and we began looking for the reasons."

"Did you find something?"

"We won't know for sure until Roger finishes loading the tasks into our project control system, but it appears they have at least two key resources in short supply that are critical to the timeline of this project." Marco paused for effect and Ken took the bait.

"Gee, Jim, let me guess, thumbtacks and paperclips? Maybe we could turn this guessing game into a reality show." I was smiling as Marco waited for Ken to finish. We had worked together long enough for Marco to know when to take Ken seriously and when to let him ramble on.

"No, Ken, it's not paperclips. If you give up, I'll just have to tell you. The first resource in short supply is engineering, specifically civil engineers. It looks like several major jobs could be done simultaneously if they added 75-100 more engineers, but that's a huge investment for anyone to make for one project. What do they do with the engineers when Roland Garros is finished?" Marco asked rhetorically.

"I see."

"The obvious answer is to sub the work out, but this isn't the French way. It's easier to keep the whole project in-house."

"What's the second limiting factor?"

"Steel, Bouygues buys all its steel from Usinor, another French company. This might be the reason they wanted to do the domes one at a time, rather than both at once."

"Wow, that is a surprise," Ken commented. "The European Union is the **second world's largest crude steel producer in the world, only** China produces more steel. The EU has almost 20% of the world market. Belgium or England would be happy to supply the steel we need, and the EU tariffs are so low, the cost would be about the same. I wonder what the problem is."

I was always amazed when Ken came up with these obscure facts, which invariably proved correct. But just to be sure, we did a quick Google search and saw that the EU manufactured 18% of the world's steel. "Is 18% the same as almost 20%?" I asked Marco.

"Not even close," Marco replied playing along. "Just a lucky guess, but let's give him the benefit of the doubt this time," Marco said with a straight face.

Ken just sat back in his chair. His smug look said it all, you doubted me? "I'll look into Usinor and see if there is any financial connection to Bouygues."

"Good idea, but where do we go from here?" I asked more to myself than to the others. "Marco, what is your gut feel? If we eliminate these bottlenecks and spread the work, can we get it done?"

To his credit, he did not answer right away, and when he did his reply was carefully worded.

"Maybe."

Ken and I took that as a 'definite maybe'. "Marco, after you finish loading the data into your PC System, can you get me something simple like a Gantt chart that we can use in tomorrow's meeting? I don't want to be talking PERT Charts and Critical Paths with these guys. Emey Lebrey is an engineer and a detail guy, but I don't think the other two are, and Paul Gutreau is the key guy in this deal. If I read them correctly, he will have the final say."

"Gutreau is the money guy, isn't he?" Ken asked.

"It looks like it. He is the politician that said the RG foundation was broke."

"The reason I bring this up is this might be another reason Bouygues wanted to string this project out over four years, they wanted to make sure they got paid," Ken surmised.

"Excellent point, Ken," I replied nodding in agreement. "Let's keep that in mind when we put together our financing package. By the way, have you gotten hold of Sven?"

"No, but I'll call him right now to see if he is interested in participating. How much should we ask for?"

"What was the Bouygues cost estimate, 800,000,000 Euros or about 960M dollars over four years? Let's double it, at least until we get some better numbers. In the meantime, I'm going to call Hunt Engineering to see if we can count on them for at least one piece of this deal. Their experience doing big international projects would be invaluable."

"Hunt would also help us keep Bouygues under control," Marco offered. "I know the Bouygues managers. They won't be happy taking orders from any American company, particularly in a high profile job like this, but they have worked with Hunt before so that will help. There is nothing worse than having an unhappy subcontractor to worry about, especially one that is an industry giant like Bouygues."

"Okay, let's meet back here at 5:00 and see where we are. Marco, let Roger and your two engineers know I appreciate their coming in on Sunday, and there will be a little bonus for them on their next paycheck."

"What about Marco and me?" Ken asked with a straight face.

"Dream on!"

It was after 6:00 PM when Marco finalized the revised Project Schedule and Gantt chart, but it was worth the wait. They had devised a new approach to the project that would cut off over two years, which gave us a fighting chance. It was only a rough estimate that would need to be shaken out, but it was an intriguing approach. The bottlenecks had been eliminated and seven projects would be performed in parallel. It gave us hope.

Summary-Level Gantt chart - Major Tasks

1. Repair Existing Stadium damage

2. Update Exterior Facing

3. Install Dome over Philippe Chatrier Court

4. Install Dome over Suzanne Lenglen Court

5. Redesign Seating, Restaurants & Press Box

6. Improve Transportation; Hwys; Marta; Parking

7. Improve Media staging area and Security

Tasks were spread out over a two and a half year period, with considerable overlap. Only Task one needed to be completed prior to next year's French Open. This was the master plan for completing the project in the required timeframe.

There were two key assumptions, additional manpower and money. We needed two more construction companies on board in order to solve the projected shortage of engineers and other skilled craftsmen. Like it or not, Bouygues would need to be involved and play a key role. After all, this was a French project. I was counting on our friends at Hunt to help us out, but we would need one other company. I'd worry about that after we got the job. Lining up the money was a more pressing issue.

Ken and Sven came up with a financing plan that allowed us to pay our contractors and their subs on a current basis. Sven would provide 100% construction financing supported only by $25M construction performance bonds taken out by each of the four contactors, including my firm, Simpson Construction. Other than the bonds, the only additional equity was Roland Garros stadium. Morgan Stanley would issue the construction bonds.

I had spent the afternoon on the phone with the Hunt people. Fortunately, I reached their CEO, Carl Lindner, at home.

"Carl, this is Jim Simpson, with Simpson Constru...."

"Hi Jim, I know who you are," Carl interrupted. It was your company that sent us the big check without being invoiced. It's great to hear from you. I hope everything is going well with you and your family. What can I do for you?"

"Carl, you are unbelievable. I agonized for a half hour wondering if I should bother you at home or wait until Monday, and you turn around and treat me like an old friend."

"You are an old friend, Jim. We are in a tough business inhabited by a lot of wolves. It's important to recognize who our friends are. Your firm is at the top of our friends list."

"I appreciate that, it makes what I have to ask a lot easier. In a nutshell, we have a great opportunity but we are in over our head and I need your help. Sound familiar?"

Twenty minutes later I had summarized the proposal the French made Saturday evening and some of the preliminary conclusions we had come to earlier. "Carl, we need you to run a couple of the major projects and help us keep a tight rein on Bouygues. What do you say?"

"Jim, this is a fantastic opportunity for both of us, and don't think for a minute I don't realize what you are doing. You don't owe us anything, but we appreciate the favor. Hold on for just a minute while I try to reach someone."

It was almost two minutes of silence before I heard someone on the line. "Jim Simpson, it's great to hear from you. This is George Hunt. Carl tells me we may have an opportunity to work together again." Forty-five minutes later we had an agreement in principle. It was such a pleasure to do business with good people.

I was in a great mood as I headed for home. "Hi honey, I guess it's too late to go out for the dinner I promised." It was almost 10:00 PM and I had promised to be home by 7:00.

"I've eaten and had two glasses of wine while I was waiting. I'm ready for bed. Jim, but I'll take a rain check. You need to call Paul Gutreau, he called ten minutes ago and asked you to call him when you got home. He must have just missed you at the office."

"Paul, Jim Simpson. How did you golf today?"

"I'm not a golfer, Jim, but we had fun, as much fun as you can have when you don't break 100. The reason I called is that I was hoping you could join me for breakfast tomorrow morning out here at Saddlebrook. Is 8:00 AM too early?"

"I'll be there," I answered. We said our good nights and I joined Mary in the bedroom.

"Is everything okay?" Mary asked as she turned off the light.

"It couldn't be better," I said as I pulled her close to me. "I finally have time to spend time on the person that is so important to me."

"Tell me more," Mary whispered as she answered my kiss.

Ken and Marco were waiting when I walked into the office alone at 10:30 Monday morning. They knew I was meeting Gutreau for breakfast, but all of us had thought this was just a prelude to a long, knockdown, drag-out contract negotiation that would encompass the entire day. Wasn't this why they had spent 14 hours in the office on Sunday?

"Gutreau wanted to know just three things," I said as I summarized the breakfast meeting. I was tempted to keep them on edge by telling them what I had for breakfast, but decided this was no time to fool around. We all had too much at stake.

The first question came after Paul sipped his Florida orange juice. "Jim, is there a reasonable chance that we can have the new stadium ready in two years?"

"Paul, it's going to be tight, but we can do it. We can get into the details later, but we believe it can be done." Gutreau had no desire to get into more detail at this time.

The next question came while I was eating my french toast, which I was told had no similarity to French toast. "Jim, how are you going to control Bouygues? They need to be a big part of this, you know."

"Paul, we understand your concern and have addressed the situation, trust me." I mentioned my conversation with Carl and George Hunt, and that they had worked with Bouygues successfully on other projects. I also reaffirmed that Bouygues would play a major role. You could see the relief in his eyes.

The final question was when Paul was paying the bill. "How are you paying for this, Jim?"

"Paul, we have a commitment in principle with a Swedish firm that we have done business with before. They will file a lien on the stadium until they are paid, but no other encumbrances. The contractors will be paid as we go."

"Can you do it for the 800M Euros that Bouygues estimated?" Gutreau asked without conviction. We both knew that the price would be much higher.

"Paul, that estimate was made a year ago, before the damage to the existing structure, and it's going to cost more to fast-track the project. I can't give you a number right now, but I think we will be looking at close to two billion Euros including the cost of financing. This will need to be a cost-plus contract. We don't know enough to give you a fixed fee proposal. I'll do my best to keep costs down."

Paul sat back for a moment, mulling over his limited options. "I need you to keep Bouygues in the loop", he repeated. They have a lot of political clout."

"I agree. Bouygues will have a key role, but I plan on using Hunt for a large piece of the job. I happen to know that they have a good working relationship with Bouygues. We also might bring in a third contractor for the domes."

Gutreau sipped his coffee before answering. "Okay, when can you start?"

"We shook hands and that was that. We're hired! The biggest and most prestigious job we have ever undertaken, and it took less than two days to get the work."

"That's the way the French do business," Marco said. "Everything is done face-to-face."

"Ken, Marco, I really appreciate the work you did yesterday. Gutreau looked into my eyes when he asked me the three questions. It helped that we had our ducks in order. He knew that I wasn't just blowing smoke."

"That's how the French do business," Marco repeated.

The next day there was a small article in the Paris Daily Newspaper.

_Contract Awarded to American Firm_ : _In a surprise development, the contract to rebuild Roland Garros was awarded to Global Management, an American firm based in Tampa, Florida. The contract had been expected to go to Bouygues, the French Construction giant. Paul Gutreau, spokesman for the RG Committee, said that Global Management has a reputation for meeting tight deadlines. Their president, Jim Simpson, said that Bouygues would have a significant role in the project and plans to meet with Bouygues people in two weeks. His final stop will be Zurich, where he will finalize the financing of this two billion dollar project._

Agbu didn't bother to read the rest of the article.

Chatrier 28

Building the Roland Garros Team

Previous major renovations to the Roland Garros complex took four years and cost 46 million Euros. The work was divided into three phases. Phase One was to reconfigure and modernize the grandstands and locker rooms at Centre Court, resulting in increased comfort for both players and spectators. The new 15,059-seat stadium was ready for the 2000 French Open.

A year later Centre Court was renamed Philippe Chatrier court to honor the man credited with the renaissance of French tennis. Serving dual roles as president of the French Federation of Tennis and the International Tennis Federation, Chartrier was largely responsible for placing the French Open on par with the other three majors and overseeing the splendid updating of an aging Roland Garros in the 1970's and '80's.

The second phase took place in 2001 and recognized the ever-growing popularity of the French Open and the importance of catering to the international media. Two practice courts were eliminated to make room for a modern press area and space for camera crews and equipment.

Tenniseum, built under Court 3, opened in the spring of 2003. This high-tech tennis museum is a tribute to French tennis and the French Open. Permanent and temporary exhibits pay tribute to the Four Musketeers, Guy Forget, Yannick Noah, Francoise Durr and other great champions of the past. This final phase of the renovation was completed in 2002, but the opening was delayed for six months until the exhibits were ready.

We had 21 months to complete work that would cost seven times the cost of the four-year renovation project finally completed in 2003.

Marco's Gantt chart was a good place to start, but just scratched the surface. A Gantt chart is simply a horizontal bar chart that provides a graphic illustration of a work schedule. Henry L. Gantt, an American engineer and social scientist, developed this method as a production control tool in 1917.

Marco divided the project into seven broad tasks. Tasks would later be divided into sub-tasks, activities and work disciplines.

"Jim, my CAD system is a blend of PERT and CPM philosophies that I've customized over the years. It's a perfect day-to-day management tool."

"Whatever, Marco, just so it works."

I had assembled our project tem into our new conference room. "Gentlemen, we need to make some basic decisions," I began, as Roger computer-projected the Gantt chart onto the wall. "The way I see it, our first and most important job is to determine how we can divide the workload to accomplish our mission within the two-year time frame. Marco, start us off."

"As you see from the timeline, most tasks can be done in parallel. The key inhibitor is next year's French Open. The French don't want the stadium to look like a construction site, so it limits what we can do in the next eight months. Basically, all we can do the first year is repair the damage caused by the explosions, and get everything else ready so we can go like hell the Monday after the tournament."

"Why not start Sunday right after the final match?" Ken suggested. "That would shorten the award ceremony and the thank-you speeches. Mary Pierce did tend to ramble last year, and she was just the runner-up. Just think if she had won."

"The ladies final is on Saturday, Ken, so I don't think that's a major factor," I answered. "Let's stay on track," I admonished gently.

"Okay," Ken responded in a more serious tone. "Switching subjects, how are we going to keep control of the project? We can't just tell Hunt or Bouygues that they are responsible for an entire task, and then stand back and hope they complete their work in time. How do we control these guys once we bring them in?"

"Good question. Anyone have any ideas?"

"Has anyone considered assigning responsibility by function rather than end product?" asked one of the young engineers. "Let one group do the electrical for all tasks, let another contractor do the concrete, and so on. That way, we keep the overall responsibility for each task." I could see that Ken and Marco were about to jump all over this suggestion so I decided to intervene diplomatically.

"That's not a bad idea, Robert, but we rejected it for a couple reasons. It's my management philosophy that people, and companies, will work better if they are made responsible for the finished product rather than finite activities. Besides, I'm not sure if the big-boys, particularly Bouygues, would accept such a limited role." Translated, it was a terrible idea, but I didn't want to stifle junior staff from making suggestions. Who knows, his next idea might be a winner.

Marco took my lead. "Actually, we intend to use your suggestion in two areas, purchasing and sub-contractors. We will control the purchasing of raw materials including concrete and steel, to avoid situations where Bouygues or anyone else has a sweetheart arrangement with a supplier that might adversely impact project costs or schedule. We will also have final say over hiring subcontractors. I don't want someone's brother-in-law hired unless they are qualified." I glanced over at the young engineer who was pleased that his suggestion had merit. I'm sure Marco would talk with him later, but at least we avoided a public thrashing. His idea had been stupid, at best.

"Are you going to require that Hunt and Bouygues use your project control system?" Ken asked.

"Absolutely, at least at a certain level. I need this to monitor their progress and to identify problems and bottlenecks. The Gantt chart represents the seven major project tasks as being independent of each other, but believe me they are not. Roger will be responsible for the project control system and providing the underlying progress reports for weekly staff meetings which every contractor will be required to attend." Marco left no doubt in our minds that he would retain overall responsibility.

"Let me add that each contractor; Hunt, Clark, Smoot, Bouygues or whomever, will be allowed to use their own time reporting and project management system," Roger explained. "These are big, successful companies that have a method that works for them and their systems tie in to their invoicing and billing systems. That's their lifeblood and we can't change that. My job will be to work with their software people to automate the interface with our system and avoid duplicate entry of the raw data." I knew this sounded much easier than it was.

"I've heard a lot of names thrown out," Robert asked. "Have we decided whom we are going to use and how to divide the work?"

"Not yet. The three of us are flying to Indianapolis Wednesday to meet with Hunt. I spoke with George Hunt and Carl Lindner Sunday, and I'm sure they will play a big role. We want their input before we go too far on this."

"And Bouygues," Marco added, "they will need to be part of this in some way, God forbid. We have a meeting set up with them the following Monday." It was obvious that Marco saw his former employers as a potential problem.

"And after that, Marco gets to work and Ken and I head to Zurich to make sure we can pay for this."

"Sven, what a pleasant surprise. You didn't need to meet us." Ken and I had just arrived at the Zurich airport after a short, two-hour flight from Paris' Charles De Gaulle airport. I recalled our first trip to Zurich five years ago when we met with Sven's investment group to obtain financing for the Cabo San Lucas Casino project. They had sent a limo to meet us that time. It never entered our mind that Sven would meet us personally.

"Jim, Ken, it's great to see you. I have been looking forward to your visit ever since you called two weeks ago. Besides, I couldn't wait until tomorrow to bring you the good news. Let's get you checked into your hotel and I'll bring you up to date."

The St. Gotthard was as majestic as I remembered from my first visit. Located on the Bahnhofstrasse, it was only a short walk to the business district and fine restaurants. "Sven, I'm so glad you were able to get us a room here. This place has some good memories."

"It's still one of our finest hotels, and it's so convenient. My offices are just down the street and we have dinner reservations five minutes away at the Kronenhalle."

My recollection of the restaurant was of a beautiful, ornate dining room decorated with original Rembrandts and Chagalls, but only ordinary food. I kept my opinion to myself. "Excellent, give us ten minutes to check in and we will join you at the bar."

Sven was sipping a stein of German ale when Ken and I arrived. We ordered the same. "Well, Sven, tell us the good news. What have you got for us?"

"No-no, you first. Tell me how your visit with Bouygues went and who you have on your team. I'm sure they didn't want any partners on this."

"You nailed it, Sven, the French sure don't like sharing responsibility, especially for a high-profile project on French soil. I thought Marco was going to lose it a couple times when their negotiation team kept referring to Roland Garros as 'their project', but he did a pretty good job of keeping his temper in check. Sven, let me set the stage by telling you a little about our meetings with Hunt and Clark."

Twenty minutes later Ken and I wrapped up our little summary of our two-day meetings with George Hunt and Carl Lindner, followed by Friday's meeting with the Clark people. "Needless to say, Sven, we were pleased with how things were progressing."

"I should think so," Sven agreed with a little understatement. "It sounds like you have a fantastic relationship with George Hunt. Giving them broad responsibility for everything inside Roland Garros other than the domes is a good idea. They will act as a great buffer between you and Bouygues. What made you choose Clark to do the domes?"

"Carl Lindner was adamant that Clark was the best in the business. Hunt and Clark have worked on over a dozen dome projects including the new baseball stadium in Washington, DC, Pittsburgh, San Diego, San Francisco, Milwaukee and others. They also did Tropicana Field in Tampa which is an eyesore, but that is more of a critique on what can happen if you try doing a complex project on a shoestring. This brings us to your role in this deal. What can you do for us, Sven?"

"Not yet, my friends; you still haven't told me about your meetings with Bouygues. Let me order a couple more pints before you start. This should be interesting. I want to hear their reaction when you told them that Hunt and Clark would be doing the glamour jobs."

"You guessed it, Sven," I continued after the waitress refreshed our drinks. Clark had the two domes and Hunt had the restaurants, seating, scoreboards, security, sound and video, mechanical and most of the skilled labor parts of the project. That's not to say that the French tradesmen wouldn't be used as sub contractors, but it would be difficult for Bouygues to put their stamp on it and call it theirs. They actually have the biggest piece, but definitely not the most glamorous."

"Who else was better qualified to expand Marta and improve the roads and transportation system around the stadium?" Ken asked with a grin. "They built most of it." We all knew this was true, but not the real reason the project was divided as it was.

"So, how did you get them to agree to settle for this?" Sven asked. "I assume this has a happy ending."

"It does, Sven," I answered with a smile. "Actually this was George Hunt's idea for a compromise. We didn't offer it until yesterday when it looked like we were at an impasse, but we had this idea in our hip pocket for a week."

"Go on, I can tell you fellows are proud of it," Sven prodded.

"We are," Ken agreed. "We offered Bouygues almost total authority to redesign the exterior of the stadium including facing, statues, gargoyles or anything else they want. They can even put in a little cornerstone with their name. You should have seen them; they were like kids in a candy store. They couldn't wait to say yes, and break off the meeting so they could meet with their architects."

"Our only stipulations were that this process could not delay the other tasks and must be completed in time for the grand opening. The Roland Garros foundation would have final say and approval of their proposed changes."

"Brilliant," Sven replied. "Now let me tell you my good news, after we order another round."

I was starting to feel the beers, but I sobered up when Sven outlined his financing plan. The interest rates were more favorable than he had initially quoted and the construction performance bonds would cost only 2% a year. "You did it, Sven," I said as a raised my glass. "We can talk about the details over dinner. Let's get something to eat."

"I've already made dinner reservations for 7 PM. Finish your drink, the bill is taken care of."

"Sven, you and Ken go ahead without me, I'll meet you there. I need to make a couple calls."

"Say hi to Mary for us," Sven said with a grin. "We'll see you at Kronenhalle."

Agbu was constantly amazed at how easy it was for a hacker to get private information off the Internet. Agbu studied Simpson's itinerary and saw that Simpson was staying two nights in Paris and then flying to Zurich for two days. He decided to wait in Zurich rather than Paris. Security in Switzerland was lax and it would be easier to get close to his quarry. Agbu wanted to look Simpson in the eye and let him know why he was going to die. Agbu wanted to see the fear and feel the satisfaction when he avenged Anton.

Agbu saw the three men enter the hotel and waited for an opportunity to get Simpson alone. He was still there when Ken and Sven left the hotel and overheard part of their conversation. "I'll bet you $10, Sven. Jim will be on the phone for at least 30 minutes."

"You're on."

Agbu decided that this was his opportunity. He had hoped it was not necessary to kill the others; he had no quarrel with them. It took Agbu only a few minutes to get Simpson's room number.

Ken would have lost his bet. It was mid-afternoon in Tampa and Mary wasn't home, nor did she answer her phone. I left a message on her cell, visited the rest room and hurried out. I opened the door just as a young man was about to knock. We both were startled.

"Excuse me," I started to say, but stopped in mid sentence. There was something wrong. The man's expression contorted, changing from surprise, to anger, to hate.

Agbu jumped back a half step, surprised to see the face of the man he had hated for so long. He had intended to gain entry into the room by claiming to have a message from Simpson's friends and was momentarily confused. He could think of nothing to say. Agbu recovered quickly and started to raise the gun he held at his side.

_Who was this person? I thought. Do I know him?_ May I help you?" I asked, before seeing the gun in his right hand. My reactions took over. "Oh shit," I exclaimed, as I stepped back and slammed the door. "Blam!" The noise of the bulled echoed down the corridor.

Agbu saw the man closing the door and tried to get off a shot before the door closed. He was a moment too late, as the bullet lodged in the heavy, oak door. He threw his shoulder into the door out of fury, but to no avail. He had failed.

"Next time you will die," Agbu screamed in frustration as he ran to the stairwell.

I dialed the operator and waited for the operator to pick up.

"Hello, may I help you?"

"I'm in room 1244. Get security up here, someone just tried to kill me."

"Sir, you may reach security by dialing 8234, or by pressing the security speed button on your telephone pad, identified by a little policeman."

"Don't you understand? This is an emergency," I shouted.

"I'm sorry sir, but I cannot connect you to that line. Please hang up and dial extension 8234 or press..."

I hung up and dialed #8234. I was in no frame of mind to look for the right button to press. Minutes later two security men were in my room listening to my story. They didn't believe me until they saw the bullet in the door.

Hotel security called in the French police and ordered me to stay in my room with the door locked until the police arrived. I had no intention of going anywhere. Hotel security searched for the man I described, but Agbu was long gone.

The phone rang four times before I noticed. It was Ken. "What's the holdup? We are on our third drink and need some food."

"Go ahead and order without me, I'm going to be a while. Someone just tried to kill me."

A few minutes later I heard a knock on the door. Expecting it to be the police, I was surprised to see my two friends. "I didn't think the restaurant was that close," I said as I opened the door.

"It isn't," Ken said, still obviously out of breath from running the three blocks. "What happened?" Ken asked. "Every time we go somewhere someone tries to kill us. This has got to stop."

The police arrived so fortunately I needed to tell the story only once. "There isn't much to tell," I started. "I was heading out the door and ran into a young man. We both were surprised. I noticed how angry he looked, and then saw him raising a gun. I slammed the door in his face just before he fired," opening the door for effect. The bullet hole said it all.

"Did he say anything?" the policeman asked.

"Not a thing. He was surprised when I opened the door on him. I'll never forget how his face started to contort in rage. That's what warned me something was wrong."

"What did he look like? Can you identify him?"

"I think I would know him if I saw him again; Caucasian, about 25, 6 feet, short, dark hair. He wore faded jeans and a blue jacket. If I had to guess, I would say he was Spanish."

"Do you have any idea why he wanted to kill you?"

"None; I never saw this guy before."

"We will need you to come down to police headquarters tomorrow and look at some pictures. Try to remember anything else that might help. The hotel is going to put you into a new room so we can dust for prints and get that bullet out."

"There is one other thing," I said remembering the voice as the intruder ran away. "The gunman shouted something after I slammed the door and he realized he wasn't going to get in. Something along the lines of, I'll get you next time, or next time you die."

"You pissed someone off pretty good," Ken mused.

We nibbled on sandwiches in the hotel coffee shop, trying to make sense of what happened. There was nothing random about the attack, the man was after me, but why?

"You need to understand the French culture, Jim. They don't take lightly to bringing in an American firm for a project like this," Sven emphasized. "Maybe that's the motive?"

"I don't know, Sven. That seems pretty far fetched," I replied. "Nobody kills people over a business deal, do they? What do you think Ken?"

"There is another option I've been kicking around in my head," Ken replied pensively. "I was kidding earlier when I said that every time we go somewhere, someone shoots at us, but what if there is a connection? Remember Mexico City?"

"Who could forget? You heard about that incident, didn't you Sven? Ken ended up in the hospital for four months, and I was forced to shoot the terrorist. Gee, was that two years ago, but I still remember the face of the man I killed. You don't think it's the same group, do you?"

"If I remember correctly, the man you shot was Basque," Sven piped in. "Didn't you say that you thought the guy tonight might be Spanish?"

"You might be on to something here," I replied trying to see the assassin's face. "I didn't get a long look at him tonight, but the two men definitely had similar complexion and features."

"Let's ask Chris," Ken replied as he grabbed his cell phone. An hour later we were relaxing in my room with Ken's computer hooked up to the hotel's high-speed internet access, when Chris called and said she just emailed Ken photos of known Basque terrorists and sympathizers. A second file contained pictures of Anton's family members.

"That's him," I said. "He looks a little older now, but that's definitely the guy that tried to kill me tonight."

Agbu's face stared back at us from the computer screen.

"Who is he, Chris?"

"You just identified the younger brother of the man you killed in Mexico City. There's your motive," she added. "He is also suspected to be the leader of the ETA, the Basque military wing."

"When you piss someone off, Jim, you don't mess around."

### Part Four

### The Long Way Back

Chatrier 29

College Tennis

Scholarship offers came in from a dozen schools after Pete's Orange Bowl win. It didn't hurt that he scored in the 98th percentile on his SAT and ACT college entrance exams. Stanford was in the running, but offered only a ½ scholarship. Trinity College in Texas, another national power, called and offered him an opportunity to walk on and earn a scholarship. I told Pete that money shouldn't be a concern, but I know he wanted to carry his own weight. Getting a full tennis scholarship was a matter of pride and a reward for the five years of work and dedication. Pete decided on the University of Florida.

We were pleased with his decision. Gainesville is only 90 miles north of Tampa up I-75, which meant Mary and I could see him play. A contributing factor was that Florida's Fisher School of Accounting was one of the best in the nation. They offered a 150-hour, 5-year program that would allow Pete to graduate with a combined Bachelor of Science in Accounting and Masters degree in accounting. Upon graduation, Pete would be eligible to sit for the Florida' CPA exam. It's every father's dream to see his son follow in his footsteps and I was proud that he had decided on a business major.

The Fall tennis season had already started for the Gators with a small invitational tournament in Athens, Georgia hosted by the Southern Intercollegiate Conference. This tradition-rich conference boasted a long list of famous alumni including Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (Morehouse College) plus a long list of professional athletes including such notables as Althea Gibson (Florida A. and M.) Shannon Sharpe of the Denver Broncos and Bob "Hurricane" Hayes of the Dallas Cowboys. Florida had a good team with four returning lettermen including the #1 and #2 singles players.

Pete opened the season at #3 singles and easily won his four singles matches against the #3 players from Tuskegee University, Kentucky State, Lane College and Auburn University in the championship match. Auburn won the tournament by splitting the six singles matches, and then winning 2 of the 3 doubles matches to earn the deciding point. Pete had teamed with Chad Bunting, the #4 player, to win their doubles match 10-5 for Florida's only doubles win.

More importantly, Pete also won the individual singles and doubles titles for his flight, consisting of the #3, #4 players from each team. His closest match was a 6-3, 6-2 win in the semi finals against a player from Valdosta State. The Auburn #1 player won the championship flight beating John Peterson from the Gators, 7-5, 6-4. Florida's #2 singles player lost in the 2nd round.

This week was the Gator Invitational with a much stronger field. Pete moved up to #2 singles on the strength of last week's performance although he was still slotted to play #2 doubles. Mary and I made the 100-mile drive from Tampa up to see the 3-day tournament and get a taste of the college life. Fortunately, the football team was away this weekend or it would have been impossible to get a room in Gainesville at the last minute. We were treated to some high quality tennis. Florida lost 4-2 in the semi finals to Baylor, a perennial powerhouse in college tennis. They didn't play the doubles matches. Colleges frequently play the doubles matches only if the teams split their six singles matches, and the doubles point is necessary to break the tie.

Pete and the #6 singles player earned the only two points for Florida. Pete also made it to the finals of the individual singles, beating players ranked #56 and #14 along the way. Pete was down a set and a break to Baylor's #1 singles player, ranked #7 in the NCAA, before he rallied to win 7-5 in the third set.

"This was more fun than watching Pete play the juniors," Mary gushed.

"I know what you mean. Tennis seems so much more exciting in a team environment with kids cheering for their teammates when their own matches are completed. It's another example of why so many people like college sports more than pro sports."

"Seeing Pete's teammates pulling for him gave me goose bumps."

We were proud parents as we made the two-hour drive back to Tampa.

The construction team had eight months to get the stadium ready for next year's French Open. Bouygues had the primary responsibility for ensuring that structural damage was repaired and the grandstands were safe for spectators. Long-term renovations to the Stadium's façade had begun. Bouygues also had responsibility for the two-year upgrading of the transportation system servicing Roland Garros, including roads, bridges and expansion of the Marta subway system. Bouygues would have their hands full.

On paper, they were well qualified to perform these tasks. I had done my homework prior to my initial meeting with Carl Lindner of Hunt Construction. Paul Gutreau had made it clear that Bouygues must play a major role in this project, and I needed to know whom I was sleeping with. I discovered that they were extremely capable.

Bouygues Construction is a world leader with operations in 60 countries on five continents. Their core business activities are building construction, bridges and civil engineering with projects ranging from constructing the James Bay Dam over the La Grande River in Quebec, Canada to construction of the Superdome, Olympic Stadium and Aquatic Center for the Sydney Olympics. Business outside France tripled in the past ten years. In 2006, international projects represented almost half of the company's total sales. This expansion was achieved by managing complex major projects, forming partnerships with local companies, allowing Bouygues to move into new regions including the Caribbean and Latin America.

I was somewhat familiar with Bouygues from my days with Arthur Anderson. We were auditors for a company called Blount Construction out of Montgomery, Alabama that was a 49% joint venture partner with Bouygues to build King Saud University in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I was only a staff accountant at the time and had little access to important information, but it was clear that the four billion dollar project was profitable. Profit margins were over 30%, which more than compensated for the risk of doing business in the Far East.

Bouygues Construction is composed of subsidiaries throughout the world. I learned we would be working with a group called "Bouygues Enterprises, France-Europe," a network of large regional subsidiaries headquartered in France, Spain, Belgium, Luxembourg, Switzerland and the United Kingdom. The Bouygues project manager was Paul Bruno.

"Marco, tell me what you know about Bruno, he is the guy you will be dealing with."

"Paul Bruno, you've got to be kidding me. I can't believe that jerk is still around."

"Let's hear it," I said, fearing the worst. It was obvious that Bruno and Marco had a history.

Marco took a moment before answering. "Bruno is competent, but difficult to work with. The clients don't like him. I worked with him on a couple jobs. We did Rouen's 6th bridge over the Seine, the largest lifting bridge in Europe. We were co-project managers on a project in Eastern France to build a high-speed TGV rail link in Boulogne-sur-Mer. Both times he ran roughshod over the clients. Bruno does things his way. But, I will say this, he gets the job done."

"Can you work with him?"

"Sure, I can work with anyone on a project like this. Just be prepared for some problems along the way. I may need your support when we start butting heads."

"Don't forget to wear your hardhat," Ken suggested.

Agbu had missed a golden opportunity, but he knew there would be others. Simpson would be coming to France many times in the next two years. Next time he would not miss.

Pete thoroughly enjoyed his freshman year at Florida. Football season came and went with another disappointing 8-4 season that did not meet alumni expectations. The alumni and student body had been spoiled during the Steve Spurrier era. There was renewed hope with the hiring of Urban Meyer who had been so successful at Utah, but so far the results weren't good enough to satisfy Gator fans.

Pete attended just two football games due to conflicts with the abbreviated fall tennis schedule. His tennis continued to improve, and he soon was promoted to #1 singles and doubles. His 14-2 singles record was marred only by losses at Georgia and Clemson to players with NCAA rankings in the top 30. Pete finished the Fall season ranked #37 in the NCAA.

The team continued to work on conditioning during the winter off-season, but it seemed almost like a vacation from tennis after Pete's two years at Saddlebrook. Billy Donavan's basketball team won the NCAA tournament and made Gator fans almost forget about the disappointing football season. It was ironic that the flamboyant son of former French Open champion, Yanik Noah was the star of the basketball team.

Pete dated Carole for three months until he met Susan, a petite blond in his freshman geology lab. Somewhere he found time to study and finished with a 3.6 GPA the first semester. Pete was ready when the Spring tennis season began. The team recruited a promising freshman who started mid-semester and was slotted to play #4. The team would be strong and was expected to win the SEC and make it to the year-ending NCAA tournament in College Station, Texas.

The Gators opened the spring season with a convincing win at the SEC Indoors and proceeded to build an impressive 12-1 match play record in dual meets, their lone loss being to UCLA at the Intercollegiate Tennis Association Indoor tournament in Chicago. Pete's was 26-2 for the season and ranked #3 in collegiate tennis.

The SEC Outdoor Tournament was held in Athens, GA and Mary and I decided to make the trip. Athens is only 80 miles from Augusta, home of the Masters Golf Tournament and my Saddlebrook connections provided me a contact and an invitation to play. The course was in beautiful condition, and is much hillier than it appears on TV. I managed to shoot 78 from the back tees and can only imagine what I would have shot if the rough was up and the greens were cut to the speed played by the pros.

My host treated me to a beer after the round and gave me a little insight into the changes that tournament officials will make before next month's Masters. "Greens are playing at a stump-meter speed of about 10 today, but next month the pros will be playing to a 13 or 14. You can't imagine the difference that makes, not only in putting, but in trying to hold the greens on your approach shots," he pointed out. "They move the tees way back, adding another 450 yards, and short hitters are forced to hit three-woods into greens designed to hold a seven or eight iron. It's tough."

"Five shot difference?" I asked.

"At least," he replied thoughtfully, making me realize he wasn't exaggerating.

I was in a good mood as I headed to Athens hoping to catch some of Florida's opening match against Vanderbilt. About 20 miles outside of town it started to rain and I wondered if they had been able to play. It was still sprinkling as I pulled into the University of Georgia parking lot just as an ambulance was pulling out with its siren flashing. I had a foreboding that something had happened to Pete, a feeling that was confirmed when I saw Mary racing towards my car.

"Pete tore up his knee," she shouted while she was still 20 feet from my car. I could see she had been crying.

"What happened?" I asked, not knowing what else to say. "Was that him in the ambulance?"

"Yes, let's follow them to University Hospital and I'll tell you on the way," she said as she hopped into the passenger's seat.

"Pete was leading 6-1, 4-0 when it started to sprinkle. They decided to try and finish the match and Pete slipped on the sideline trying to hit a running forehand; you could hear his knee pop from the stands. It was awful."

We saw Pete briefly when we arrived, but were exiled to the waiting room as an orthopedic surgeon examined him. He was in a lot of pain. It seemed like hours as we waited for the news. We were finally invited into the doctor's office.

"Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, I'm afraid I have some bad news. We won't be able to tell for sure until the swelling goes down, but I can tell you know it's a serious. I believe there is major cartilage and ligament damage."

Two weeks later his diagnosis was confirmed. Both the medial and lateral meniscus are torn together with extensive damage to the anterior cruciate ligaments and surrounding tendons. "This is as bad as it gets," he said with a grimace.

"Will he ever play tennis again?" Mary asked.

"Sure, many people recover from this type of injury and play tennis into their 60's. Pete is young and that is a point in his favor."

"I think Mary was asking if Pete can ever play at a professional level?" I asked, knowing the answer we would likely get.

"That's another question," the doctor said diplomatically. "It all depends upon how hard he is willing to work. Nothing's impossible."

"But not likely," Mary added, finishing the doctor's thought.

Chapter 30

Ambre Returns to Saddlebrook

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. Her 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 compromise. 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

The "New ETA" continued to expand and membership grew to more than one million paid members. The 20M Euros in dues was nice, but only a small percentage of the drug profits that Agbu poured into the Basque economy. But Agbu worried about the future. It was only a matter of time before his relationship with Al-Qaeda would sour and they would cut him off from the Golden Triangle. It was inevitable. Agbu needed to go to Mexico and develop an alternative source of supply.

Agbu's fame preceded him in Mexico and there was no problem setting up meetings with the right people, particularly after agreeing to speak at three fund-raising dinners of Basque loyalists. Four Mexican States were seeking autonomy from the Republic of Mexico. Armed with a $2M donation to finance the construction of a new Iberio-American radio station, his message was well received. "Brothers, we must use the media and internet to win the public relations battle, to change our image to one of peace, and capture the minds of our youth. Violence must be used only as a last resort. This is the way to achieving independence in the 21st century." Agbu's philosophy for the New ETA was exported to Mexico and South America.

The New ETA also contributed $3M to the militant wing. The contribution came with advice. "Build small, independent cells composed of Basque loyalists. Reinvest half your profits back into the community and your organization will be immune from the authorities. Never sell to your own people or to your children," he preached.

Agbu knew many would ignore his message, but he didn't care. He had his own objectives. The cadre of Basque sympathizers introduced him to the Columbian and Nicaraguan cartels that manufactured the raw material from the poppy plants. After three days of negotiation, Agbu had a new source of cocaine and heroin that would be shipped to him in Barcelona and other European ports. The price was higher, but it made the New ETA independent of Al-Qaeda.

Agbu also took care of some personal business. Ernesto and Moises met Agbu at the airport. Ernesto was a friend from Agbu's hometown of Vitoria who fled to Mexico after a failed bombing attack on the Spanish National Guard convoy. Moises had been a lookout for Anton the day he died.

"Show me where it happened," Agbu requested.

They drove to the private airport and Moises pointed to the area in front of the terminal. The others waited as Agbu got out of the car and stood on the spot where his older brother died three years ago. "Take me to his grave," Agbu said softly.

Agbu spent two hours at the simple grave where Anton was buried. Moises and Ernesto returned to the car and watched Agbu talk to his dead brother. "Were they that close?" Moises asked. "I don't remember Anton talking about him that much."

"Agbu idolized his brother, but I'm not sure that Anton cared about anyone but himself. Anton wasn't real bright, although I wouldn't say that in front of Agbu. Their real father died when Agbu was five, and he always thought of Anton as his father. He couldn't do any wrong. After his death, Agbu never talked about Anton, but there was one incident that he almost killed someone that said something bad about Anton. He had a crazy look in his eyes, and it took three of us to pull him off of the other kid."

"Anton really screwed up the day he got killed. It was obvious that the target had bodyguards, but Anton went on with the kidnapping attempt anyway. He could have escaped, but apparently decided to shoot the CIA woman who killed two of our men. That guy Simpson grabbed a gun and shot Anton in the chest. It was more self defense than anything else."

"Agbu told me Simpson shot him in the back after Anton had surrendered."

"That was just a story we released to the press," Moises pointed out.

"Well, it's too late now. I wouldn't want to be the one to tell Agbu it wasn't murder. He hates this Simpson guy."

Agbu returned to the car, effectively ending the conversation. He had a grim look on his face. "Is everything ready?"

"Just as you requested," Ernesto replied. "We have the explosives you asked for. Do you want to go there now?"

"No, that will wait. We have planning to do."

Two weeks later Agbu stopped again at Anton's grave on his way to the airport to say goodbye to his brother. "I won't forget you," Agbu promised. "I will get revenge on the person that did this to you." Agbu's flight wasn't until 11:00 PM so he had plenty of time to anticipate the mayhem.

Agbu's plane taxied down the runway as explosions rocked the Mexico City Sports Arena, collapsing the domed roof. Ten hours earlier the National futball team was playing Argentina in front of 65,000 spectators with the dome closed to protect them from the 100-degree heat. Two security guards died in the explosion, but it could have been much worse.

Agbu smiled when he saw the sky light up from the explosion and fire. "It is done, my brother, the stadium that Simpson built is destroyed."

She had called several times and left messages, but Pete had not returned her calls. Ambre had been at Saddlebrook for three weeks when she decided to take things into her own hands.

We were just finishing dinner and Pete had already gone to his room when the doorbell rang. "Who can that be at this hour?"

"Lisa, see who that is. It's probably for you anyway."

A few moments later we heard the door slam and Lisa shout, "Pete, it's for you."

Lisa's tone told me she was mad. "Who is it?" I asked.

"It's that French bitch that Pete used to date."

"Lisa, watch your tongue," Mary said sharply. "Do you mean Ambre is here?"

Lisa didn't say anything, but we knew the answer. Ambre was the only person that would elicit such a harsh reaction. I'm not sure I blamed her. "Tell Pete," I ordered as I walked to the front door.

Ambre was still standing outside where Lisa had left her, not sure whether to ring the bell again. "Ambre, it's nice to see you again. Please come in." I couldn't help but notice she looked older and heavier than the last time she was here. The two years had not been kind to her.

"Thanks, Mr. Simpson. I just need to talk with Pete for a few minutes. I'm sorry if I interrupted your dinner."

"No, that's all right, we just finished. Have a seat and I'll see what's keeping Pete."

I rolled my eyes as I passed Mary on the way to Pete's room. "Dad, I don't want to talk to her," Pete said firmly as I walked into his room. "She's called a half-dozen times. Doesn't she get the hint?"

"Have you spoken with her?" I asked.

"No, I don't have anything to say to her."

After two years, he was still hurting. "Pete, you need to face her. You will always regret it if you don't."

Mary had come up behind me. "Pete, listen to your father, he is right this time. You need to get closure with this. Besides, it took a lot of nerve to come over here like she did. You owe it to her to go down and talk with her. Ten minutes won't kill you."

Ten minutes turned into three hours as the former lovers talked quietly in the living room while Mary and I holed-up in the family room. Lisa stayed in her room.

We heard the door close and Pete came into the family room and sat down. Mary and I waited for Pete to say something, and when he did we knew he was on his way back.

"I'm going to start training again at Saddlebrook," he announced in a determined voice. "I want to give tennis one more shot."

The next morning Pete and I met with Dick Browning and his tennis director, Fred Liu, at Saddlebrook. Mary and I watched him limp to the car carrying his tennis gear. "At least he is getting out of the house," I said. "That's better than sleeping until noon and playing video games all day."

"I hope he doesn't get hurt again," Mary said, voicing both of our concerns.

"I'm not sure his knee is ready either," I agreed. "I hope he takes it easy for a while."

"I was referring to something else," Mary answered. "Broken hearts take longer to mend than a torn ACL."

"Yeah, right," I said as I finally got the point. "Well, he is 19 years old and we can't protect him anymore. Maybe Ambre is what he needs right now."

Pete had been moping around the house since school ended in May. The cast had come off in June, but he was at least a couple of months away from playing any tennis and was driving Mary nuts. He had no ambition. He had decided not to go back to Gainesville and enrolled at the University of South Florida for the fall semester.

"Why don't you go back to Gainesville where they have trainers and equipment that will help you recuperate?" I asked.

"They don't really want me back. They don't think I can come back from a torn ACL and play SEC tennis. They want to give my scholarship to someone else."

"Did they tell you that?" I asked, with visions of lawsuits dancing in my head. I was mad.

"Not in so many words, but I got the message. A couple of the other players said the same thing."

"Well, money isn't a problem, Pete. You decide where you want to go to school and we'll get you there. Florida still has a great accounting school."

"I'm not sure if I want to go back there, Dad, too many memories."

Saddlebrook trainers didn't allow Pete to pick up a racquet for five weeks. "Anything you do now will only hurt you in the long run," Ron told him. "We need to rehab that right knee until it's stronger than your good one." Ron Peters was his trainer and had overall responsibility for the rehab program.

After a week Pete was begging to get on the court. "At least let me volley a little, or practice my serve," he pleaded. "What can that hurt?"

"Nothing, unless you want to learn how to be a one-legged tennis player," Ron replied standing firm in his decision to keep Pete off the court until his knee was stronger. "Watch my service motion, see how I am springing up and pushing off my right leg. On my volleys, the knees are bent. If you started playing now you would favor your knee and develop habits that would be tough to overcome. Trust us, we know what we're doing."

For five weeks, Pete's schedule was the same. Mornings were spent rehabilitating the knee. After a half an hour of warm-ups, the physical therapists went to work; heat, exercise and ice. By the second week, Pete had increased the machine weight and duration of the exercise program. By the end of week three his right knee was at 90% strength and flexibility. By week four he could lift the same weight with both legs, and the swelling had almost disappeared.

"Let's give it one more week," Ron decided. "You can't rush an ACL injury. The physical therapist is telling me your knee will be as good as new. You won't be able to use that as an excuse if you get beat."

Afternoons started with rehabilitation of the mind.

"Positive thinking," was the theme of the "mental tennis" workshop he attended every afternoon at 1:00. It was his favorite part of the day, possible because Ambre also took the class. Pete had never placed much credence in sports psychologists, but the more he listened, the more sense it made. It had its limitations. People who claimed tennis was 90% mental never got aced by an Andy Roddick 135 MPH serve.

"Focus on playing one point at a time." Pete could remember many times when he approached a shot remembering that the last time he had hit the ball long. It's like a golfer worrying about hitting the ball out of bounds, rather than trusting his routine.

Pete's favorite lesson was to de-emphasize winning and concentrate on the joy of playing tennis and competing. It sounded corny at first, but the more Pete thought about it, the more he embraced the concept. He had always thought ahead about the importance of a point. _Gee, if I win this point I'll have a break point. Then, if I win the next point I'll have a one-game lead, and only be two games from the set._

"Stay in the present," they emphasized. "Relax, breath deep and develop a pre-shot routine before every point. Play each point one at a time." These were some of the tools that were designed to help athletes enjoy the moment, and savor the thrill of playing competitive sports.

It helped that Ambre was there to talk to. She enjoyed the class as much as Pete did, and they debated the various lessons after class. Each came away from the class with a unique perspective and recognized that it was important to adapt the lessons to their own personalities. They agreed the key was to have fun again.

Pete was motivated to get into the best shape of his life and determined to develop his upper body strength. The Saddlebrook trainers set up a program to add muscle mass, while maintaining flexibility. Enhancing core body strength was the new buzzword.

While Pete was rehabbing the knee, Ambre was on the courts working harder than she ever worked before; five hours a day, three in the morning and two in the afternoon after the mental tennis class. She couldn't practice enough. After her afternoon session, she would head for the spa and find Pete in the weight room where they worked out together for an hour before dinner. Ambre had lost the extra weight and was looking good, in fact, she was looking great, Pete thought.

"Coach" left after the second week, but promised to be back in a few months. "Ambre, I'm proud of you, I can see that old fire in your eyes that I saw eight years ago. I can tell you are happy again."

"Coach, I owe you so much. Will you be there for me next year at the French Open?" It was their private joke, but it was also Ambre's motivation. It kept her on the practice court long after her body told her it had enough.

"I'll be there," Coach said. "You couldn't stop me from being there when they hand you the trophy."

Pete started playing again after week five, a couple hours a day at the start, but gradually increasing his court time. There was no swelling and after two weeks, Ron gave the go-ahead and he started training six to seven hours a day, the final two hours with Ambre where they worked each other to the point of exhaustion.

"Those are two driven kids," Ron said to another pro as they watched Pete and Ambre push each other. "They seem to be feeding off each other."

"I'm new here," the other pro said. "Are they as good as they were two years ago?"

"Pete is better, he is stronger and seems to have an attitude he didn't have before. Ambre has always been good. Now that she is back in shape, there isn't anybody that can beat her when she is playing like this, not even the sisters."

"Speaking of sisters, I heard Pete's sister is pretty good, too. What happened to her? I haven't seen her around here for a while."

"You won't see Lisa as long as Ambre is here. Something happened between them a couple years ago and there is no love lost between them. Anyway, Lisa has never been in Ambre's league. Ambre would kill her."

Ron hadn't seen Lisa play in six months and might have been surprised. Lisa was training full time at Harry Hoppman's Tennis Academy in Clearwater, Florida and her game had improved. Lisa had matured and was now 5'7' and a muscular 130 pounds. She didn't move as well as Ambre, but Lisa was bigger and stronger. Her serve was a weapon, and on hard courts it might be a close match. Time would tell.

It seemed I spent half my time in Paris arbitrating disputes between Bouygues and the other contractors. I was regretting the day I had offered them a key role in the project. They were falling further behind schedule and it began to look like the exterior work on the stadium would not be ready.

"Marco, what's the problem?" I asked as we prepared for the weekly steering committee meeting.

"Real or imaginary?" Marco replied without smiling.

"Let's start with the real problems," I suggested.

"Well, there are always problems on a job this big, but nothing we haven't been able to handle. The European Union steel strike cost us a few weeks, but we switched subcontractors and are getting the steel from Japan, and would you believe it, the Japan steel is cheaper and higher grade?"

"The Japanese are still subsidizing their steel industry," Ken pointed out.

"Anything else?" I asked. "How is Clark doing on the domes?"

"They're on schedule," Marco replied, drawing attention to the computer-generated Gantt chart that dominated one wall of his office. "I'll take you on a tour later and show you the components. Everything has been shipped in and is ready for assembly as soon as the foundation is completed. Like I said, the steel strike set us back a couple weeks, but we should be back on schedule by next month."

I looked at the Gantt chart again.

Summary-Level Gantt chart - Major Tasks and Responsibility

1. Repair Existing Stadium damage - Bouygues

2. Update Exterior Facing - Bouygues

3. Install Dome over Philippe Chatrier Court - Clark

4. Install Dome over Suzanne Lenglen Court - Clark

5. Redesign Seating, Restaurants & Press Box \- Hunt

6. Improve Transportation; Hwys; Marta; Parking \- Bouygues

7. Improve Media staging area and Security - Simpson

"Okay, let's talk about task two. What's the problem?"

"Real or imaginary?" Ken answered repeating Marco's initial answer.

"Come on guys," I said, losing patience. "We don't have time to joke around. I need to get a handle on this before our project control meeting."

"Jim, we're trying to give you a sense of what's going on here, and why Bouygues is behind schedule," Marco replied. "It has nothing to do with steel shortages, skilled labor, design errors, computer problems or anything else that's real. They are behind schedule because they are French."

"Oh, spare me," I said with exasperation. "You mean to tell me that they want to be behind schedule?"

"Yeah, that's one way of putting it. The French love to talk about things and really don't have the same sense of meeting schedules and deadlines. They embrace the debate, rather than the solution." Marco was on his high horse, I thought. It was probably his French blood.

"It probably also helps that the Bouygues still think this should be their project," Marco added. "Ken is right; Bouygues has no respect for deadlines."

"Give me specifics, Marco," I demanded. I was getting frustrated.

"Well, let's talk about statues and etchings. The French decided after three weeks of discussion, that there would be an image of former French Open champions carved above each entrance to the stadium. There are six entrances, so there would be six people; Noah, Borg, Lendl, etc. Okay so far?" I nodded.

"There will also be four life-size statues in the park outside the main entrance; Susan Lenglen, Yannick Noah, Francoise Durr and the four Musketeers. Now the fun begins. These decisions needed to be approved by the French Tennis Federation and the Roland Garros foundation. Four weeks later they still can't decide on the six players that will be immortalized above the entrances, so now there is a recommendation to increase the number of entrances to the stadium from six to twelve. Apparently the list of immortals is growing."

"You're kidding."

"Trust us, we are not exaggerating, and this is just one example. We are not going to be ready for the 2020 French Open if this continues," Ken added. "Their delays are starting to impact the other contractors."

"What do our friends at Hunt say?"

"They say it's time to kick some butt."

Pete was living at home and commuting to Saddlebrook six days a week. With my travel schedule, I was glad that someone was in the house with Mary. Pete's reason for staying home was a little different, Ambre was at Saddlebrook.

Pete and Ambre were inseparable, but despite their closeness, they hadn't slept together. Ambre thought back to the promise they had made to each other the evening she showed up at the Simpson home and convinced Pete into coming back to Saddlebrook. It was getting tougher and tougher to keep that promise. She remembered the conversation almost word for word.

"Pete, I'm going to try to put the last two years behind me and give tennis another shot. I was hoping you might want to give it try too. We could work out together and help each other. We used to be a pretty good team."

"My leg is pretty screwed up. I'm not sure I'll ever get my speed back."

"Your backhand was pretty screwed up when I first saw you at Saddlebrook. I helped you with that one, didn't I?"

"You certainly did," Pete remembered and smiled for the first time. "I do owe you for that, but ACL injuries are different. I tore my cartilage and two ligaments."

"You won't know unless you try," Ambre said, putting her hand on Pete's.

Pete withdrew his hand and looked at Ambre. He wanted so much to believe in her again, and also knew instinctively that Ambre was the one person that could bring him back. "One condition, Ambre, we can't get involved again on a personal level. I just want to be friends and concentrate on tennis."

"It's a deal. I'll see you out there tomorrow."

"What happened to you Ambre? Do you care to talk about it?"

"It's a long story, are you sure you want to hear it?"

They talked for two hours and Ambre shared secrets she had not discussed with anyone else. She talked about the thrill of winning and the depths of despair waking up after another day on drugs. Most important, she talked about her fear of not being strong enough to say no if tempted again. Pete listened and offered support and comfort, and suggested a way to make her stronger. It had been a long time since Ambre had been to church and asked forgiveness of the Lord. The following Sunday they attended Mass together and for the first time Ambre knew in her heart she was going to make it all the way back.

That was two months ago and Pete wondered what Ambre was getting out of this partnership. "My knee is better than ever and my tennis game has improved. What's in it for you?" he asked that evening while they longed at an outside table at Windy City Pizza in Tampa. Pete was feeling good about his game and was entered in a $25,000 Master's tournament this weekend.

Ambre started to reply with a flippant answer, and then decided to answer from her heart. "Don't you know, Pete? I love you."

Pete was caught totally off guard and looked at her to see if this was a joke, although the tone of her voice told him otherwise. "Ambre, we agreed to be friends," Pete said weakly, thinking back to the two years of pain. "I couldn't stand to lose you again."

If Pete was expecting an apology, he didn't get one. "Pete, be honest with yourself, you never had me two years ago. I was only 16 and I was your first, real lover. We were two oversexed kids having a great time and enjoying each other's company. I wasn't old enough or mature enough to love you or anybody else. You made more of it than there was."

Pete knew he was hearing the truth. "Grow up, you said. You were right, I needed to grow up, didn't I?"

"You are grown up now, Pete, and I love what you have become. You have given me so much, and you don't even know it."

"I've never stopped loving you, Ambre."

Chapter 32

Comebacks

Ambre was playing her second match of the morning against one of the Saddlebrook teaching pros, a former #1 player from Duke University. Ambre had just broken serve again to take a 4-1 lead in the second. "You are looking real good, girl," a voice said from behind her. The voice was familiar.

Ambre turned and saw the famous Martina Hingis smile. "Care to hit some this afternoon?" Martina asked. "It looks like you are in a little better shape than you were in Nice," Martina added in a friendly way.

"Two o'clock, bring your A-Game," Ambre answered with a grin. It would be a great way to test her progress and to catch up on Martina's comeback attempt. Pete would need to find someone else to hit with this afternoon.

That evening Martina and Ambre sipped wine on the veranda of Martina's Wesley Chapel home. Pete had gone to pick up Chinese food. "Why don't you go to Australia with me?" Martina suggested, "the competition will do you good. I'm sure you could get a wild card into the Open."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for that level of competition," Ambre admitted. "I haven't played a tournament match in almost two years."

"Neither have I," Martina said. "Besides, there are a couple smaller tournaments in Dubai and Sydney that I've entered and you might still be able to get in. Believe me, your game is ready. I have never seen you hit the ball cleaner, and you look like you are in terrific shape. What you need now is competition, especially if you want to play the French."

Ambre knew Martina was right. They had hit for two hours and had gone toe to toe. They didn't play games, just points, but the competitive instincts of both women had come out. Ambre was amazed at how Martina was able to move her around and control the points. Mary Carillo was right, Martina was a true artist on the court and the best Ambre had ever seen at constructing points. It was like playing chess against a Grand Master that was always thinking five moves ahead. Ambre was hitting the ball as well or better than Martina, but she needed to regain the mental toughness needed to win against the top players. Australia would bring back memories, both good and bad, but it would do her good.

"Okay, I'll give it a try, on one condition."

"I'm not going to carry your tennis bag on court," Martina joked.

"No, I hadn't thought of that," Ambre said smiling at the image. "I want to invite Pete."

"Is he ready?"

"I'm not sure, but we'll find out."

"It's pretty serious, isn't it? "Martina asked with a knowing look.

"I'm not sure, but we'll find out."

Vincent Pope, Acting Coordinator for The Office of Counterterrorism, read the verdict. "It is the decision of this committee that the Islamic resistance Movement' Hamas continue to be classified as a Foreign Terrorist Organization (FTO). The State Department's recommendation that Hamas, meaning courage and bravery, be reclassified based upon their political victory over Fatah in the Palestinian elections, is denied. The classification stands until Hamas renounces violence and amends their constitution that calls for the total destruction of Israel. It is so ordered."

'The next order of business is to consider the recommendation to remove the FTO designation from the Spanish group known as Basque Fatherland and Freedom, or the New ETA. We will adjourn for lunch and meet back here at 1 PM."

FTO designations automatically expire after two years, but the Secretary of State may designate an organization for an additional two years upon a finding that the statutory criteria continue to be met. It may also revoke the FTO classification if conditions change. The purpose of this afternoon's meeting was to act on the State Department's recommendation. Chris Lewis was scheduled to testify in opposition.

The hearings opened promptly at 1:00 PM and Chris listened to the Assistant Secretary of State for European Affairs, and the US Ambassadors to Spain and France, make their case. "In summary, we believe the New ETA has made significant strides to renounce terrorism and to incorporate their group into Spain's mainstream political process. Their leader, Agbu Galan, is a positive force for the Basque people. The Basque has established several programs to build schools and develop jobs for their people. There have been no bombings or violence in two years. The New ETA should be rewarded for these efforts and the FTO designation should be removed."

Other than the stigma of being classified as a FTO, the practical implications are that it is illegal for the U.S. Government or an individual in the United States to knowingly provide material support or resources to an FTO. Representatives of the FTO are refused admission to the U.S. and the bank accounts of FTO supporters may be seized. It also puts pressure on U.S. allies to isolate these organizations.

"Mr. Cannistraro, does the CIA wish to comment on this recommendation?"

William Cannistraro is Chief of Counterterrorism for the Central Intelligence Agency. "Yes we do your honor. We strongly object to this recommendation. The CIA believes that the New ETA remains a threat to the interests of the United States."

"Do you have any evidence of this threat?" Pope asked.

"We do. I would like you to hear Special Agent Chris Lewis, who has been assigned to this case for over a year. Chris."

Chris read from her prepared statement. "There is no doubt that Agbu Galan is a charismatic leader of the New ETA and has undoubtedly done a great amount of good for the Basque people. We estimate that the cost of new schools and programs initiated by the New ETA to be well over $500M. Where is he getting this money you may wonder? Membership in the New ETA is estimated to be over one million members, at 20 Euros per member that amounts to only $25. We believe the rest of the money comes from drug profits. Let me show you." For the next ten minutes Chris presented charts and numbers, and then finished her presentation with candid snapshots showing Agbu meeting with known Al-Qaeda leaders. "This is who supplies Agbu with the drugs that are used to finance the New ETA."

"Assuming this is true," a committee member asked, "what does this have to do with the question before this committee? "Section 219 of the Immigration and Nationality Act (INA) specifies that an organization be classified as a FTO only if they present a threat to the U.S. or act as terrorists. Smuggling drugs might be reprehensible, but that doesn't make them a FTO, does it?"

Chris was flustered, but persevered. It wouldn't do any good to get angry. She decided to introduce the second part of their argument. "That's correct, Mr. Jenkins. I was introducing this information only to prove their connection to Al-Qaeda and the likelihood of their supporting Al-Qaeda in future terrorist plots against the United States and our allies."

"Can you prove this connection? Do you have anything other than these fuzzy pictures that show him talking with alleged Al-Qaeda members? For all we know, Agbu could have been telling them the New ETA doesn't want anything to do with them."

Chris knew she was losing her argument, but decided to go forward. "We have no hard evidence of the New ETA – Al-Qaeda connection, but we do have suspicions. We do have proof that last year Agbu attempted to assassinate Jim Simpson, a U.S. citizen. Mr. Simpson positively identified Agbu as the man that tried to shoot him in his Zurich hotel room."

There was a murmur throughout the room, before Mr. Pope interrupted. "Have charges been filed Ms. Lewis?"

"Let me answer that, Mr. Pope," William Cannistraro in an attempt to protect Chris from a doubting committee. "Proof might be too strong a word, but we do have enough evidence that both the CIA and Swiss police believe the assassination attempt did occur, and that it is likely Agbu will try again."

"I'll repeat my question. Have charges been filed?" Jenkins persisted.

"No, Zurich police have not filed charges," Cannistraro admitted. "We are still working on developing this case."

It took the Committee only five minutes to approve the recommendation and remove the New ETA from the State Department's list of Foreign Terrorist Organizations. Agbu was now free to solicit support from the United States and its allies.

The November Roland Garros steering committee meeting convened. All four contractors were present. "Gentlemen, we have only six months to get this done. The Grand Opening is scheduled for May 22. Are we going to make it?" I had spent the last three days meeting with the contractors and listening to their problems. Tempers were short. We were over budget and almost two months behind schedule. Hunt blamed Bouygues for basically shutting down for the summer, a tradition in most of the European community, particularly France. The two contracting giants were barely talking and project morale was at a low. If we couldn't turn it around today, I was considering canceling or postponing the tournament.

"Marco, start us off. Is there a critical resource that is holding up more than one task?" I, of course, knew what Marco was going to say, otherwise I wouldn't have asked. Last night we decided on this strategy. It was important that we not allow the contractors to start pointing fingers and blaming the other team.

"No, other than a few minor delays and shortages, we have all the manpower and raw materials we need to get the job done. It's now primarily an allocation problem, getting the resources assigned to the right job. We have skilled labor and contractors sitting on their butts waiting for something to do." The room became so quiet I thought I was on a Sprint long distance call. Nobody said a word to dispute Marco's inference that we had a management problem.

"Can we get back on schedule, Marco?"

"I think so, but only if we turn it around right now and start working as a team. That means 16-hour days where necessary, and it means we don't shut down for the Christmas holidays. It also means we ask for help if we need it. Tell me what you need and I'll get it." You could hear a pin drop. The only sound was Paul Bruno and Jacques Bois, Bouygues' project manager in charge of transportation, rustling in their chairs. Marco had hit Bouygues with a couple of direct shots and Bruno was fuming.

"If nobody disagrees, let's start going over these task one-by-one. I want to know what you need to get this done by May 22nd. If it's not possible, we need to know now, so we can come up with a fallback position. No bullshit."

Summary-Level Gantt chart - Major Tasks and Responsibility

1. Repair Existing Stadium damage - Bouygues - Sergi Lebel

2. Update Exterior Facing - Bouygues - Paul Bruno

3. Install Dome over Philippe Chatrier - Clark - Sean Schafer

4. Install Dome over Suzanne Lenglen -Clark - Sean Schafer

5. Redesign Seating, Rest. & Press Box - Hunt - Tim Samuels

6. Improve Hwys; Marta; Parking - Bouygues - Jacques Bois

7. Improve Media s area and Security - Simpson Marco Noah

"Sergi, start us off. Are there any repairs that still need to be done?" Sergi Lebel had done a fantastic job since Bruno had given him responsibility for getting the stadium ready for last year's French Open. Bruno was angry after our dinner meeting at the La Tour d'Argent. He washed his hands of the project and turned over responsibility to Sergi. It was a blessing.

We had resigned ourselves to getting just one of the stadium courts ready in time, which would have meant canceling the juniors and senior events for the second consecutive year, but Sergi had exceeded expectations. With the help of the experts that Clark had brought in, both stadium courts passed inspection and the full tournament was held. Some minor repairs dribbled into year two, but task one was essentially complete.

"Everything is finished," Sergi answered with his trademark grin. "Let's put that steel tent over the courts and play some tennis. What's the holdup?"

The tension level in the room dropped ten degrees as everyone burst into laughter at Sergi's irreverent dig at the Clark jobs. " _Why couldn't everybody have his attitude?_ " I thought. He was always upbeat and optimistic, and more importantly, his men loved working for him. I wish I could clone him.

"You can ask them when the time comes, Sergi. They have been telling me it's complicated, but erecting the domes sounds so simple the way you put it."

"Okay, Paul, where do we stand on updating the stadium exterior? Now that Sergi has showed us how to get the domes installed, are spectators going to be able to get into the stadium?" I was oversimplifying the job. Task two not only included remodeling the exterior, but building entrances and landscaping the surrounding grounds. Establishing a physical security perimeter around the stadium was a major concern and became a constant battle between Marco who was responsible for security and Bruno who saw himself as an artist developing a beautiful sculpture.

"I'll get this damn thing done in time if you people will leave me alone," Bruno said without humor. "Every time I turn around Marco has a new security requirement. Roland Garros will look like crap if we do half the things he wants me to do." The tension in the room returned.

"Well, after what happened 18 months ago, security is obviously a concern. What are the big issues, Paul? I thought we had reached a compromise on the concrete barriers." Marco and I had discussed this at length the previous evening. We had agreed with Bruno's suggestion to erect the more aesthetically looking steel posts around the perimeter, but now Bruno had changed his mind and wanted a hedge.

"I agreed to try it, but it still looks like shit. I want to put up a three-foot hedge instead. It will look a hell of a lot better."

"That's a good idea, Bruno," Marco answered. "We could hide the posts inside the hedge."

Bruno was not the compromising type, but he recognized he had painted himself into a corner. "I guess that will be all right, but I still have a long list of other issues."

"Okay, that's why we are here. What's next?"

"Marco claims we have all the raw materials we needed, but apparently he doesn't know about the problem with the Italian marble. He has been too busy worrying about security. The marble won't be shipped until March which doesn't give us enough time to complete the facing."

I was starting to lose my temper despite being forewarned that Bruno might bring this up. "Why are we locked into this supplier, can't we find the marble somewhere else, or find a substitute? What's wrong with Mexican marble?"

"Mexico, are you kidding me? There is no comparison. The Italians make the best marble there is, and that is what we are going to use as long as I'm responsible for this job," Bruno shouted, pounding his fist on the table for emphasis. The room was silent as they waited for my reaction. I decided to give him one more chance.

Ken told me later that my voice might have been soft and low, but everyone in the room knew how angry I was. "I must correct you on one thing you said, Bruno. You are not responsible for this job, I am. Now let's see if we can reach a compromise. We can't wait until March for the marble."

Bruno wasn't backing down. "I don't care what anyone says, Roland Garros is a French institution and it ought to be a French project. We will wait for the Italian marble." The battle lines had been drawn.

"Gentlemen," I said to the others in the conference room, "I need a few minutes alone with Bruno. Would you please wait outside?"

Paul Bruno never knew what hit him.

Fifteen minutes later I called them back. Bruno had departed and had been replaced by three men who had been watching and listening via closed circuit cameras in the adjoining room. Pierre Dubois, Bouygues Chairman of the Board and CEO, spoke first. "Bruno is no longer assigned to this project. Sergi Lebel will assume his responsibilities. Okay Sergi?"

"Yes sir," Sergi replied, shocked by his battlefield promotion.

"One more thing," the Bouygues president continued. "I will meet with our entire management team this evening and make it clear that this project will be completed on schedule, or Louis 1V style executions will follow. Understood?" he asked rhetorically as he looked at Sergi and Jacques.

George Hunt was next to speak and was brief, "That goes for the Hunt team as well. I can't speak for Clark, but I can tell you that I spoke with their president last night and they are in complete agreement. We will complete this job on schedule." No one made a sound.

Georges Hawes, chairman of the Roland Garros Steering Committee was next. "Gentlemen, earlier today I met with President Mitterand who asked me to pass on this message. "Roland Garros and the French Open tennis tournament is indeed a French Institution. It is vital to our National pride and economy that Roland Garros be ready to host next year's tournament. President Mitterand has authorized me to do whatever is necessary to attain that objective and I pledge to you that I will provide whatever assistance I can to accomplish this goal."

"One last thought. Let there me no doubt that Jim Simpson has our complete backing and has authority to make all decisions related to this job. If he wants Mexican tile, we will have Mexican tile, understood?" Everyone nodded as Hawes slowly looked around the room making eye contact with each person.

It wasn't surprising that the rest of the meeting went smoothly. There were numerous issues, but the negative tone had changed to a 'can do' attitude. We had gotten over the hump and I felt it would be downhill from here.

While Pete and Ambre headed to Australia, Lisa followed her own agenda. She needed one more victory on the USTA' Futures Circuit to earn enough ranking points to qualify for pro circuit events. The first tournament of the year was in Tampa on the hard courts at Hillsborough Community College, the same tournament that Pete had won two years ago. This year the women's event upgraded from a $10,000 futures event to a $50,000 Challenger. More money translates to more ranking points and better competition.

Lisa breezed through her first three matches without losing set and I flew back from Paris in time for the semi-finals. Lisa's opponent was a former #1 player from UCLA who turned pro two years ago. She reached the finals of two events her first year and finished the year ranked in the top 100 before an ankle injury knocked her off the tour for six months. The former UCLA player was now was ranked #144 in the world. That doesn't sound like much, but this woman could play.

I hadn't seen Lisa play in almost six months and was amazed at how her game had progressed. At 5'7" 130 pounds she spotted her opponent four inches and twenty pounds, but you couldn't tell it from their groundstrokes. Both hit the ball hard. In the first set Lisa was content to stay at the baseline until she got a short ball that she could pound into the corner and follow to the net. I jumped up and applauded as Lisa put away an overhead to take the first set 6-3. "Take it easy," Mary cautioned, "people will think you are a proud dad."

"I am," I said without embarrassment.

Lisa changed tactics in the second set and attacked the net at every opportunity. She served and volleyed on every serve and lost only six points in four service games, two of them on double faults. Lisa broke her opponent at love to win 6-2.

"Congratulations," I said as I gave Lisa a hug. "You were awesome. Before you know it you will be turning pro," I joked. Lisa and Mary's reaction told me that I had said something wrong. "What's going on?"

"I was going to surprise you tomorrow," Mary replied.

"Dad, I turned pro last week."

I didn't know what to say as my mind raced trying to understand the consequences. My first thought was that Lisa wouldn't be able to defend her 5-A high school championship, and then I thought of Lisa not being able to play college tennis. I realized that I had been traveling so much the last year that I had missed out on watching my little girl grow up. "Well, you certainly played like a pro today," I said with a smile. There was nothing to be gained in beating a dead horse.

The next day I proudly watched Lisa collect her $15,000 winner's check.

Agbu returned from Mexico with a new sense of purpose and devoted his time to integrating the New ETA into the Basque mainstream political party. His efforts were rewarded as he was unanimously elected president. Two months later the United States rescinded their designation of the New ETA as a Foreign Terrorist Organization. Agbu recognized the importance of this decision and immediately took steps to expand the Basque into an International organization. The Basque dream of attaining an independent state was nearing reality.

Chapter 33

Agbu Plans Revenge

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 the 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. S _low 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

Pete earned ranking points in Australia, but not nearly enough to obtain direct entry into the main draw of ATP Tournaments. The Chennai Open was a Tier III event that earned Pete 103 points for reaching the finals. He also earned 90 points for his two wins at the Australian Open where points are doubled. Combined with the 26 points he had earned in Challenger events, Pete had a total of 219 ranking points in the past 12 months, good enough for a world ranking of 177. Roger Federer current point total is 7,275.

Pete needed to play more tournaments, but first he had to get into these tournaments. A 32-man draw is made up of 24 players that qualify based upon a sophisticated ranking system, the higher your ranking, the better chance you will be accepted into the draw. Four entries are reserved for wild cards or sponsor exemptions. The final four spots are earned through qualifier tournaments conducted the week prior to the tournament. Ambre helped Pete get sponsor exemptions in Australia, but he was now on his own. Pete's ranking of 177 was not enough to automatically get into a tournament. He would need to qualify. Pete pointed to the French Open where a ranking in the top 100 would be needed to avoid the strong competition for the sixteen spots reserved for qualifiers. The #99 ranked player, Potito Starace of Italy, currently had 403 points. Pete had a long way to go.

Pete decided to skip the rest of the hard court season and start honing his game for the slow red clay of Roland Garros. The first stop was Buenas Aires where he qualified, but lost in the second round to Guillermo Canas of Argentina. It was a lesson on how to play clay court tennis. Canas was in excellent condition and returned everything. By the end of the match Pete had 36 unforced errors and only five winners, and was worn down mentally and physically. He must be more patient and get into better shape.

His next stop was Costa do Sauipe, Brazil where he failed to qualify for the $380,000 Brazil Open. Pete was finding out first hand what everyone in tennis already knew, South Americans know how to play on the clay. Pete's first taste of success came in Acapulco where he reached the semi finals before losing to Gastin Gaudio in three sets.

The South American clay court swing was over and Pete's ranking had climbed to #125. He had four weeks off before heading to Europe still needing a good tournament result to crack the top 100. Pete returned to Saddlebrook and began training in earnest. The South Americans had taught him the importance of conditioning.

The breakthrough came three weeks later in Valencia, Spain where Pete beat Gonzalez in the finals to win his first tournament; the $340,000 Open de Tenis Comunidad Valenciana. Pete was lucky because for many players, this was their first clay court tournament of the year, choosing to play the Nasdaq-100 Open hard court tournament in Miami the previous week. Pete didn't care, the victory was worth 145 points and jumped his ranking to #85 in the world, more than enough to get an invitation to Roland Garros.

The project was back on schedule and everything was falling into place. A major milestone was reached in January when the two domes were rotated into place using a jack and mast system, and held secure with temporary cables. Raising of the domes allowed the work to be completed on the outside of the stadium and the electrical and mechanical systems to be installed This was the site's busiest time with approximately 1,500 people working simultaneously on different tasks.

Enclosed athletic stadiums are a modern development, but the idea for it may be traceable back to ancient Rome. It is said that a Roman noble was watching an event in the Coliseum, the father of all modern stadiums, and ordered his slaves to raise something akin to a rain tent over him to keep out the elements. The result was an egg-shaped structure. An American architect adapted this idea and the design for the domed stadium was born.

The Roland Garros retractable roof is designed to cover, but not enclose the stadium, preserving an open-air environment. The structure covers nearly nine acres, weighs 22 million pounds, and contains enough steel to build a 55-story skyscraper. The three movable panels glide on 128 steel wheels powered by 96, ten horsepower electric motors. A push of a button closes or opens the roof in an average of 15-25 minutes depending on wind and other weather conditions. The roof is self-grounded in the event of lightning strikes and is designed to withstand 6-7 ft. of snow and sustained winds of up to 70 mph.

Erection of the domes over the two stadium courts was a morale boost for everyone. We were on the downhill side of the project and the end was in sight. The next three months saw work progress in many areas:

Drywall partitions are completed that enclose the mechanical systems and provide a vehicle for air movement and ventilation, thereby eliminating the need to install metal ducts, similar to the system that Clark first used for the Hubert Humphrey Metrodome in Minneapolis;

State of the art sound systems and scoreboards are installed;

Club seating is installed above the lower deck in Philippe Chatrier stadium;

Work on the Tenniseum Museum located under Court #3 is completed and the museum is restocked with exhibits and inter-active activities for children and adults;

The outside of the Roland Garros is finished together with statues of past French Open Champions and French Tennis greats;

Bouygues completes the final leg of the new Marta subway system that will drop subway patrons less than 100 yards from the stadium;

Landscaping around the stadium is nearing completion, providing an effective visual relief from the security barriers that had been installed.

I attended a project steering committee meeting in mid-April, only five weeks before the grand opening. The mood of all three contractors was upbeat. Everything was on schedule.

Lisa's challenger event win in Tampa earned her a WTA ranking of 295, enough to get her direct entry into the main draw of most Challenger Events. She won another $10,000 challenger tournament in Clearwater, Florida and her ranking jumped to 268. It was time to see if she could play in the A-league. Unlike her brother, she could not afford to skip the hard court season until her tennis ranking improved. Most of the tournaments in February and March were played on hard courts.

Lisa qualified for the Regions Morgan Keegan Championships in Memphis, and won two matches before losing to Meghann Shaughnessy in the quarterfinals. There was a three-week break before the next U.S. tournament, the Pacific Life Open in California. Mary and Lisa flew down to Bogotá, Columbia, to get a taste of clay court tennis. Lisa did well to win two qualifying matches before getting hammered 2-6, 1-6 in the third round. The next stop was Acapulco where Pete was also playing.

Lisa and Pete had two days to practice and talk about the subtle differences between playing on red clay, and the synthetic har-tru clay they were accustomed to in the United States. "Patience, Lisa," Pete advised. "You need to understand it takes two or three winners to win a point on red clay."

"That doesn't make sense, Pete. A winner is a winner."

"Not on red clay, Lisa."

It must have sunk in because Lisa won her first two matches. Pete lost in the third round, but stayed to watch Lisa make it to the finals before losing to Gisela Dulko of Argentina. Her ranking jumped to #176.

Lisa still needed the ranking points and decided to try and qualify for the two-week tournaments at Indian Wells, CA and the Nasdaq-100 in Miami. It was a tough schedule, but Lisa was determined. She had only a week to acclimate her game to hard courts before qualifying began in Indian Wells. It wasn't enough, as she lost her second round qualifying match to a UCLA alumnus.

Lisa was disappointed, but I had good news for her when she got back to Tampa.

"How would you like a pass into the main draw in Miami next week?" I asked.

"Dad, you shouldn't have," she said as she gave me a hug.

"Are those tears I see in my baby's eyes?" I asked.

"Dad, you don't know what a grind it is to play these qualifying matches. Everyone is competing for a few spots and the competition is cutthroat. I swear it's tougher than playing in the main draw."

"Well, let's prove it next week. Mom and I will be there to watch, unless you think that would put too much pressure on you."

"No, that will be great. You are my good luck charms. But can you really be away from Paris for that long?"

"I'll make the time. Besides, I want to see you in Paris with me when we open the stadium, as a player I mean."

"Me too, Dad. I've been dreaming of nothing else for the last six months."

The next weekend Lisa took a major step towards realizing her dream, winning three rounds before losing to Lindsay Davenport in the quarterfinals. The Nasdeq-100 was a Tier I tournament and her ranking climbed to #125, but she only had six weeks to crack the top 100 and was running out of time.

"Dad, I need to do this on my own," she told me as we drove back to Tampa. "I don't want you trying to get me a wild card into the French Open."

She had read my mind, and I must have blushed. Did she know that Georges Hewes had already promised a wild card for Lisa and Pete if they needed it? "Why would I try to do that?" I responded without conviction.

"Dad, I mean it, and I know Pete feels the same way. We want to do this on our own."

Three weeks later she did, finishing runner-up to Henin-Hardenne in the Family Circle Cup in Charleston, South Carolina. The previous week she had won two rounds in Amelia Island, FL. Lisa was now ranked #93 in the world and had earned her a spot in the French Open.

Agbu spent hours with Bruno going over the drawings to identify weak points in the design of the domes covering the two stadium courts. They were looking for weight bearing supports and stress points. "Here's something," Bruno said as he pointed towards the drawings. "Theses eight girders support the dome. If two or three are gone, the domes will cave in under their own weight."

"Are they concrete or steel?" Agbu asked. "What would it take to blow them?"

The footings are three feet of concrete and the pillars are reinforced steel designed to withstand a significant external force. I don't think a cement truck could knock them over."

"So, what good does this do us?" Agbu replied, obviously disappointed.

"They are hollow," Bruno replied with a humorless grin, knowing he had discovered a way to bring the roof down. "Each pillar houses electrical and plumbing conduits used for the overhead lighting and sprinkler systems. The pillars aren't designed to withstand an explosion from within. Put a small charge of Semtex about ten meters up and they would buckle like an accordion."

"How can we get access to them?" Agbu asked as his mind mulled over the possibilities.

"Each pillar has a one square meter panel two feet above ground level. You can also get into them from the top. There is an access panel just beneath where they are bolted into the stationary part of the sliding roof."

Agbu studied the drawings where the pillars connected to the roof and his attention was drawn to the leading edge of the retractable roof.

"What are these contraptions?" he asked, pointing to devices that protruded from the roof.

"Those are basically locks that insert into the other edge of the roof as it closes, and transmit an electrical charge that shuts off the motors when the roof is sealed."

Agbu smiled. He had found a way to automatically detonate the explosives when the dome closed.

Ambre and Carlos had no problem qualifying for the French Open. Ambre followed up her semi-final performance at the Australian Open with wins in Japan, Indian Wells and Monte Carlo. Her ranking had jumped to #11 and many pundits believed she was the woman to beat at the French Open. She had never played better and was in the best shape of her life. More importantly, she was happy.

Carlos was ranked #2 in the world and was cruising through the clay court season with wins at Brazil, Acapulco, Monte-Carlo and Rome. He was finally healthy and looking forward to defending his French Open title and dethroning Roger Federer as the #1 player in the world. He was the favorite to win at Roland Garros.

Al-Qaeda had its own plan to disrupt the tournament. Their intent was to create chaos in order to undermine the stability of the French and Spanish governments. Destroying Roland Garros was only secondary to their plans.

The original Al-Qaeda plan was to recruit suicide bombers to drive trucks directly into the stadium entrances. Agbu studied the detail plans and it soon became apparent that a frontal assault would not succeed; the concrete and steel barriers that had been installed were too strong. They considered and later rejected the use of chemical or biological weapons. Most of the Roland Garros grounds were open air. Not even the domes were airtight, as they only provided a roof, not an enclosed environment. Chemicals would disperse too rapidly with any kind of wind.

They finally settled on a plan that relied upon a basic principle of war; if you can't attack the enemy, get the enemy to come to you. Muhammad outlined his idea. "We need to create chaos in the stadium that will cause the people to panic and exit the stadium and get outside the security perimeter. We will be waiting for them at the Marta subway terminal, train station and parking lots."

"What about blowing up the stadium?" someone asked.

"Let Agbu and his Basque friends worry about that," Muhammad replied. "Our goal is to kill as many people as we can and to create instability in Western Europe. I don't care about buildings."

"How are we going to get the people out of the stadium?" another Al-Qaeda member asked.

"That's the beauty of my plan," Muhammad replied with an evil smile. "Agbu and his friends will do that for us. Let me tell you what I have in mind."

Twenty minutes later Muhammad finished by saying, "Agbu and the Basque will receive all the credit for this revolting act."

Chapter 35

Final Inspection

Dick Enberg hosted the one-hour preview of this year's French Open and was joined by NBC's expert commentators, John McEnroe and Mary Carrillo. Enberg spoke into the camera. "Ladies and Gentlemen, the second leg of the Grand Slam of Tennis is almost upon us, and as always we ask ourselves the question; are there any American men that can win this year's premier clay court tournament. Year after year the question is the same, why can't American's win on clay? John, whom do you see as the favorites this year?"

"Let me correct you on one thing, Dick. American men have won this tournament. Michael Chang in '89, Jim Courier in '90 & '91 and Agassi in 1999. Let's not forget what they did."

"You're right, John, but as you know, Michael Chang's win in '89 over Stefan Edberg was the first American title since Tony Trabert won in 1954 & 1955; 35 years is a long dry spell."

"Who will ever forget Chang serving underhand to Lendl in the semis?" Carrillo interjected. "That was a classic."

"Getting back to this year, John, do any of our men have a chance?"

"Sure, Dick, we have a few guys that have a shot. Agassi is still a threat on clay, but I wouldn't list him as a favorite."

"Whom do you like?" Enberg pressed.

"Well, Federer wants this real bad and I think this might be his year, but Nadal is going to be awfully tough to beat. He is so strong. But the guy I like is Carlos. He is defending champion and has already won four clay tournaments this year. I think he is ready to establish himself as the best clay court player in the world."

"I agree," Carrillo said. "Carlos has all the shots."

"John, are there any Americans that have a chance other than Agassi? What about Roddick and Blake?"

"I don't see either Roddick or Blake getting to the second week. Roddick depends so much on the serve and he just doesn't get enough free points on this surface. The good clay court players pick on his backhand. They also are in better shape. Blake has a game that should be good on this surface, but his record here is terrible. No, I think our hopes still rest with Agassi. He has a pretty easy draw and should have no trouble getting into the round of 16 before he faces anyone that can give him trouble."

"Agassi opens against another American, Pete Simpson. What do we know about him?"

"Nothing," McEnroe answered quickly. "I never heard of him."

"He won a small tournament in Valencia, Spain a few weeks ago," Carrillo volunteered. "I understand he is coming back from a bad knee injury he suffered in the NCAA tournament a couple years ago."

"Well, Simpson will find out that Agassi is the wrong guy to play if you are coming off an injury. Andre will jerk him around like a yo-yo."

"Okay, Mary, how about the ladies? Do the William sisters have a chance this year?"

"Dick, the sisters are always dangerous. It's just a question of whether they are in shape and their mind is on tennis. And don't forget Lindsay Davenport. She is still ranked #2 in the world."

"Can she win on clay?" McEnroe asked, obviously not giving her much of a shot.

"Probably not, but she could go deep in the tournament before someone exploits her lack of speed. She's a long shot."

"So, who is your favorite?" Enberg asked.

"That's easy, I'm going with ova or eva," Carrillo replied with a smile. "Sharapova, Dementieva, Kuznetsova, Petrova, Zvonareva, Likhovtseva and I didn't even include Elena Bovina. You pick one; they are all ranked in the top 15."

"The Russians women are dominating," McEnroe added, "and other than Sharapova, they all come from the Russian tennis program. They must be doing something right over there."

"What about Ambre?" Enberg asked. "The French sure think she has a chance this year."

"I agree," McEnroe interjected before Mary could answer. "I saw her win in Italy and she is dominating."

"She certainly is one of the favorites," Carrillo agreed," but I don't think she can do it this year. The French will put too much pressure on her and on top of that, she is coming back from a one-year drug suspension. Maybe next year, but this year the pressure will eat her up."

"Are there any new American girls that might make a name for themselves, Mary?"

"There are a couple new faces, but none that I see getting past the 2nd or 3rd round. There is a brother-sister act this year. Lisa Simpson just made it into the main draw and opens the tournament against Myskina on center court."

"That will be the shortest brother-sister act in French Open history," McEnroe predicted. "That daily-double would pay millions. They will both be gone by the second day."

"Well, that wraps it up for today," Enberg concluded. "I for one am looking forward to two weeks of fabulous tennis in the newly renovated Roland Garros Stadium."

Marco and I meet with project team Friday morning to go over the tasks that still remained to be finished. We were only three days away from the opening match scheduled for 9:00 AM Monday, and only two days away from Sunday's Grand Opening Ceremony. There were still 500 workers scurrying around the stadium putting finishing touches on both the inside and exterior of Roland Garros.

"Are we going to be ready?" Marco asked as he looked around the room.

The question reminded me of a time twenty years ago during my consulting years with Arthur Anderson. We were designing a new computer payroll system for the State Of Illinois Comptroller's Office and one of the contractors responsible for the check writing system was behind schedule. Somebody asked the contractor how they were doing.

"We are doing great," the project manager answered. "Last night we did a full test and were able to write checks. They are all to the same person and for the same amount, but what do you expect for government work?" After we stopped laughing we realized that he wasn't kidding. I hoped today's news would be better.

Summary-Level Gantt chart - Major Tasks and Responsibility

1. Repair Existing Stadium damage - Bouygues - Sergi Lebel

2. Update Exterior Facing - Bouygues - Paul Bruno

3. Install Dome over Philippe Chatrier - Clark - Sean Schafer

4. Install Dome over Suzanne Lenglen -Clark - Sean Schafer

5. Redesign Seating, Rest. & Press Box - Hunt - Tim Samuels

6. Improve Hwys; Marta; Parking - Bouygues - Jacques Bois

7. Improve Media s area and Security - Simpson Marco Noah

"Jacques, how are we doing on Marta? Any problems that won't be fixed in two days?"

"Nope, I should be ready," he replied as he handed out a brief status report.

Subway terminal operational and fully tested.

Painting still being done on interior hallways.

Problems with turnstiles fixed.

Roads are paved and ready. Lanes painted yesterday.

Planting of trees and shrubs will be finished Sunday.

Exterior of stadium completed, statues in place.

Perimeter security completed and tested.

Problems with security cameras that will be corrected today.

"Do you need anything?" Marco asked, "people, equipment, anything?"

"A couple more weeks would be nice, but we will get it done in time." Jacques answered confidently. _What a great move that was when we replaced Bruno with Sergi and Jacques, I thought._

"Okay, who wants to go next?" Marco asked. "That's a tough act to follow."

"I'll give it a try," Sean Schafer of Clark Construction volunteered. "We're in pretty good shape too. Yesterday we tested both dome roofs and everything worked to perfection. With no wind, the roofs close in 20-25 minutes. That should give us plenty of time to head off most rainstorms. As you know, the plan is to keep the roofs open throughout the tournament unless rain is in the forecast."

"Tim, how is Hunt doing?"

"Seating is in place and we should be finished painting by tomorrow. It takes 12 hours to dry so we need to be finished by Sunday. Scoreboard and sound systems have been tested and most of the glitches have been resolved. We'll be ready."

"How are you doing with the restaurants?" Ken asked.

"We are training staff as we speak. Yesterday we provided lunch and dinner for 100 employees and we are doing the same thing today for the players. Everyone is welcome to a free meal, but don't count on perfect service. It's difficult to train staff. The good news is that we didn't have any major problems with the restaurant equipment. We will be ready for the Champions dinner Sunday."

"Is the Museum ready?" I asked. "It would be nice to give the past champions a sneak preview of the remodeled Tenniseum Museum before dinner."

"It's ready, and all the exhibits are in place. We have a special show for the champions that are here. Each one will have a dedicated video tape that we will project on the screen when they enter." I nodded my appreciation.

"Okay, then, let's talk about security; Marco?"

"I wish I could be as upbeat as the rest of you have been. We have done everything we can think of, but you can never be sure that it will be enough. Security is a moving target and the challenge is to stay one step ahead of the terrorists. Everyone, please keep your eyes and ears open. Let me know if you notice anything out of the ordinary" he pleaded as he sat down. I could tell the pressure was starting to get to him.

"I have one thing I would like to add," I said as Marco finished. "The CIA has specific information that terrorists are planning something to disrupt the tournament. They don't know when or what, but they feel the terrorists will try something before the two weeks are over. Stay vigilant."

Ken and I spent two hours walking around the grounds, trying not to get in the way. "Can you believe that there will be 60,000 people here Monday?" Ken commented in disbelief as we watched 50 workers laying sod around Susan Lenglen Stadium.

"We've come a long way since the French brought us this project 20 months ago," I mused. "Let's hope we have thought of everything."

Saturday afternoon the French police did a complete security review of Roland Garros. Every inch of the stadium was covered. German shepherds trained to detect the slightest hint of plastic explosives sniffed every nook and cranny. Every locker was opened and the contents checked thoroughly. Players taking advantage of last minute practice time were asked to open their tennis bags and submit to a personal search. To the chagrin of one player, the police found marijuana and suspicious prescription pills, but nothing that was a security danger to others. Presumably the player returned these items to the person that had mysteriously placed them in his tennis bag.

Stadium security personnel reported at 4 PM and the security system at every gate was checked and double-checked. Construction workers were used to try and smuggle in guns, knives and other weapons. Plain-clothes police tried to smuggle in plastic explosives. Marco and I watched as the weaknesses in our security system were put to the test.

Security at each entrance was patterned after the security imposed at large airports. The emphasis was on people, not luggage, although purses, handbags, computers and shoes were screened. The basic components of the system ware X-ray machines and trace detection systems similar to those used in the most airports, designed to detect the microscopic particle emissions that are a byproduct of many Type B explosives such as Semtex and C-4.

The primary detection systems were augmented by a new "sniffer system" that can detect explosive particles and illegal drugs on people that have handled these materials in the past few days. Each entrance to the stadium was equipped with an aerosol-based field test kit called Expray that would allow for a fast analysis of suspect materials.

Security officials recognized the limits of trace detection systems, and the ability of terrorists to adapt and develop new ways to beat the system. The job is difficult when common devices such as an Eveready battery can be used to detonate a 11 ounce bomb used to bring down United Airlines Flight 629, and enough Semtex to collapse the Statue of Liberty can be molded into a children's toy, painted red, white and blue as a cruel joke. Today's trace detection and sniffer systems would detect the explosives hidden in Richard Reid's shoe, but might not be good enough to detect the next generation of terrorist bombs and chemical threats. The challenge was to stay one step ahead and continue working on new technologies including EDS and quadruple resonance.

Security checks were successful over 95% of the time, which wasn't good enough. One in twenty potential security threats went undetected. Two sniffer machines failed to identify enough C-4, which if strategically placed, was sufficient to bring down center court. A coke can filled with E-Coli went undetected.

Machines were recalibrated and security personnel were chastised. New rules were established to prohibit containers of any kind, including soft drinks and water, from being brought into the stadium. Limits on the size of handbags and carry-ons were reduced. We also decided to do use a limited version of profiling, and perform body searches on young men and women fitting the profile. It wasn't enough, but we had to do something. A 5% failure rate wasn't acceptable.

Electricians were called in Saturday evening to fix a small problem in the electrical systems impacting the sound systems in both stadium courts. The speakers attached to the roof developed static and for some reason this was causing a flickering of the overhead lights. Four men worked late into the night before the problem was corrected. The Clark supervisor was delighted when he came in Sunday morning and the problem was fixed.

Agbu was also delighted. The plastic explosives were in place and the ignition mechanism was armed.

Chapter 36

Grand Opening Ceremony

A small airplane appeared on the horizon and the 16,000 tennis fans packed into Philippe Chatrier stadium looked skyward as the small, propeller driven antique airplane approached the stadium. An additional 24,000 fans were spread out around the spacious Roland Garros grounds and watched as the plane moving lazily into their view.

There was a collective gasp followed by wild applause from 40,000 people as four Mirage 2000-5 fighter jets appeared out of the setting sun traveling close to the speed of sound and zoomed over the slow-moving monoplane. The four modern fighter jets, a mainstay of the French air force since 1984, dipped their wings as they passed over the stadium, as if to salute the origin of the modern fighter jet. Many of the older, more knowledgeable fans recognized the World War 1 vintage plane as it slowly banked into the 12 MPH wind and landed softly within the stadium.

Electronic scoreboards and sound systems announced the landing of the Morane-Saulnier monoplane, and the pilot, Jacques Bertrand Garros, great grandson of the legendary fighter pilot Roland Garros and the world's first combat pilot designated as an 'Ace'. Jacques Garros, resplendent in leather helmet, goggles and a WWI French officer's uniform, stepped out of the monoplane and was greeted by a thunderous ovation.

Roland Garros was an early French aviator and is credited with being the first World War 1 fighter pilot. In 1913, airplanes were used primarily for reconnaissance to monitor troop movement and assess strength. Pilots carried a pistol or rifle for defense. Like tennis, it was a gentleman's vocation.

Garros, born in 1888, started flying in 1913 and had already won fame as a flier when he joined one of the first observation squadrons to be organized by the French. A former student of the piano, Garros had originally gone to Paris to complete his musical education. There he saw his first airplane and before long the piano was forgotten.

Garros persuaded the famous Brazilian airplane designer, Alberto Santos-Dumont, to teach him to fly. He proved an apt pupil and soon was one of the best fliers in France and took part in air races and exhibition flights in Europe and the United States. In 1913 he became the first man to fly across the Mediterranean Sea. The 453-mile trip from southern France to Tunisia took him a little less than eight hours.

It wasn't until early in 1914 airplanes were fitted with automatic guns. The main problem with the early designs was the propeller. Raymond Saulnier devised a crude arrangement of steel deflectors fixed to the airscrew blades; the steel plates deflected bullets not passing between the blades away from the propeller. Upon the outbreak of war, the idea was temporarily abandoned.

Roland Garros was enthralled by the idea of an airplane with machine guns, and set out to modify the original Saulnier design. He figured that less than seven percent of the bullets he fired would strike the propeller. To guard against accidents from that seven percent, he designed triangular metal shields for the back of the propeller blades. The shields were angled to deflect bullets away from the plane and the pilot.

On April 1, 1915, he was ready to field-test his invention. He flew a French Morane-Saulnier biplane because his regular monoplane was not in working order that day. Soon after take-off, Garros spotted four German Albatros observation planes heading for the French lines. He caught up with them, turned into the nearest one, and fired. A burst of machine-gun bullets flew through his whirling propeller, and the Albatros went down. Garros quickly regained altitude and went after the 2nd plane. Once more, flames sparkled brightly between his propeller blades and a second Albatros exploded in midair. The two surviving Albatros' pilots headed for home at full throttle.

Roland Garros flew his Morane over the battleground and in the next two weeks his forward-firing gun shot down three more German planes, and he became the first Allied "Ace" of World War I. At that time "ace" was a word applied loosely to anyone who accomplished something outstanding; the man who won a bicycle race was an ace; the futball player that scored the most goals was an ace. However, the term "Ace" soon became synonymous with fighter pilots and the standard for becoming an "Ace" was set in future wars at five, the standard achieved in 1915 by the former piano student, Roland Garros.

Several weeks later Roland Garros' monoplane was forced down behind enemy lines. Germans captured both him and his airplane, and his deflectors were copied and improved upon by Anthony Fokker, the Dutch airplane designer working for the Germans. The Fokker design became the staple of the German air force for many years. Garros languished in a German prison camp for three years before escaping, and rejoining the French air force. In 1918 Garros became separated from his wingman and was shot sown and killed near Vouziers, France, twenty miles from the German border.

The French had done an amazing job with the opening ceremony. The Simpson family, together with most of the Global Management project team, watched the air show from a luxury suite provided us by the Roland Garros executive council. Although I had been forewarned about the fly-in, I was as excited as the rest of the 40,000 people. Marco and Ken knew, but I hadn't told Mary or the kids anything about the program.

"That was amazing," Mary exclaimed as they towed the airplane out of the stadium. "Did you know about this?"

"What do you think?" Chris Lewis answered. "Do you think the CIA or French police would have let an airplane fly into the stadium if it hadn't been cleared in advance? This whole area has been designated a no-fly zone for the entire two weeks."

"Look! Here come the past champions," Lisa interrupted excitedly. "This is what I've been waiting for."

"I understand every living past champion will be here," Ken commented, "men and women."

The Master of Ceremony made an announcement. "Ladies and gentlemen, before we honor the great champions that are with us today, we would like to pay tribute to the contributions of those great players that came before them. Symbolizing these early years in women's tennis was one of the great players of all time, our own, Suzanne Lenglen. Please listen and watch the video screens."

When we think of prominent players who have changed tennis history, one who comes to mind is the incomparable French champion Suzanne Lenglen. Ranked number one in the world in both 1925 and 1926, she was known not only for her graceful strokes and ballet footwork, but also for her tennis fashion - which included plunging necklines and dress hems that extended just below the knee. At first, observers were skeptical of Miss Lenglen's distinctive manner of dress, but soon other women adapted to the style. Her dress became the precedent for the fashions we see today. A three-minute video shown on the giant Jumbotron highlighted her tennis achievements.

French men dominated men's tennis in the late 1920s. Four tennis champions, known as the "Musketeers", were virtually unbeatable: Jean Borotra, Rene Lacoste, Henri Cochet and Jacques Brugnon. Each Frenchman had talent and charisma. Borotra was called the "Bounding Basque from Biarritz," known for his energy, speed and acrobatic volleying ability. He always wore a signature blue beret, both on and off the court. Lacoste, nicknamed "the Crocodile," was a self-made champion known and revered for his hard work, devotion and determination. He designed the first tennis shirts made specifically for tennis. Adorned on the left breast of every shirt was his signature trademark, the crocodile.

There was a moment of silence to commemorate the memory of the great champions that could not be with us today.

The Parade of Champions started as the crowd rose in tribute. One-by-one, the champions were introduced and walked from the player's entrance to center court enjoying once more the applause and adulation they had enjoyed in another era.

Frank Parker and Doris Hart, the oldest living champions, led the way and received a nice welcome.

French Open champions Francoise Durr, Guy Forget, Henri Leconte and Yannick Noah, plus still active champions Sebastian Grosjean and Amelie Mauresmo, received thunderous ovations from the French crowd.

The biggest ovation was saved for a Swede, six-time winner Bjorn Borg. Pete joined the 40,000 screaming fans and applauded loudly as Borg shuffled to center court. _I hoped I would meet hir at the champion dinner. I wanted to thank him._

"Lisa, what are you doing with the your cell phone?" I asked. "You're missing the excitement."

"No, I'm not. Look, this phone has all the video and highlights of every past championship. Didn't you get one in your welcome package?"

"No, I haven't seen one before. Is that what the past champions are looking at? I couldn't help but notice that half of them keep looking down at something."

"Sure," Pete said looking at his phone. "All the players and past champions received one in their hotel room. Here, take a look at mine."

"Did you get one, Jim?" Chris asked as she studied the phone.

"Yeah, it's in my briefcase. Most of the project team got one. Ken, you got one too, didn't you?"

"Hey, Chris, what are you doing to my phone?" Pete asked as he watched Chris pry the phone open and study the insides.

I watched her face turn white as she scratched the coating from the battery. She grabbed her own cell phone and dialed a number as she reached over the chair and tore Lisa's phone from her grasp. "Put all the phones in this bag," she ordered in a tone that left no room for argument; "they are miniature bombs."

"This is Chris Lewis, CIA ID #02363488. Code red, I repeat, code red. Implement Plan G-1 Hurry! Please confirm."

"Are these all the phones?" She asked, grabbing the bag.

We were still answering yes, when she tore out of the suite. "I looked down at the field and noticed that the champions were all assembled and the festivities were coming to a close.

Agbu, his friend Jorge and two Al-Qaeda terrorists watched the ceremonies on television from a hillside overlooking the stadium, about 300 yards from the ceremony. "It's time," the Al-Qaeda leader, Abdul, announced.

"Agbu nodded and started dialing the cell phone number. He hesitated, before entering the last digit, savoring the moment. His only regret was not being close enough to see Jim Simpson and his family explode into tiny pieces. "Anton," this is for you." He whispered as he his forefinger pressed the final digit.

The gift baskets and cell phones had been his idea, and the plan had been executed brilliantly. It was a testament to Agbu's planning and leadership skills that would have carried him far in the business world. In January, using layers of dummy companies to hide their identity, the Basque purchased a small, French cell phone company that had patents for a new video process that dramatically increased the capacity to download video recordings into cell phones. They simultaneously entered into a $1M per year agreement with the Roland Garros Board of Directors identifying them as the official cell phone company for the French Open.

Agbu knew that the litiumlon battery used in a cell phone provided sufficient power to detonate a bomb, and itself can be turned into a bomb. The trick was to ensure that the explosives used were undetectable from the latest security systems that were used at Roland Garros. Agbu and Bruno solved this problem with a simple procedure. They painted each battery with a lacquer paint that blocked the particle emissions that were detected by sensors.

The advertising campaign was a stroke of genius and tremendously successful. Ads for the new cell phone company started appearing on French television and in major newspapers three weeks before the tournament, and by the final week it was impossible to watch television in Paris without seeing a promo for the new product. The advertising campaign cost $5M per week, but had already generated $60M of orders for the new cell phones.

Everyone wanted to have the new latest and greatest cell phone that offered inside information on the design and construction of the new Roland Garros stadium plus interviews and highlights of this year's French Open. 50,000 phones were shipped a week ago, arriving at the dealer's hands on Friday. The early response from consumers was fantastic, generating another $30M of orders in two days.

Central to the advertising campaign was a promotional sweepstakes; "WIN 100,000 Euros if your cell phone number is called immediately following the Champions Parade, but YOU MUST BE PRESENT to win. It seemed that most of the 40,000 fans packed into the stadium carried a new cell phone.

Agbu's second advertising gimmick was to provide gift baskets to all tennis players, past champions and Roland Garros officials including key people from the construction team. These gift baskets were in the hotel rooms of each out-of-town recipient and were delivered by a private messenger service to the others. Agbu wasted no expense; the gift baskets were beautiful. Baskets included bottles of wine from the Beaune wine-growing region of Southern France; a Domaine Glantenet Bourgogne Chardonnay and a Calvet Cote De Beaune Villages Red. Small tins of French caviar, black and green olives, bottled water, baguettes of bread and Blue Brie from the Burgundy Region, and Camembert from the Normandy Region, sculptured into figures of famous Paris landmarks were arranged into a mouth-watering presentation. Featured was a private, limited edition cell phone and collectors item, engraved with the recipient's name and etched with a picture of the new Roland Garros Stadium. Unknown to each user, the phones also included a special Litiumlon battery.

The limited edition cell phones were also programmed and synchronized to be addressable from Agbu's cell phone, allowing Agbu to remotely access every cell phone with a single phone call. Only Agbu's cell phone could detonate the bombs imbedded in the phones.

Agbu waited for the explosions, designed to kill everyone within 15 feet of the limited edition cell phones. Nothing.

"What's wrong?" the Abdul asked.

Agbu looked at his phone and realized he had forgotten to hit the send button.

Agbu's thumb depressed the green, send button and he braced himself for the explosions and the chaos that would follow. Al-Qaeda suicide bombers were waiting in vans for the people to start pouring out of the stadium and into the parking lots and subway stations where explosives had already been planted.

Still nothing!

Agbu redialed the number and hit send; nothing. Nada.

"Maybe we need to get closer," Abdul said frantically.

"Jorge, drive down into the park. Maybe the signal is too weak?" Agbu said half-heartedly. He knew something was wrong.

As the van headed down towards the park surrounding the new stadium, Agbu saw the Al-Qaeda suicide cars waiting for their signal. He couldn't figure why the explosives had not detonated. They had tested the signal at this distance several times.

They reached the outside perimeter of the stadium and Agbu dialed the number again. Still nothing. "I don't know why it isn't working," Agbu said aloud, knowing that Abdul and his friend had guns aimed at his back.

Agbu got his answer when he saw the security gates open and the French police cars head directly towards their van. "Get out of here, Jorge, they are on to us. They must be jamming our signal."

Jorge had barely made his turn when bullets started raking the van. The police cars were closing fast and it was obvious they weren't going to make it. "Head for those trees," Agbu shouted, as he spotted the trees and dense underbrush at the east end of the park. If they could make it to the forest they might be able to slip away in the growing darkness.

They almost made it. They were only 20 meters from the relative safety of the woods when police gunfire punctured the gasoline tank and the van exploded in flames. The last thing Agbu remembered was seeing his friend Jorge slumped over the steering wheel with a bullet through his forehead.

Chris raced out of the suite heading towards the nearest security station which were all equipped with, steel reinforced bomb disposal containers. Without taking time to unload the cell phones, she dumped her entire purse into the enclosure and slammed the top shot. "Don't open the lid," she shouted to the security guards as she flashed her CIA credentials and sprinted out to the security building 100 meters away. What seemed like 11 seconds later she burst into the office housed by CIA and French security officials.

"Did we block the cell phone transmissions?" Chris shouted to the nearest technician, a 27-year old rookie policeman pulled off his regular duties for this event.

"Not yet," the man responded. "We are waiting for authorization from our superiors."

"Do it now!" Chris ordered as she pulled her gun and pointed it at the frightened policeman. "We don't have time to go through channels. Now!" she commanded, and watched as the jamming signal was initiated.

Netline's VHP ECM broadband RF jammer is based on sophisticated jamming technology developed by ex-military warfare experts. Designed to defend military convoys and police EOD teams against remote controlled improvised explosive devices (RCIED) used by terrorists, The C-Guard VHP ECM effectively jams the signals of radio transmitters used to remotely activate explosive devices and bombs. By accurately jamming the remote control frequencies, it cuts off radio communications from the triggering transmitter to the receiver on the bomb and preventing bomb detonation. It is a standard tool in the war against terrorists in Afghanistan and Iraq.

The young policeman couldn't believe he was looking down the barrel of a gun. " _This woman is crazy,"_ he thought, but he did as he was told _._ "There, it's done. Will you please put the gun away?"

Chris looked down at her hand and wondered how the gun had gotten there. "I'm sorry, I guess I got carried away, but we didn't have time to argue," she explained holstering her weapon.

The French security chief, followed by Chris' CIA boss, burst into the room demanding to know what was going on. Moments earlier they had been alerted to Chris order to implement contingency Plan G-1 which they both knew was an order to jam all cell phone signals within a three mile radius of the stadium.

Rather than take time to explain, Chris grabbed the souvenir cell phone off her boss's belt, and quickly dismantled the phone. She pointed to the battery, scraping off the paint that camouflaged the battery containing enough Semtex to blow the room to shreds. "Every one of the special edition phones must be rigged to explode." Chris explained. "The others must be okay because I worked with the technicians that checked them out. That's the only reason I was able to spot the problem so fast," she explained.

"Alert all security stations," the French chief of police ordered, quickly springing into action. "We are on red alert," he announced, repeating Chris' earlier command. "Tell everyone to be on the lookout for an attack."

"Chris, organize a team and get these phones into a safe place. There might be some other way to set them off," her boss ordered.

"I'm on my way," Chris said heading for the door. "We might also be on the lookout for a suspicious car or van in the area. The terrorists would need to be within 1,000 meters to detonate this device."

"Good idea," the Frenchman said, giving the order to his men. "Let's send out a few patrols and search the surrounding neighborhoods."

Five minutes later word came in that a van had been spotted approaching the perimeter and the police were giving chase.

The Champions Parade and speeches ended and everyone waited for the phone call indicating the winner of the 100,000 euro sweepstakes. Thousands of people were planning how they were going to spend their winnings. Murmurs traveled through the crowd as it became apparent that something was wrong with the cell phone service in the area. The crowd was becoming restless when the announcement was made.

"Ladies and gentleman, we have just received word that all cell phone service in this area has been disrupted due to problems with a cell relay tower. I have been notified that the winning cell phone number is 555-210-4365. If this is your number, please bring your phone to center court and claim your winnings. Does anyone have that number?"

A scream came from a woman in the lower deck," announcing that the winner of the 100,000 Euros was indeed present. There were a lot of disappointed fans.

"Thank you for coming tonight."

The crowd slowly made their way out of the stadium, most of them clutching their disabled cell phones.

The Past Champions headed for the restaurant where the Champions dinner was to be held. Many were surprised when they were asked to surrender their new cell phones. "What's wrong?" many of them asked.

"It's just a technical glitch," the security people explained. "The technicians promise they will fix the problem and get the phones back to you in a week."

Executives and officials leaving the luxury suites were also asked to turn in their phones. The last unaccounted phone was found six hours later and 1,500 miles away. George Hunt, who had been unable to stay for the ceremonies, departed in his private jet and was met in New York by security guards. "It's working fine," he said, before surrendering the phone.

"We have all the phones" Chris reported to her boss and French authorities. "That was the last one."

"You didn't tell me how you got a master list," he said. "Are you sure there aren't any others out there?"

"Let's just say that the CEO of the cellular company decided to cooperate." She answered with a smile. "I'm pretty sure we have them all."

"Well, even if we don't, it looks like we got the terrorists that had the master phone. We think they were in that van that exploded. Forensics is looking through the ruins as we speak, but it's going to take awhile before they know for sure. The bodies are all burned beyond recognition."

"How many bodies are there?"

"Three, as far as we can tell."

Mary and I arrived late to the Champions dinner, but early enough to have a much needed cocktail before dinner. We were pleasantly surprised that news of the terrorist plan had not leaked. We waited until after the evening's entertainment was complete before I updated the Steering Committee.

"We made it. We are ready to play this year's French Open."

### Part Five

### The French Open

Day 1 (Monday)

Pete vs Agassi

Pete felt like a Roman Gladiator, or a sacrificial lamb, he wasn't sure. He was a bundle of nerves as he walked out of the locker room into the new Suzanne Lenglen stadium. The forecast was for temperatures to stay in the low 60s and the court would play slow. The domed roof was open, and clouds covered the morning sun, but Pete was sweating. He had dreamed the stands would be full and was disappointed that the stands were still half empty, as fans arrived late for the 11 AM match. No matter, he was about to play his first grand slam tournament against Andre Agassi, the best American clay court player of all time. He saw the cameras and realized his match would be televised worldwide to over 60 countries. What pressure?

Pete dropped his tennis bag next to his chair and took a moment to focus on the task at hand. Agassi wouldn't give him the opportunity to play his way into the match. He had a well-deserved reputation as a great front-runner, once he got out in front he could steamroll his opponent. There would be no room for nerves once the match started. He needed to get off to a fast start.

Mary and I watched Pete from the friends-of-players box and couldn't help notice the little signs that told us he was nervous. "He better stop looking around and start concentrating or this will be a quick match," Mary commented. I could tell that she was nervous too. I know I was.

"He'll be okay," I said, more from hope than conviction. "Didn't we tell him to enjoy the moment?" Last night we took Pete and Lisa to dinner and spent a couple hours pretending that today was just another match. "Just play your own game, Pete. Move him side to side and get to the net whenever you can. Don't let him dictate play." Mary was doing her best to keep Pete focused on his game plan and not think about the magnitude of the event. In retrospect, we were probably making Pete more nervous by talking about it. I'm sure he wished we would give it a rest.

Lisa did everything she could to pump him up. "All the pressure is on him, Pete. You have nothing to lose. Just go out there and kick the old guy's butt. Anybody that walks like a penguin can't be that tough, can they?" Even Pete laughed at Lisa's irreverence.

Ambre called while we were having dessert and wished him luck. "Just play your own game, Pete. Your nerves will settle down after a couple points." This was her third French Open and knew the pressure Pete was feeling. "Remember, I'll be there for you, cheering you on."

Pete had never met Agassi until they were introduced in the locker room a few minutes before the match. Agassi was polite, but all business. He had been receiving a back massage from his personal trainer and looked a little stiff, but who knows; maybe that's how he always looks before a match. Pete watched Agassi walk to the baseline and smiled to himself as he thought back to Lisa's comment.

Pete won the toss and elected to serve and won the first game easily thanks to three unforced errors from Agassi. The errors continued and Pete quickly found himself up 4-1 and went on to win the first set 6-3. He was playing good tennis but knew that Agassi was making an uncharacteristic number of errors. He still looked a little stiff.

Agassi turned it around in the 2nd set and began moving the ball around. Pete felt he was on a string, being jerked side to side. Agassi's famed service return made an appearance as he jumped on Pete's second serve for an up-the-line winner to close out the set, 6-1.

Pete felt good physically, but knew he had to change the pace of the match. He was hitting too many short balls and was letting Agassi stand at the baseline and dictate play with his punishing groundstrokes. The third set was even at 2-2 when Pete got a short ball to his backhand and responded with a one handed, sliced drop shot. Agassi was caught completely off guard and never made a move for the ball. Pete used the drop shot four more times that set and won all but one point. Twice Agassi reached the ball and bunted it deep to Pete's forehand, only to watch a topspin lob go over his head. It was a tactic that might work.

Pete broke Agassi at five games all and was serving for the set at 6-5 when the nerves caught up to him. He realized that he was about to go up two sets to one against the greatest American tennis player of our time. The stands were filling up and getting behind Agassi. Pete opened the game with a double fault and followed this inauspicious start with two unforced errors. An Agassi winner evened the set at six all and forced a tiebreaker. Pete's nerves got worse and Agassi made quick work of him in the tiebreaker; 7-1.

Pete was down a set and the momentum was with Agassi. Pete knew he had to turn his game around quickly or he would get steamrolled in the fourth. Smartly, Pete asked the chair umpire permission to go to the locker. WTF rules allowed ten minutes to go to the bathroom and change clothes. An official accompanied him to make sure he would not receive any coaching which is illegal in professional tennis events. Interestingly, coaching is allowed in college tennis because of the team concept.

Tennis players seldom need a bathroom break because of the amount of sweating they did. The trick was to drink enough fluids to stay hydrated. Pete was just trying to calm down and change the momentum of the match. He used the time to change into dry clothes and, surprisingly, found a note taped to the inside of his locker. Stay calm and move him side to side. His back is hurting. Pete smiled as he wondered how Ambre managed to get into the men's locker room

Pete started serving the 4th set and it was soon apparent that the break had not done Agassi any good. His movement was limited and it did appear that his back was bothering him. The weather was still chilly and the courts were slow, conditions not conducive to working through a tight muscle or a bad back. Pete broke Agassi at love and jumped out to a 3-0 lead. By then it was clear to everyone that Agassi was hurt and he was just playing out the string. Thirty minutes later it was over and Pete had advanced to the 2nd round of the French Open by upsetting the great Andre Agassi; 6-3, 1-6, 6-7(1), 6-0, 6-0.

Pete should have been ecstatic, but this wasn't the way he wanted to win. He settled for a small fist pump before walking to the net to shake Agassi's hand. It was the second consecutive year that Agassi had lost in the first round at Roland Garros and the crowd sensed that this might be the last time they would see him here in Paris. It was not the way a former champion should depart. They gave Agassi a huge ovation as he walked off the court together.

Pete looked over at us in the friends' box and waved. Mary and I were only slightly more proud than Lisa and Gregg. Like Gregg said, beating an injured player is a lot better than losing to an injured player. A win is a win. I turned to Lisa, "tomorrow it's your turn."

There was cause for celebration. It had been a close call, but the first day of the French Open had gone smoothly. There were some delays due to false alarms from the sensor equipment, but this was to be expected. Everyone associated with the construction project needed to relax and let off steam. "Mary, where would you like to celebrate? Hunt and Clark invited us to a party for their management teams and Chris invited us to a party for the security people and counter terrorism group. She warned me that party might get a little rowdy. What do you prefer?"

"Jim, I am so emotionally drained, there is no way I would be any fun at a big party. Do you realize how close we were to getting killed? You go if you like, but I vote for a private dinner with just the two of us and the kids if they are interested."

"Somehow I knew you would want a more quiet evening. I have 8 PM reservations for six at the Stella Maris on rue Arsene.

"Six? Pete, Lisa and who else?" Mary hoped that Pete had not invited Ambre. That would not have gone over well with Lisa.

"Ken and Chris asked if they could join us."

"That's fine, Jim, but if reservations are at 8 PM I had better start getting ready."

Stella Maris featured French cuisine prepared by a Japanese chef, Taderu Yoshino. Located near the Arc de Triomphe. This upscale, Art Deco style restaurant caters to the wealthy French and tourists on expense accounts. The chef rewrites his menu four times a year and always includes hints of Japan in dishes made with organic ingredients, such as eel blanquette (stew) with grilled cucumber, salmon prepared four ways (in salt, marinated with dill, smoked, and panfried), and a unique take on the French classic tête de veau, with a spice and turtle jus.

"Well, what do you think?" I asked as we were waiting for the waiter to bring our wine. It was just the four of us. Pete and Lisa had begged off at the last minute. Pete decided a night out celebrating with a few of the other players would be more fun than dinner with his parents. I figured somehow Ambre entered into his plans. Lisa had a noon match the next day and wanted to get to bed early.

"I love it," Mary replied looking around at the other diners, seemingly split about 50-50 between tourists and French. The food must be pretty good if the locals keep coming back."

"At these prices, it better be more than good," Chris murmured, wondering how her expense account would look to government auditors.

"By the way, are you buying?" Ken asked. "I was thinking of ordering off the chef's special of the day. Let me see. 110 Euros is about $140. If you're not, I might have to settle for the tasting menu, that's only 75 Euros."

Ken was kidding, but I wasn't. "You order what you want," I replied looking at Chris. "We owe Chris a lot more than an expensive dinner."

Chris blushed as we raised our water glasses and toasted her. "Here-here," I said as we clinked glasses. Chris was smiling but I could see her eyes focus on a second waiter who brought us pastries. Her hand eased to her side within easy reach of her purse, which I noticed was open. I now realized why Ken had sat her in the corner chair that offered the best view of the room. We were celebrating, but Chris was on the job.

Coincidentally, Mary chose this moment to ask why Chris had not joined her co-workers tonight. "I heard the French police rented a river boat to celebrate. You would have been the queen of the party."

"I'd rather spend the evening with friends. Besides, the tasting menu is looking pretty good," she added trying to change the subject.

I wouldn't let her. "You're not convinced it's over, are you?" I asked softly.

Chris hesitated before answering. "I would like to think so, Jim, but I have this feeling in my stomach that Agbu is still out there and will try again. I hope I'm wrong. The French police thought there were four people in the vehicle they chased, but only three bodies had been recovered from the wreckage, two in the back seat."

Mary sat back and looked at Chris. "You mean that you're working tonight. This isn't a celebration?"

"I meant it when I said I would rather have dinner with my friends. It won't hurt anything if I just keep an eye out for trouble, will it?"

"We are pretty lucky to have friends like you," Mary said, putting her hand on Chris' arm. "Thank you."

"I guess that means there is more wine for the three of us," Ken said as the waiter brought a bottle of 1998 French Chablis.

The rest of Day 1 on the men's side of the draw went pretty much according to form. All the top seeds got through. Carlos was on the opposite side of the draw and was not scheduled to play until tomorrow.

Ambre was seeded #3 and appeared to be in top form as she beat a young Japanese girl, 6-1, 6-0. Davenport, the highest-ranking American in the draw, had a tough, three-set match but got through to the second round.

Day 2 (Tuesday)

Lisa vs Myskina

Pete was unusually subdued about his victory; disappointed that Agassi had not been at full strength. Gregg tried to cheer him up, but Pete wasn't buying it. "Everyone thinks that Agassi would have beaten me if it weren't for the injury. In fact, I'm not so sure he wouldn't have."

"Okay, on Wednesday you get a chance to show them it wasn't a fluke," Lisa said encouragingly. "In the meantime, you can watch your little sister kick some Russian butt tomorrow. You're not going to be the only Simpson in this tournament. In fact, let's place a little wager on who gets further in this tournament, you or me. "

"You're on, baby sister. Pick your poison. What should we play for?"

"Okay, how about this? As long as I'm in the tournament you will refer to me as "my great hero" whenever a reporter asks you about me, or in the highly unlikely event that I lose first, I'll say the same about you. Agreed?"

"You mean that after you lose, and Pat McEnroe asks you whether your brother has a chance to win his next match, you're going to say that Pete is my great hero and I hope he loses so that I can stop calling him my great hero? I can do that!"

"Remember, it works both ways." Mary and I watched and realized that Lisa had managed to get Pete out of his funk. We also noticed Lisa's confidence She truly believed she would win tomorrow.

Lisa had played a lot of tennis in the past three months and was now ranked #89 in the world. She was match tough and comfortable on the red clay. However, nothing could prepare her for the excitement of opening on center court against the defending women's champion, Anastasia Myskina. Last year the Russian had completed a dream year by outlasting fellow countrywoman Elena Dementieva in a tense, error prone final.

Most players would have complained about a bad draw, Lisa saw it as an opportunity to show the world she could play. In her mind it was Myskina that had the bad draw.

"She looks like she's at Disneyland," Mary commented as Lisa and Anastasia warmed up. "She is smiling and looking around like it's a day in the park."

"She better start concentrating or the match will be over before she knows it," Gregg admonished.

"I don't believe it. Do you see what she is doing?" I muttered to no one in particular. Lisa had gone to her chair and pulled a camera out of her bag, and was snapping pictures of the crowd. I'm sure my mouth was open when she pointed the camera at us. Many people in the crowd had noticed and were laughing and waving. Myskina was not amused. The chair umpire seemed to be stifling a laugh as she announced into the microphone; "Time."

It took Lisa 15 seconds to walk back to the baseline and prepare to serve, but in those 15 seconds she converted from a frivolous tourist to a hardened competitor. Her first serve was a serve up the middle that Myskina barely got her racket on. Her next serve was an ace out wide. Lisa was all over Myskina and didn't let up. She won the first set 6-1 in 26 minutes.

"Wow," I whispered to Mary. "Can she keep it up?"

"We'll see. I have her charted for 13 winners and only two unforced errors. Nobody can keep that level of tennis up forever."

Myskina recovered in the 2nd set and began to connect on her punishing groundstrokes. Lisa began to make errors, particularly off her backhand, but played well enough to force a tiebreaker. Lisa still looked confident and had a match point on her serve at 6-5 when fate intervened. Myskina hit a forehand crosscourt, which was called wide by the lines woman. Lisa threw her racquet in the air in joy before she heard chair person overrule the call, even though the ball was on the far side of the court. The umpire climbed out of the chair and found a mark that had just clipped the line. Lisa claimed he had the wrong ball mark and pointed to a mark two feet up the line that was clearly out. Most of the crowd agreed with her, but not the person that counted. "Six all," the umpire announced, and the argument was over.

Lisa was deflated and lost her composure, and the next two points. The match was even at one set apiece. During the changeover, she also drew a code violation for unsportsmanlike conduct when she mischievously tiptoed over to the disputed mark and snapped a picture. Her impish smile said she was kidding and 15,000 people roared with laughter. The chair umpire and her opponent were not amused.

Myskina never had a chance in the third set. It was the first set all over again, and Lisa won in 19 minutes. She was into the 2nd round to the delight of the crowd and her support group in the friends and family box. "Today she is my great hero," Pete said proudly.

That evening we celebrated and talked a little bit about whether the camera-thing was pushing the boundaries of sportsmanship. We concluded that since it was spontaneous, only the "tennis prudes" would have a problem. Lisa agreed to put the camera away for the rest of the tournament, at least until a week from Saturday during her award ceremony. The next day Lisa was fined $5,000 by the USTA, a decision that caused an uproar from all fans and media covering the tournament. John McEnroe was quoted as saying, "I cannot believe it," a phrase he usually reserved for bad line calls.

Agbu was wounded badly and could barely walk, but he knew the French police would seal off the area within minutes. The explosion that had destroyed the van had thrown him to the edge of the woods that was a tiny part of the national forest of Rouvray. He managed to crawl and stumble into the protection of the trees and escape immediate detection. As he lay among the dense shrubbery and caught his breath, Agbu realized he must escape quickly before the French police cordoned off the park. It was dark and he needed to move quickly.

There are over 35 kilometers of footpaths meandering through the 2,200 acre Bois de Boulogne park. Agbu emerged from the far side of the woods and found a footpath leading past a deserted children's playground. After dark, this was not a place for children. Agbu dragged his injured leg, ignoring the blood that soaked his pants and left a trail that would be easy to follow. He knew he needed to find a place to rest and headed towards the stream that dissected the park. At that moment, providence intervened on his behalf. A scooter with a single rider was coming directly towards him, probably lost and seeking an exit from this dangerous playground. He didn't make it. Moments later Agbu was on the scooter heading towards the city. The scooter's owner had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and paid for this unfortunate coincidence with his life.

Agbu reached the rented apartment and collapsed on the bed, too tired to think clearly. He needed sleep. When he awoke it was still dark and he felt a little better, but he knew he needed help or his wounds would fester. They had to be cleaned and the bullet had to come out. He also knew that he needed to find a new safe house. Agbu was sure the others were dead, but it was too much to expect that authorities would not be able to eventually find this apartment where they had lived for two weeks. He had 24 hours at most.

Planning for contingencies was one of Agbu's strong points. He called the number he had memorized and two hours later the doctor had removed the bullet and cleansed his wounds. "You need complete rest, Agbu. I'll arrange for a car to take you back to Spain."

"No!" Agbu replied angrily, "Drive me to this address. I'll rest-up there for a couple days. I still have unfinished business here in Paris."

The doctor helped Agbu down the stairs into the car. They didn't see anyone, but the scooter was missing. "Damn thieves," Agbu muttered. He knew it was only a matter of time before the police would trace the scooter back to this location.

"Good," Agbu muttered to himself. "I want them to know that I'm coming for them.

There were no other major upsets in either the men's or women's draw. 2000 and 2001 champion Gustavo Kureten was defeated but this was not unexpected. "Guga," as he is nicknamed, was not the same player since undergoing two hip operations. Carlos won easily in straight sets. The match took only 85 minutes, reminiscent of the fast matches that were a trademark of Monica Seles in her prime.

Day 3 (Wednesday)

The Top Women Survive

Pete's 2nd round opponent was a qualifier from Great Britain who had squeaked out a 5-set victory in round one. Pete had no problem, winning in straight sets: 6-3, 6-4 and 6-1. It was a good draw for Pete and the direct result of beating Agassi who had been seeded #6. Pete was lucky not to have drawn a clay court specialist. Nobody at the French open wants to play a Spaniard or Argentinean in the early rounds.

32 of the 128 players are seeded in both the men's and women's draws. If all went according to form, the #1 seed would face the #32 seed in the third round and the #16 seed in the fourth round. The theory of seeding is to reward players for their performance over the past two years and eliminating the chance that the top players would play each other in the early rounds, saving the marquis matches for later rounds and prime time television

Seeding is based upon world rankings, but there is always controversy because of the different court services. A clay court player will not necessarily do well at Wimbledon and a grass court player might not do well at the French Open. The French and English made an attempt in the late 90's to seed players based upon their performance on clay or grass respectively, but the players revolted. Wimbledon still adjusts the seeding slightly, but not enough to make a huge difference.

Pete Sampras was the #1 ranked player in the world for many years and was seeded #1 in ten French Opens. Realistically, he never had a chance. Neither his game nor temperament was suited to clay. He relied on one big shot to end the point, where clay rewarded the grinder that was willing to move his opponent around before finishing off a point. Sampras was never in good enough physical shape to play this type of game, but he was still seeded #1. Another example is Tim Henman, who attained his top-10 world ranking in grass and hard court tournaments. Although Henman did make it to the semis in 2004, he was always seeded higher than his clay court prowess merited. Some players such as Bjorn Borg and Roger Federer are a threat on all surfaces, but these are the exceptions.

The top two lady seeds were fortunate to survive their second round matches. Lindsay Davenport was down a set and two points from defeat, before she rallied. Sharapova won in two tough sets. Ambre sailed into the third round with an impressive performance, winning 6-2, 6-2. The Belgiums won easily as did the other French hope, Amelie Mauresmo, who blew out her second straight opponent. Serena Williams was out with an ankle injury, but big sister Venus, fresh off a clay court victory in Istanbul the previous week, looked in championship form and won convincingly.

Earl Donavon, the CIA regional director in charge of Roland Garros security, called Chris Lewis into his office. The CIA had been asked to assist the French police in providing security for the 14-day tournament. "Chris, this morning we received the coroner's report and your hunch was correct. Agbu was not one of the terrorists in the van we blew up. The French found the apartment where he holed-up Monday night and DNA lab tests confirm that the blood on the bed is Agbu's. It looks like he is hurt pretty bad, but we need to assume he is still dangerous"

"Does that mean the case is reopened?"

"That's right, Chris. You'll be heading up a five-man team to protect the Simpson family. Isn't that what you have been doing the last couple days anyway?"

Chris nodded sheepishly. "I wasn't aware it was that obvious, but if Agbu is alive, I figured the Simpsons are in grave danger. This is almost like a vendetta with him."

"You seem to know this guy pretty well. That's one reason I want you more involved in this case. I'm promoting you to my senior assistant. You'll be the CIA liaison with the French police and have total authority on everything related to security."

"I won't let you down." Chris should have been happier with the promotion, but was overwhelmed with responsibility of finding Agbu before he harmed her friends. She vowed that she would not fail.

"May I see the apartment for myself?"

"Let's go," Donavon said as he grabbed his coat. "I'll drive and fill you in on how we found this place. It seems like Agbu has added murder to his resume."

Chris listened as Donavon told her how they had found the 14-year old boy shot to death near the playground and the trail of blood leading from the woods. "It looks like Agbu took the boy's scooter and escaped from the park before our roadblocks were in place. It's hard to justify shooting a 14-year old kid as part of the fight for Basque freedom."

"No, I think he has gone over the edge, which won't make our job any easier," Chris replied thoughtfully. "It's no telling what he will do next."

Day 4 (Thursday)

The Last American Man Standing

Lisa's 2nd round match was on court 18, as far away from the championship courts as you can get at Roland Garros. There was room for about 200 people, a far cry from the 15,000 that watched her upset Myskina on the Suzanne Lenglen show court. Her opponent was an American girl ranked # 110 in the world. Lisa had never seen her play, but Gregg said the girl had a good serve and a wicked forehand. Her backhand was her weakness. "Hit deep to her backhand and come to the net," Gregg advised.

It was standing room only and scores of fans were milling around the outside of the court, many of them yelling encouragement. Most had cameras. Lisa had to smile. For two days she had answered questions from the national media. Even the other players wanted to know what prompted her to take a picture of the bad line call.

"I don't know, I just did it," Lisa explained. "I guess I was trying to relax." Whatever the reason, her impromptu action made her a celebrity. A French magazine paid her $10,000 for the photo, which more than made up for her $5,000 fine. Replays were inconclusive, but everyone sitting along that sideline had agreed with Lisa. The ball was good and the chair umpire was wrong. The photo was proof.

The crowd erupted in applause as they walked onto the court and got louder when Lisa smiled and waved. Flashbulbs popped everywhere and continued throughout warm-ups. Lisa thoroughly enjoyed the moment before settling into the match. The small but vocal crowd was behind her as 200 fans cheered her every winner and groaned if Lisa made an error. They reacted with polite applause to her opponent's good shots, which were few and far between. The California girl seemed unnerved by the raucous crowd and never got into the match. Lisa won easily, 6-2, 6-2.

The media room was packed when Lisa showed up for her post match interview. The questions were more about the camera than about Lisa's tennis match, but Lisa didn't mind. She was enjoying the moment and her infectious smile endeared her to the press. That night, on National TV, Bud Collins asked Lisa why she thought the fans and media had taken to her so quickly. "Was it because your demeanor contrasted so much with the stoicism and truculent attitude of the Russian girl you beat in the first round?"

Lisa was only 17, but old enough to recognize a loaded question. She wasn't going to be trapped into characterizing Myskina as stoic or truculent. "I'm not sure what you are asking me, Mr. Collins, but last year my brother let me drive his truck for a couple days. Was that a truculent?"

That ended the interview as Pat McEnroe and Shriver started laughing. When Lisa returned to the women's locker room at least a dozen of the other players and coaches congratulated her on side stepping the question. Even the ESPN commentators were laughing at themselves and saying how refreshing it was to have a young lady with so much poise and class. Her legend and fan base was growing.

Ambre was also causing a stir as she again won easily on center court. It had been 1967 since a French-born woman, Françoise Durr, had won their national championship. The anticipation was growing every time Ambre stepped onto the court.

Chris' first act was to convince the French security force to tighten security at all entrances. Packages and large purses were opened and searched causing long delays and disgruntled fans. Every ticket agent had a description of Agbu and scanned the face of every young man. If you were young and limped, or displayed an injury of any kind, you were pulled over to the side and questioned. It was tedious and time-consuming work. Lines at the main gates reached 150 meters, and delays exceeded 90 minutes just to enter the stadium.

Inside the stadium security was doubled. Plainclothes detectives were everywhere with emphasis given on protecting the Simpsons. Chris was adamant. "If Pete or Lisa Simpson is playing on Court 13, I want a team there scanning the stands for explosives and two detectives in the stands an hour before the match. Two others will pose as security guards and escort them to and from the court. Believe me, Agbu will try something and he is an expert with explosives."

Video cameras were everywhere including the areas surrounding Roland Garros. A ten-person crew monitored the cameras looking for suspicious behavior. One young couple was arrested as they were observed dropping a handbag into a trash bin as they entered the stadium. They subsequently were released and allowed to enter the stadium, but their marijuana was confiscated. The police had no time to waste on petty criminals.

Away from the stadium, the Simpson family was escorted everywhere and were secretly moved to a private home where the entire family was together. This minimized security requirements and risk to innocent bystanders, but also offered an inviting target if word of their whereabouts leaked out. "Don't worry Jim, we plan to move you in a few days to another location. We're not going to let him get to you," Chris assured me.

"I know you are doing what you have to do, Chris, but it's awfully tough on the kids. They have enough pressure on them without this."

"They seem to be dealing with it okay," Chris said with a smile. "They're winning."

Chris' team was making progress in tracking Agbu's movements before and after the aborted attempt to blow up Roland Garros. Fingerprints and DNA had matched the dead terrorists confirming this indeed was the terrorist headquarters. Two sets of fingerprints did not match and a third man's partial print was found on a bloody bullet recovered in the toilet drain.

"This must be the doctor that operated on Agbu, find him and we find Agbu. What do we have so far?" Chris asked.

"Nothing, we ran the fingerprint, but he isn't in our database," the agent replied. "We are looking at every doctor in Paris but have come up empty so far. It will probably take a couple more days to check them all, but I'm not hopeful we will get anything."

"Why not?"

"It's too risky. I just don't see a doctor taking that kind of chance and besides, it's too obvious. Agbu is smarter than that."

"When you are bleeding, you might not be thinking too clearly, but I see your point," Chris replied thoughtfully. The room was silent for a few seconds until Chris asked aloud. "Maybe he isn't a real doctor? Maybe he is just a nurse or medical assistant, someone that picked up enough experience to help out in an emergency. Let's expand our search to include these groups," Chris added. "Maybe he was a paramedic in the military."

"One more thing," the lab technician offered. "We found traces of explosives. They were making bombs at the apartment, and it had nothing to do with the explosives used in the cell phones. It looks like C-4," the technician said referring to the American version of Semtex.

Chris looked at her boss who shook his head. "There were no bombs or detonators found in the van, or anywhere else on the grounds," Ron said. "Whatever they made is still out there."

"Or it's already in place and waiting to be detonated," Chris replied. "Let's do another search of Roland Garros and take a closer look at the construction team. I want a detailed check on everyone involved in this project," Chris ordered.

"Do you want to check the Simpson group as well as Bouygues?" an agent asked.

"Yes, check everybody although I think you could skip Jim Simpson." Chris thought a moment and then added, "let's check everyone."

Carlos advanced easily into the third round, losing only five games in three sets. The same could not be said for the rest of the American men. Andy Roddick, the #2 seed, lost in five sets, as did James Blake. Both had won the first two sets. Vince Spadea had been forced to retire with an injury. Pete was the only American remaining from the nine that had started.

Last year not one American man had made it through to the third round. Andy Roddick has never made it out of the second round in five attempts, and he is the #2 player in the world.

Why? Americans will continue to berate themselves for not being competitive at Roland Garros, at least until Wimbledon comes around and helps erase the bad memories. The Americans do better on the slick, fast courts that favor power over finesse. Anyone who watched the Blake and Roddick matches knows why they lose on clay.

How many times did you see Blake or Roddick get pulled wide and try to hit a low percentage winner from a defensive position rather that getting the ball back in play and starting the point over? American players are aggressive, most good clay court players think defense.

How many times did Pat McEnroe point out the difference between speed and footwork? Blake and Roddick are fast and footwork is okay, but not nearly as good as the Spaniards or South Americans. Americans don't slide into the ball the way the natural clay court players do. They grew up on this surface and embrace it; Americans fight it. Some like Agassi and Courier actually got pretty good at it, but the South Americans change directions on clay without a thought.

Another factor is conditioning. American players are in pretty good shape but the real good clay court players are in great shape. The exception was Jim Courier, twice a French Open champion. His conditioning was superior. Success on the slow, red clay courts at Roland Garros demands patience, footwork, experience and a patient attitude that is not characteristic of the top American players. That's not necessarily a bad thing; it's just being realistic.

The future for American men at Roland Garros is not good. That is not to say there won't be occasional successes, but for every American that learns to embrace the clay, there will be a dozen Spaniards and South Americans that grew up playing on their favorite surface. American players face a daunting challenge. There are 15 Argentineans in the main draw and twelve won their opening matches.

Day 5 (Friday)

The Future of Tennis

Pete was the sole American remaining in the men's draw, but was getting little respect. Pundits were not impressed with his wins over an injured Andre Agassi and the unknown British qualifier. Tournament organizers were not impressed either and scheduled him for an early match on court #18, as far away from center court as you can get. His opponent was not pleased with the lack of respect. Fernanando Gonzales was a true clay courter and former French Open semifinalist who believed he had a good opportunity to win it all this year.

There were less than 50 people in the stands when the match started, which was fine with Pete. He felt enough pressure without the additional pressure of a big crowd. Unlike Lisa, Pete preferred to fly low under the radar. Mary and I were there and Lisa would be over after her morning practice session with Gregg. Hopefully, that's all the support he would need. Ambre was scheduled to play at the same time.

The Chilean came out in a funk. Pete drop shot him on the first point and caught him flatfooted. Three unforced errors later and Pete had won the first game at love. Throughout the first set, Gonzalez' mood alternated between lethargy and impatience. Mary commented that she had never seen a clay court player give away a set like that.

"I hope he keeps it up," I whispered. "We'll take it."

Gonzales turned it around in the second set and started to show why he was one of the top clay court players in the world. The errors stopped and he started moving around the court with catlike quickness, forcing Pete to construct perfect shots to earn a point. They split the next two sets to give Pete a two set to one lead, but Gonzales won the fourth set easily. Pete looked tired and the momentum had obviously switched to the Chilean. Spectators heard about the close match and the stands were now packed.

Pete was about to serve at 2-3, 30-40 when a female voice shouted from the crowd, "come on Pete, you can do it. Get tough!" It was Ambre, still dressed in the tennis clothes she had worn in her match on center court where she had prevailed against a gritty opponent, 6-4. 7-5.

Pete won the next point in a long, 25-stroke rally that ended when Pete sneaked into the net and put away a volley. His fist pump and yell told everyone that the momentum had swung. Twenty minutes later Pete had won his first 5-set match, 6-4. After the perfunctory handshake at the net, Pete pointed to Ambre before acknowledging the crowd and giving us a thumbs-up.

It was a fantastic victory over a tough opponent and I expected that Pete would be the new darling of the American Press. As the only American remaining in the men's draw, he would start earning the respect he deserved. We were surprised and disappointed when the first question from the media was, "Do you think your sister has a chance to win tomorrow?"

Pete thought a moment before he remembered their bet. "Lisa has always been my great hero. I think she can win it all this year."

Pete was joking, but had provided the writers with their lead story for tomorrow's papers, and a sound bite for the television media. "Brother predicts championship for Lisa Simpson." There was little mention that Pete had made it into the 3rd round of his first French Open. That was fine with Pete.

Ambre was facing a fine for skipping her post match press conference. She had headed for Court 14 as soon as she heard Pete was in the fifth set. The fine was never levied, partially because the media didn't complain. They knew where Ambre had raced off to and had their story.

Agbu slept for 16 hours and awoke with a splitting headache. He was sweating and ached all over. It took a minute before he remembered where he was. The clock on the nightstand said 4:30 and the darkness told him it was early morning. He realized how weak he was as he staggered to the small bathroom. He needed to regain his strength before he could implement the plan that had been germinating in his head while he slept.

The doctor came at 9:00 and found Agbu awake and having breakfast with the two Spanish college students that leased the apartment. Agbu had gone to high school with Juan and knew he could trust them completely. Both students were loyal to the Basque cause.

"Your leg looks pretty good," the doctor said as he replaced the bandage on his thigh. "There is no infection. Stay off it for a couple weeks and you will be as good as new. I'll stop back tomorrow to change your bandage."

Agbu knew he couldn't be laid up for two weeks, but decided not to tell the doctor. It was not a good idea to share his plans with too many people, particularly when he knew authorities would be searching for the doctor that had treated him at the apartment.

Implementing his new plan would require help from the Basque cell in his hometown of Vitoria-Gasteiz. He spent an hour making a list of the manpower and supplies he would need. "Juan, I need you to make a couple phone calls for me. It would be better if you made the calls from a pay phone at least a couple kilometers from here. Tell Enrique that this is what I need and to have it ready in five days. I'll let him know where to meet me."

Agbu laid back on the bed and soon fell asleep, but not before smiling at his plan for revenge, and thinking; _Anton, I have not forgotten you._

The hyped match of the day captivated the imagination of the French crowd, but never lived up to expectations. Fourth seed Rafael Nadal brushed aside French hope Richard Gasquet 6-4, 6-3, 6-2 Friday to march into the fourth round. In this much-awaited, but eventually one-sided clash between two of the rising stars of the game, Nadal displayed his trademark power and tenacity, while Gasquet was inconsistent.

Gasquet has been mentioned in the same breath as Nadal for years now. The boys were both 18, born within days of each other. Gasquet was featured on a French magazine cover at age nine, while Nadal had been a Spanish prodigy for years. Gasquet made it to the semi-finals in Monte Carlo and the finals in Hamburg, giving the French fans reason to hope their man could stand up to Nadal.

It was quickly obvious that Nadal was physically superior. At 195 pounds, he exuded power. Large biceps and thick calves bulged from his trademark, sleeveless jersey and white pirate pants. He outweighed his opponent by 30 pounds and in the Paris heat and humidity; it was obvious that Nadal was too strong for Gasquet. Nadal won in straight sets to the disappointment of the partisan, French crowd.

The major surprise of the day was the upset of four-time Grand Slam winner Venus Williams by Sesil Karatantcheva, a 15-year old unknown from Bulgaria. 58 unforced errors from Venus accelerated her demise and another early exit from the French Open. In the post match press conference, the effusive youngster offered the following insight; "Three years ago I was just a kid begging coach Bollettieri to come watch me play. I can't believe it!" She was all of 15 years old, still a year away from driving a car and six years from being able to vote.

Day 6 (Saturday)

The Last French Woman

Lisa's 3rd round match was scheduled for Philippe Chatrier, the showcase court at Roland Garros. It was the second match of the day and the stands were full in anticipation of seeing this young American star that had burst on the scene this tournament. The French had adopted Lisa as one of their own.

The media hype since Pete's " _she is my great hero_ " comment was unprecedented and Lisa basked in the attention. The press roared with appreciation when she responded to a question about Pete. "Yes, he is my great hero, not realizing that Lisa was only fulfilling her side of the bet.

Fans mobbed her before and after her practice session. Everyone wanted her to autograph the now-famous picture of Lisa taking a picture of the ball mark from the Myskina match. Vendors were hawking the pictures for five Euros and they couldn't keep them in stock.

I finally had to step in and beg the crowd to let her get to her practice session. The crowd wasn't cooperating but Gregg and I finally were able to clear a path. Lisa wasn't cooperating either. "Dad, this is fun. I'm having the time of my life. You always said you thought the players should interact more with the fans. Didn't you?"

"Yes I did, Lisa, but there is time for everything. We only have the court for 90 minutes so let's make the most of it or you won't be around to sign any autographs. You have a tough match tomorrow."

Her opponent was a young Argentinean girl Paola Suarez that had upset the #27 seed, American veteran Amy Frazier. She was only 5'2" but known for her heavy ground strokes and speed around the court. Her second serve was vulnerable.

Lisa won the coin flip and chose to return serve, allowing her opponent to choose which side to serve from. It was midday and the sun was directly overhead so there was no advantage to serving from either side. Gregg had suggested letting Suarez serve the first game. She might be a little nervous and tentative and give Lisa an opportunity to get an early break of serve.

The strategy worked to perfection. Suarez double faulted the first point as cameras flashed throughout the stadium. It seemed that half of the 15,000 fans had brought a camera. The chair umpire warned the crowd after the first serve and again after the double fault, but the crowd only jeered. It was at this point that Lisa showed her class and control over the crowd. She stepped inside the baseline and held up her hands asking for silence. When the crowd quieted Lisa pleaded for order; "Please, no pictures." The crowd responded about 5,000 flashes. Lisa beamed and asked again. "Please, later, after the match." The crowd roared and settled back in their seats.

Suarez, down love 15 was even more nervous. She netted her first serve and put in a weak, 70 MPH 2nd serve which Lisa stepped into and cracked for a clean winner. Lisa won the game with another service return winner when Suarez took a lot off her first serve just to get it in. The message had been sent; _I'm going to be all over your second serve today. You better not miss your first._

Paola was ranked #38 in the world and was too good a player to fold completely. She was also tenacious and continually made Lisa hit another shot after Lisa thought she already had won the point. She broke Lisa three times but was broken five times. Lisa earned an entertaining and satisfying 6-4, 6-3, victory.

The crowd rose and cheered as Lisa shook hands with Suarez the chair umpire. Lisa took a moment to towel off and put her racquet into her tennis bag, before coming back onto the court to acknowledge the crowd. It erupted when they saw the camera. Lisa waved and took a flash picture in each direction as the crowd responded in turn. It was a great day for the camera industry.

The press conference was a mob scene. Lisa showed up with her trademark smile, camera and a request, "Please, no questions about my brother."

The French were outraged at the latest attempt to destroy Roland Garros and were not idle while the CIA was working at finding Agbu. They decided on another approach. Taking advantage of a France-Spain bilateral antiterrorist pact signed September 10, 2004, the joint police units of both countries swooped down on the ETA and Islamic extremists throughout France and Spain. This well-coordinated attack was designed to arrest and detain suspected ETA sympathizers and break the back of the Basque militant group. Not since 1987 when Spain reacted to the senseless killing of 24 innocent bystanders, has there been such an all-out attack on the ETA.

The New ETA was back to square one. All the gains that Agbu had earned with the investment in new schools and jobs were wiped out in one senseless act. Spain's cooperation with the France in the raids was interesting. It showed how shallow their support had been for the New ETA. "A leopard cannot change its spots," one Spanish official summarized.

Hundreds were arrested throughout Spain, from Madrid to Vitoria-Gasteiz, the Basque capital. Italy, Portugal and other European countries cooperated and patrolled their airports and borders. Basque political leaders who despised the ETA were also arrested. Each person was asked the same questions, "Where is Agbu? What is he planning?"

Enrique and several of Agbu's friends escaped the dragnet by less than an hour. The supplies Agbu had requested yesterday were stored in the mountains and they left town at 11:00. At noon, the police broke into his now empty home and found nothing. They had missed an opportunity by minutes. Four terrorists had disappeared and Chris and her team were not pleased. "He is up to something," she told her team. "We just don't know what."

The media initially reported the assault as the long-awaited crackdown on the New ETA and other terrorist groups. It took an anonymous tip to steer them in the right direction. A junior reporter for the French Gazette arrived at work late Saturday morning and found a voice message. "I suggest you look into the tie-in between the raid on Spanish terrorists and the extra security at Roland Garros. The leaders of the plot to bomb Roland Garros are still alive."

Newspapers get these anonymous tips every day and the reporter was tempted to delete this message, but decided to play it safe. An hour later sources confirmed the lead and the junior reporter had a byline for the lead story for Sunday's paper. "Terrorist Planning New Attacks on Roland Garros." A page one 4x6 picture of Agbu accompanied the story.

Carlos led the Spanish charge into the quarterfinals with an easy straight win over a young Russian, Mikhail Youzhny. Carlos had yet to drop a set in the tournament.

Amelie Mauresmo was not so lucky. The 25-year-old French woman had never made it past the quarterfinals, but was in good form coming into the tournament. The 3rd seed dominated her opponents in her first two matches, but was upset by Ana Ivanovic of Serbia, the #29 seed. French hopes were now squarely on Ambre.

The premier match on the men's side was between Australian Open Champion Marat Safin and Juan Carlos Ferrero, the 2002 French Open Champion. It was a classic match between Safin's power and Ferrero's shotmaking. Safin's big serve proved to be the difference in a close and entertaining match. Down in each of the first two sets and thrashed in the third, the Russian escaped each time to post a four set victory.

Day 7 (Sunday)

The Russians Are Coming

It started with Anna Kournikova, or did it? Some say it was a political revolution, tracing back to the additional funding arising from former President, Boris Yeltin's love of the game. Some say it was the fall of Communism in 1991 and the subsequent opening of the borders. Promising players could now go to Spain, France and the United States where training facilities are better. Still others point to the stark conditions in the former Soviet Union and the anger that has built up in a proud people. Whatever the reason, everyone agrees that the Russians are here, and they are hungry.

"Maybe they want it a little bit more," said former Stanford all-American Marissa Irvin, who was ushered out of the French Open on Saturday by 19-year-old Svetlana Kuznetsova, 6-1, 2-6, 6-0. Irvin's departure leaves just three Americans, Lindsay Davenport and the Simpsons; 22 American men and women opened play less than one week ago.

Myskina is gone, but six Russian girls advance to the final 16. In order of their seeding, they are: Maria Sharapova (2), Elena Dementieva (4), Kuznetsova (6), Nadia Petrova (7), Elena Bovina (12) and Elena Likhovtseva (16). This isn't new. The Russian women exploded on the international scene in 2004, claiming three of four Grand Slam titles. The revolution started in Paris, where Anastasia Myskina won the French Open's first all-Russian final. Four weeks later, 17-year-old Sharapova vanquished Serena Williams to claim Wimbledon's crown. Kuznetsova delivered Russia's troika by defeating Dementieva at the U.S. Open.

Veteran tennis journalist Barry Flatman traveled to Russia for a first-hand look at how Moscow was minting its female tennis phenoms. He found the famed Spartak Club, where Marat Safin's mother, Rausa Islanova, had coached the young Myskina and Dementieva. The club was in a pitiful state, with just one usable indoor court. Writing in the London Times, Flatman described "a sad, silent, almost derelict place" in which stray dogs roamed around piles of rubbish and the handful of clay courts were "in dire need of layers of top-dressing." Spartak's students routinely shared tennis rackets because there weren't enough to go around. Dementieva, he learned, didn't get her own racket until she was nine, and to this day can't bear to see pros toss theirs in fits of pique. Maybe this is why the Russians seem to want it more?

Ambre was slotted to play Elena Bovina, the #12 seed, in the 4th round. The match was scheduled as the final match on Court Chartrier, which meant waiting all day and not knowing for sure when or if the match would be played. If you know you will play at an exact time, you can schedule when you practice, when you rest and when you eat. The waiting made preparation a guessing game.

Ambre had never played Bovina but she knew it would be a tough match and every point would be a battle. Both players were nervous and unforced errors outnumbered winners by a large margin. Ambre managed to win the first set 7-5, when Bovina double faulted twice in the 12th game and essentially broke herself. Bovina won the 2nd set 6-3 and was serving at two-love in the third, when momentum turned. After netting an easy forehand, Ambre looked up at her coach in exasperation. There was Pete standing and pumping his fist. He had slipped into her 'friends and family box' so that she would see him. The message was obvious, "fight!"

The 3rd set took over 75 minutes, longer than the first two sets combined. Both ladies picked up their game and the quality of tennis rose to a championship level. Ambre had the added advantage of 15,000 French fans pulling for her, but it was Pete's support that pushed her over the top. She broke Bovina at 3-4 to even the match and then again in the 18th game to win the third set 10-8.

After accepting congratulations from a downcast Bovina, Ambre pointed at Pete and blew him a kiss. Later she would tell the press that she was pointing at her coach, unaware that television cameras had been showing Pete cheering for her throughout the match.

Pete won his match in four sets against another Argentinean, but all he wanted to talk about at dinner was Ambre's comeback. Mary and I just sat back and rolled our eyes. We remembered how their last affair had ended and how low Pete had felt for the next six months. "We can't live their lives for them, Jim," Mary told me later as we got ready for bed. "They have to make their own mistakes."

"Twice?" I asked. "Maybe that's why the good Lord made the young stupid, but resilient"

"Pete's not stupid, he is just in love."

"There's a difference?" I asked as I turned off the light and took Mary into my arms. "I never felt stupid for falling in love with you. That was the best decision I ever made."

"And don't you forget it."

The French police were furious that the story was leaked about the connection between Agbu and Roland Garros. They had hoped to find Agbu before the public became aware of the danger. It was time to increase the pressure on the suspects taken into custody. "Are we getting any information?" the Spanish Captain asked the interrogator. "Do any of these shitheads know anything?"

"There are two men from Vitoria-Gasteiz, Agbu's home town. I'm sure they know something, but they're not talking. The older one is a real hard case. Give us a couple days and I think the kid will break."

"We don't have a couple days. Transfer them both to the main cellblock. Let's see how they get along with some of the men doing hard time."

The two boys were fingerprinted, strip-searched and sprayed with delicing powder. They were stark naked standing in front of a half dozen guards who didn't hide their interest. "Take a shower and put these on," the prison guard ordered handing them standard prison uniforms "You have ten minutes."

There were six men in the shower room. Each man looked like a giant, laden with heavy, prison muscles hidden only by tattoos. "Well, what do we have here, a couple of faggots?" one of the men said walking up to the older boy. "It looks to me like this faggot wants to give me a blow job, isn't that right, faggot?"

The boy resisted and was beaten half to death before being gang raped by six men. He stopped screaming after the third. The younger boy was forced to watch.

When they were done with his friend the younger boy was ordered to kneel down in front of the man that had been holding him. The boy was sobbing uncontrollably but couldn't help staring. "Boy, look at me," the man said grabbing his hair and forcing him to look up. "You have a choice. You can have what your friend had, in fact you can have it every day, or you can tell those people in the next room what they want to know. Your choice."

Five minutes later the younger boy was telling the interrogators everything he knew. He had plenty to tell including stories about Agbu growing up with his best friend, Carlos Cordero.

Chris was shocked to hear the connection between Agbu and Carlos. "How sure are we that Carlos is not part of this?"

Day 8 (Memorial Day)

Photo Opportunity

Total prize money Roland Garros is 13.5M Euros. The women's singles champion earns $867,000, $13,000 less than the men's champion. Lisa earned $3,000,000 in three hours.

Saturday I was cheering and laughing with the rest of the 15,000 fans after Lisa's victory, and her post match picture-taking love-in with the crowd. As Lisa left the court, an elderly, Japanese gentleman asked for a moment of our time. "Mr. Simpson, I beg your pardon. My name is Motokuni Hasegawa, president of Nikon. Our company is impressed with your daughter's tennis ability and how the fans have taken to her. She is very popular. We are prepared to offer Lisa one million Euros if she will endorse our camera."

"Mr. Hasegawa, you have my full attention. Let's talk."

"Yes, but time is of the essence. We want to start our campaign on Monday." It was obvious that Nikon wanted the exposure they would get in the United States on Memorial Day.

Three hours later we had a deal. Mary and I had learned quite a bit about the sports endorsement business in those three hours. One call to the World Tennis Federation gave us access to agents and promoters that were able to place a value on the Japanese offer. The WTA advisors agreed that Lisa was no Michael Jordan, but she was a hot commodity this week. They established the value of the camera endorsement at 2.5M Euros, approximately three million US dollars. It was left unsaid that her market value would drop significantly if she lost her next match.

Lisa joined us after her press conference and was enthusiastic about the opportunity, especially when she heard there would be television commercials. "I'm tired of seeing Sharapova every time I turn on the TV."

Lisa would be busy the next two days. This evening there would be a photo-shoot to prepare ads for newspapers and magazines. Sunday, Nikon scheduled an all-day shooting session for television commercials that would start showing Monday. Mary stepped in at this point and insisted that they had Lisa for only six hours Sunday, no more. "She needs to practice and get some rest. It won't do anyone any good if she doesn't win Monday." There were no objections.

Nikon assigned four people to call media outlets and arrange for print space, advertising slots and to coordinate all the details needed to market their concept. I marveled at their efficiency and the amount of work that was being done in a small amount of time. We signed the contracts making Lisa an instant millionaire.

"Lisa, we need another shot of you taking a picture with the Nikon camera." Lisa had changed out of her tennis clothes and thrown on shorts and a tank top. Her hair was still wet and could have used a brush, but she still looked pretty good as only a teenager can. Her smile lit up the room as she grabbed her camera and flashed pictures of everyone in the room. The Nikon photographer was taking her picture at the same time.

"What are you planning on doing with this?" Mary asked. "Certainly this isn't what you plan to use in your ads, is it?"

"No, of course not, but the cutoff for tonight's late news is coming up and we want to give them something they can use with our press release announcing our advertising campaign. The networks will give us a lot of free exposure tonight and by tomorrow we will be ready to begin rolling out the campaign. Trust me; we aren't spending $80M without doing this right."

Lisa was beaming, but I couldn't help think we could have asked for more than $3M.

Monday finally arrived. The last two days had been a blur for everyone. While I watched Lisa warm up, I was amazed that she looked so good. This morning she had slept until 11, obviously needing the rest after two, sixteen-hour days. In addition to the Nikon shoots, everyone wanted to interview her. Yesterday she appeared live on Good Morning America, which gave her an opportunity to tell the world how much she liked the Nikon line of cameras. It was a spontaneous endorsement from a young woman that came across as genuine and likable. Lisa loved it. "Dad, it's what I have been dreaming about since I started playing tennis, let me enjoy it."

I just hoped fall wouldn't be too hard if the bubble burst.

The bubble wasn't going to burst today. With the crowd screaming in delight, Lisa played her best tennis of the tournament and thoroughly dominated the Russian, Vera Zvonareva 6-3, 6-3. Lisa was through to the quarterfinals.

The post match celebration was another love-in between Lisa and the crowd, with flash bulbs popping everywhere. Lisa did her now, trademark routine, waving and taking pictures in each direction, and constantly beaming with her broad smile.

The biggest upset on the women's side was that Lindsay Davenport, the #1 seed, upset the #14 seed, Kim Clijsters of Belgium. Davenport had struggled in all of her previous matches this week while Clijsters, a two-time French Open finalist, had breezed through her the first three rounds. Davenport was 0-6 lifetime against her opponent and clay was her worst surface. Few people had given Davenport a chance, but she came back after dropping the first set.

The men went according to form. Federer, Nadal and Carlos all won in straight sets.

"We found the doctor, at least we know where he lives. Do you want us to pick him up?" the agent asked.

"Are you sure?" Chris asked.

"Yep, Roberto Munyo." He has lived in Paris for five years but was born in Bilbao, Spain, the heart of Basque country. Your hunch about checking military service records paid off. Dr. Munyo served four years as a medic in Iraq and apparently isn't a real, board-certified doctor. We are waiting for a fingerprint match, but he's our guy."

"No, don't pick him up yet. Let's put a 24-hour tail on him and see if he leads us to Agbu. It's possible that Agbu is on the move and calls this guy from a new location every time he needs him."

This was a decision that would come back to haunt Chris.

Agbu wanted to move Sunday, but was still too weak. "Walking might break open the stitches and set your recovery back a week" the doctor advised. Agbu decided to give it one more day. It was only a matter of time before the authorities would find Munyo and track him back to this apartment. _Maybe it was time to dispose of the good doctor?_

That afternoon Agbu was told about the Basque crackdown and knew the authorities were closing in. He was relieved to hear that his uncle and friends had escaped. He needed them and the supplies he ordered to implement his plan. Other than his uncle, nobody from home knew his current location, but it was time to move. "Juan, one last favor and I will get out of your home. Find me a scooter; I'm still too weak to walk far. While you are out, call the doctor and ask him to come here at seven this evening. I want him to look at my wound one more time."

The scooter was delivered at six and by six thirty Agbu was on his way. "Thanks, Juan, I won't forget what you have done for me," as they embraced. "Tell the doctor I couldn't wait, but I left him instructions on the bed about how he can reach me. It's better that you don't know where I'll be, amigo."

Agbu was at his new hideout when local TV reported the news about the explosion in an apartment building in downtown Paris. There were five dead including two CIA agents who apparently were raiding the apartment when the explosion occurred.

Agbu realized how lucky he had been to escape in time. _Juan, I'm sorry, but it was necessary. You would have told them about the scooter and my calls to Enrique._

Day 9 (Tuesday)

The Women's Quarterfinals

Pete was in the quarterfinals and still was getting no respect from the media. 80% of the questions they asked were about Lisa or Ambre. The occasional inquiry about his tennis game were phrased something like, "How do you explain your success this week?" or "Do you feel you had a soft draw considering Agassi was injured?" Nobody asked him how he developed his consistent two-handed backhand, his big serve or his exceptional footwork. Nobody asked where he learned to fight and compete like the Argentineans and Russians. It was frustrating for me to watch and I'm sure, frustrating to Pete.

We were able to cash in on Lisa's popularity by getting Pete a contract to endorse a national pharmacy that offered 1-hour film development and digital downloading. $250,000 wasn't bad for an afternoon's work. Lisa received $1.5M for endorsing a competitor. Lisa also picked up another 1M Euros with a Fuji film endorsement.

Today, Pete faced an Argentinean, Guillermo Canas, the #9 seed, and one of four Argentines seeded in the top 10. Pete had made it back to center court. Canas was known as a bulldog that would stay on the court for hours. He had already played two five-set matches in this tournament. Pete could expect a long afternoon and would need to be patient.

4 ½ hours later Pete had his first match point, serving at 5-2 in the fifth set. Lisa was in the family box, but Ambre had to leave after the first set. She was scheduled to play next on the same court after Pete's match and was in the locker room watching on television as Pete served out the match. He later said that he could still feel her support.

Pete had played a perfect clay court match, staying patient during the long, backcourt rallies, and then aggressively attacking when he got a short ball or had Canas on the run. Canas, known for his fitness, appeared a little slower in the 4th and 5th sets and made more unforced errors. Pete's serve clipped the line and Canas' return sailed long, earning Pete a spot in the semifinals of the French Open.

Pete came back out on the court to acknowledge the crowd and received polite applause, a far cry from the warmth and mania that followed Lisa's victories. I was sorry that he wasn't getting the respect he deserved, but reaching the semis at Roland Garros wasn't chopped liver.

Pete tried to head off the questions about Lisa by opening his press conference with; "You all know Lisa is my great hero, but I'm going to let her answer her own questions. I'm open to questions about my tennis game and my next opponent." Part of the reason was that Pete felt silly referring to his little sister as _my great hero_ , but he also wanted the media to focus on his tennis.

He was only 50% successful. The first question was about Ambre. "Are you and Ambre dating?" a reporter asked.

"We are good friends," Pete replied. "We first met at the Orange Bowl in Miami and later trained together at Saddlebrook Tennis Academy in Tampa, Florida. We have been friends since."

"I heard you were more than just friends at Saddlebrook," another reporter stated, obviously having done some homework. "Is it true that you were lovers until Carlos took her away?"

The room went silent waiting for my response. "I'll say it again. Ambre and I are good friends. She has always believed in my tennis game and supported me. I don't think I could have come back against Gonzales without her support. Now, if there are no questions about my tennis game, I'll assume this press conference is over."

There were no more questions. The press had their lead for tomorrow's story and the alluring possibility of a grudge match if Pete and Carlos should meet in the finals.

Pete dressed and went out to watch Ambre's match. He slipped into the player's box, trying to keep a low profile. Ambre was already up a set and leading 4-2 against the 15-year old girl from Bulgaria who earlier had upset Venus Williams. The youngster looked tired and washed out. Ten minutes later it was over; 6-1, 6-2 and Ambre had made it into the semifinals.

Ambre's press conference was dominated by questions about Pete and Carlos and their time at Saddlebrook. Fortunately, Pete had managed to get advance word to Ambre so that she was forewarned. "Ambre, is it true that you and Pete Simpson were an item at Saddlebrook before you dumped him for Carlos?"

Ambre gave the reporter a disarming smile. "Gee, fellows, I was only 15 or 16 back then. I was just a kid. Kids have lots of friends. Nobody goes steady anymore."

Most of the reporters laughed, but a few persisted. "Are you admitting that you dumped Pete back then?"

"Listen, Pete and I are good friends and I am so happy for him that he reached the semis. That's all there is to it." Ambre was getting angry.

"Are you still friends with Carlos?"

"Carlos is an entertaining guy and a great tennis player. Yes, we are still friends. Can we talk about tennis for awhile?"

"Did Carlos introduce you to drugs?" a tabloid reporter asked, obviously referring to her one-year suspension.

If looks could kill, the saying goes. Ambre was visibly upset and stormed out of the press conference. Most of the reputable news agencies were furious with the reporter that asked the question, but everyone would write about it.

" _Roland Garros Terrorist Escapes," the headlines screamed. The CIA misses an opportunity to capture Agbu, the Basque terrorist believed to be the mastermind behind last Sunday's plot to blow up Roland Garros."_ The story went on to detail the CIA's decision to withhold information from the French regarding the whereabouts of the doctor that treated Agbu's wounds suffered in last week's terrorist attack that was thwarted by French police. "The CIA has paid dearly for their arrogance," a French inspector was quoted as saying.

"Those jerks," Chris screamed as she threw the paper away in disgust. "We lose two good men trying to help them and all they care about is protecting their butts. Screw 'em," she muttered to herself. It had been a long night, and the newspapers couldn't lay any more blame on her than she laid on herself. What if they had picked up the doctor earlier, would he have talked? She hadn't told the French about the doctor because of the danger of a leak. It was well known that the French police were riddled with Basque sympathizers. In the end, she was sure that she had made the right decision _. How could anyone know that Agbu would blow up his friends just to cover his trail?_ She would make the same decision again, and in fact she did.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" her boss, Earl Donavon, had asked her last night. "The French will be really pissed when they find out."

"I know, but if word leaks out that Juan is still alive, Agbu will change his plans."

Thinking back, Chris thought about the events leading up to the ill-fated raid the previous evening. A wiretap had been placed on the doctor's phone within an hour after the CIA learned his identity. "Chris, I think we have something," the agent on duty reported. "The good doctor just received a message asking him to meet his Spanish friend at seven this evening.

"Tremendous, this may be the break we have been waiting for! Have Ray and Alex follow him and see where he goes. I'll have a backup team right behind them. We'll go in right behind the doctor, as soon as everyone is in place." They had three hours to prepare which wasn't enough time to bring in the French police, even if she had wanted.

Dr. Munyo left his home at 6:25 with Ray close behind. Alex was in a 2nd car following closely with instructions to switch positions with Ray every mile. Chris and four agents were in a minivan, two blocks behind. All three vehicles were in constant radio contact. At 6:55 Ray announced they were stopping and moments later Dr. Munyo entered an apartment building.

"There are eight units," Ray radioed from the lobby. "I have no idea which apartment he is in. Do you want me ring the manager and see what he knows?"

"Yes, but take Alex with you and be careful. Agbu might be in there. Keep your radio open so we can listen in."

Several minutes later Chris heard the knock on the door and a young man answer. "May I help you?"

"There he is," Ray shouted. "Raise your hands! Drop it! Drop it!"

"Let's go," Chris shouted as the five agents piled out of the van. They reached the top of the stoop when the first floor apartment exploded, knocking them to the sidewalk. "Oh God," Chris cried as she got to her feet and entered the hallway. There was a body lying in the hallway. The inside of the apartment was total destruction. Nothing could have survived the blast. Chris entered and confirmed the both CIA agents were dead as well as two other victims. She recognized Dr Munyo from a photograph, but did not recognize the fourth body. She hoped it was Agbu, but had her doubts.

Three hours later French forensics confirmed that the body was not Agbu's, but instead was the body of one of the two men that shared the apartment, the man in the hallway was the other. Miraculously, Juan had been thrown clear of the blast and escaped with only a concussion and minor injuries.

Chris made the decision to keep his good fortune a secret.

Lisa was riding a high. The early returns from Nikon were fantastic, 25% better than their most optimistic projections. Sales were up everywhere; Europe, China and especially the United States. Lisa's endorsement on Good Morning America was a gigantic boost as was her appearance yesterday on BBC whose co-anchor insisted on Lisa taking his picture. Lisa's convincing victory Monday propelled sales even higher. Everyone loves a winner, especially when she is young and beautiful.

Lisa played for the 2nd day in a row, a scheduling quirk needed to insure that the winner would have a full day of rest before Thursday's semifinal matches, and the finals on Saturday. As a result, all four ladies' quarterfinal matches were played on Tuesday.

Coincidentally, Lisa was playing on Suzanne Lenglen court while Pete was playing on the Championship court. The cameras were there and the crowd was behind her, but that didn't tell the story. This was a great tennis match. Both players were at the top of their game. Her opponent, Ana Ivanovic of Serbia-Montenegro, started off hitting out with reckless abandon and was catching all the lines. She won the first set at 6-3 before Lisa steadied and won the 2nd set by the identical score. The 3rd set was even at four-all when Lisa got unexpected help from a lineswoman. Ivanovic hit a ball deep into Lisa's backhand corner that Lisa was just able to get a racquet on. Her return was short and weak providing her opponent with what would be an easy put away.

"Out," called the lineswoman behind Lisa, apparently her view blocked by Lisa as she went for the ball. Play stopped and Ivanovic immediately appealed. The umpire started to get down from her chair to check the mark when Lisa walked over and signaled the shot was good. The crowd applauded her sportsmanship.

"Replay the point, the score is 30-all." The chair umpire said correctly.

"What!" yelled Ivanovic, "I had a sure winner. The call didn't hurt her shot. It was not made until after her return."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Ivanovic. Her return was in play, so I have no choice but to replay the point." Ivanovic didn't like it but walked slowly back to the baseline. The crowd hooted in derision. Obviously flustered, Ivanovic double faulted the next point and made an unforced error on the next point to give Lisa a 5-4 lead. Lisa held serve at love and to the wild delight of the crowd, was into the semi finals. Nikon, Fuji and the Walgreen's Pharmacy 1-hour photo development business were ecstatic.

The big news of day nine was the departure of favorites Lindsey Davenport and Maria Sharapova. Davenport had nothing left after upsetting Kim Clijsters the previous day and Mary Pierce beat her easily in straight sets. Sharapova lost to Justine Henin-Hardenne, the 2003 French Open Champion. This was not an upset.

The women's semifinals were set: Justine Henin-Hardenne vs. Ambre and Mary Pierce vs. Lisa Simpson

Henin-Hardenne and Mary Pierce were the betting favorites, but Ambre and Lisa were the crowd favorites.

Day 10 (Wednesday)

The Men's Quarterfinals

"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.

Day 11 (Thursday)

The Women's Semifinals

Carlos' interview unleashed a media frenzy in Paris not unlike the tabloid-journalism in London during Wimbledon. The front page of French newspapers had a picture of three people taken on a yacht in Monte Carlo. Carlos had his right arm around the other man's shoulders. The caption to the picture identified the other man as Agbu, international terrorist. Ambre was standing to the left of Carlos, smiling up at the two men.

Journalists explored the connection between tennis, drugs and international terrorism. The Basque movement was explored in depth and fifty years of terrorism were revisited, as was the possible connection to Al-Qaeda. Agbu was acknowledged to be the leader of the Basque radicals, if not the overall movement. Drugs, extortion and kidnapping were said to be the Basque's primary sources of financing. Little mention was made of the benefits that Agbu's New ETA had brought to the Basque.

There was waning interest in the Saddlebrook love triangle, at least for the moment. Neither Ambre nor Pete had disputed Carlos' chronology that they had stopped dating before Carlos arrived. The terrorist and Basque connection gave the press bigger stories to write about.

The tie-in between Agbu and Ambre, and the possible drug connection, was more serious to the French. The picture was dated several months prior to the time she was suspended for violating the WTA drug policy. Ambre had claimed at the time it was a result of a doctor's prescription for an allergy and some tennis fans were willing to give her the benefit of the doubt at the time, but not anymore. These were the same fans that believed Barry Bonds bulked up by working out at the gym. Ambre's image was tarnished, as the fickle public was ready to believe the worst.

The women's semifinals were set: 11:00 AM Justine Henin-Hardenne vs. Ambre followed by Mary Pierce vs. Lisa Simpson.

The press billed the early semifinal match between Henin-Hardenne and Ambre as the de-facto finals; the winner would be a heavy favorite in Saturday's final. Justine had won the French Open in 2003 and was popular with the French crowd. Although only seeded #10 because of numerous injuries, she came into the match with a 23-match winning streak and three straight tournament championships.

The crowd reaction to Ambre was lukewarm as she walked onto center court. Many of the 15,000 fans jeered, a far cry from the adulation she had received in prior matches. The 1,500 or so Belgiums in the crowd cheered Henin-Hardenne wildly while the French fans appeared neutral. Ambre's home-court advantage had disappeared.

Henin-Hardenne was quick around the court and possessed beautiful groundstrokes. Mary Carillo called her backhand the most elegant backhand in tennis. Her serve was only average and could produce double faults, but the rest of her game was solid. The big question was her health as she came into the tournament with a slight back injury that had required treatment in prior matches.

Some athletes would have caved under the pressure and the adverse reaction of the crowd, particularly since it would take almost a perfect match to upset the former champion. Ambre reacted to the adversity with an anger that was apparent to the crowd and her opponent. She took advantage of short second serves and five double faults to break Henin-Hardenne twice in the first set, the second time to win the set 7-5. "Yes! Come-on!" she screamed as she put away a volley on set point.

The Belgians in the crowd started to rhythmically clap and shout encouragement to Henin-Hardenne while the French fans remained silent. Ambre glared up at the crowd in anger, and was obviously unnerved by the lack of crowd support. The second set went to Henin-Hardenne 6-2 and the match was even.

Justine was serving at 3-1 when the match turned. At 30-15 Henin-Hardenne came to the net behind a huge backhand into the corner, forcing Ambre to throw up a defensive lob. Henin-Hardenne was in position to hit the overhead when the wind picked up and blew the ball over her shoulder and forcing her to hit an awkward overhead. She framed the shot sending it into the third row of the grandstands and fell to the ground contorted in pain. Her back had given out. After 10 minutes of treatment she tried to continue and attempted one painful serve before walking to the net to congratulate Ambre. The crowd gave her a standing ovation as she walked off center court.

Ambre didn't bother to come back on the court to acknowledge the crowd. She quickly packed her tennis bag and headed to the dressing room. The polite applause from most of the French fans was drowned out by a chorus of boos and jeers. French newspapers would claim the booing came from the Belgian fans, but Ambre knew the truth, and so did everyone else that witnessed the terrible display of poor sportsmanship. After waiting 40 years for a French-born woman to reach their nation's championship, they booed. Headlines of world newspapers proclaimed; " _How Typically French_."

Juan was still injured from the explosion and eager to talk after learning that it was Agbu's bomb that had caused the explosion. He described in detail the two days Agbu had spent in the apartment. Dr. Munyo had been disappointed to learn that Agbu had already gone and was concerned that the stitches would not hold. The bandages needed to be changed twice a day or the wound might become infected.

"I just told the doctor about the package Agbu had left for him, when your men knocked. I opened the door and the next thing I remember was your guy screaming something at the doctor and yanking me into the hallway. I tripped and was still lying on the floor when I felt the explosion.

"Where were the doctor and your roommate?"

Cal was sitting on the couch and I guess the doctor went in the bedroom to get the package. The bedroom door was open so I figure your guy saw Dr. Munyo holding the bomb, and then all I remember is feeling the shock of the explosion. I never heard it go off."

It was an accident, Chris thought. Forensics had determined that the bomb was in the bedroom. Agbu must have left the bomb to kill the doctor and the two roommates. Alex and Ray were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her agents would be alive if they had been a little slower or if Chris had told them to wait for backup. The agents were not the targets. Chris wasn't sure if this made her feel any better, but at least she knew. She was filled with revulsion that Agbu could execute the people that had tried to help him. There was no longer any doubt that Agbu was desperate and dangerous. He would not be easy to stop.

Juan provided them the cell phone number that he had called on Agbu's behalf. The number was registered to Enrique, who had barely escaped from the raid on Basque sympathizers. Without divulging the source of her information, Chris asked the French police to put a trace on the number so the next time Enrique used that phone they would pinpoint his location. Unfortunately, the French phone company took 24 hours to implement the request and missed Agbu's call to Enrique by minutes.

Juan also was able to recall most of the materials that Agbu had requested. It was the basic formula for making anthrax.

The French were closing in on Agbu from a different direction. Their prison informant had given them the names of the three men that had escaped with Enrique to the mountains. The night before they left two of the men were in a saloon boasting about a large stockpile of weapons at the cabin in the mountains. There was also a rumor about chemical weapons.

The backgrounds of the men with Enrique were also interesting. Rico had a reputation as a chemist and was constantly experimenting with home made beer and wine. Many suspected him of making chemical weapons. Stefano was a pilot who owned a small, single engine airplane he used for crop dusting. The plane was missing.

The informant had never been to the mountain hideout, but knew it was in the general vicinity of San Sebastian. A massive air and land search was begun, while additional pressure was put on the Basque prisoners that were still in custody.

Agbu's meeting with his old friend at the Paris nightclub had gone well. They talked about old times for almost an hour before Agbu turned the conversation to the French Open and Roland Garros. Fifteen minutes later Agbu had the information he was looking for and the final piece of the puzzle was in place.

Lisa was greeted by thunderous applause as she walked onto center court. It seemed every fan had a camera, most of them new Nikons. Lisa rewarded the crowd with a huge smile and wave. Mary Pierce, the higher seed, preceded Lisa onto the court and also received a nice reception, although slightly less enthusiastic than Lisa's.

At least the French fans were consistent. Pierce, the 2000 French Open Champion, proclaimed to be French, but the French crowd never embraced her as one of their own. Pierce was born in Montreal and grew up in Florida. She claimed French citizenship when her father's crude behavior thoroughly alienated US tennis officials. Unable to get special treatment and access to US training facilities, her father decided Mary would take advantage of the fact her mother was French-born. It was like Greg Rudinski in later years claiming he was English, not Canadian. It was within the rules, but British fans have never taken to Rudenski either. After winning the 2000 championship, Pierce further alienated many French fans by trying to speak to them in bad, Montreal French, with an American accent. Now, Pierce was back. Her French was more fluent and she appeared fully recovered from a series of injuries, but the French crowd still kept her at arms length. Lisa appeared to be the crowd favorite.

Mary Pierce possessed a high-risk game that could be very good or terrible. When on, her flat, hard groundstrokes penetrated the court. At other times her lack of mobility or net game overshadowed her strengths. Lisa wondered which Mary Pierce would show up.

I think it bothered Pierce that the crowd was not totally behind her. Regardless of the reason, she never got into the match and handed Lisa a surprisingly easy 6-1, 6-1 win. Pierce was gracious in defeat and received a nice round of applause as she left the court waving for possibly the last time. She wasn't getting any younger and the injuries were starting to take their toll.

Lisa congratulated Pierce and the chair umpire and put her racquets in her tennis bag, before returning to the court to a thunderous ovation and thousands of flash bulbs. The decibels increased when she pulled a new, Nikon mini-cam, and filmed her adoring fans as she turned and waved in all directions.

Lisa was in the finals of the French Open.

The French zeroed in on Enrique, narrowing his location to the mountains around San Sebastian. Friday evening they got a break due in large part to the popularity of GPS telephones. Companies now issue mobile phones to sales reps or drivers because this type of phone gives a precise location and whereabouts of the employee. Parents want GPS phones to know where their children are. This technology provided the French police with a key breakthrough.

Enrique had placed a call from the cell phone number Juan had provided. The call was from Southern France, just over the border. Within an hour they organized a joint French-Spanish operation and raided the farmhouse. They found the cell phone in the bedroom of an elderly couple that had owned the farm for 36 years, but missed Enrique and his friends by hours. "They told us not to use the phone until Sunday, but we wanted to see if it worked," the farmer explained.

Police quickly got a description of the car and broadcast an all-points bulletin with instructions to apprehend the three men in the vehicle on sight. "They are armed and dangerous," the communication warned. The fourth terrorist, presumably Stefano, had left by plane before dawn. Police alerted private airports to be on the lookout for a single engine crop duster with black and yellow markings.

Chris and a team of CIA forensics agents arrived minutes later and searched the barn where the four men had stayed. After an hour of searching they had found nothing of substance. It was clear that Enrique and his friends had been there, but they had left nothing behind. The dogs arrived just before the agents were ready to give up, and quickly pointed the men to the trapdoor hidden in a horse stall under a foot of straw and manure. Guns drawn, they descended into the 20 x 20 basement. They didn't like what they found. "There is a virtual armory here," the agents reported. "They have everything from handguns to rocket launchers."

Twenty minutes later they discovered the 300-kilometer tunnel that led to a well-equipped, 20x20 chemistry lab. "We're not experts," they reported back to headquarters, "but it doesn't look like they have been making wine. We better get someone up here to look at this. It could be anthrax."

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?_

Day 13 (Saturday)

The Women's Finals

The five-minute wait in the tunnel before entering Philippe Chatrier court seemed to last forever. Ambre and Lisa dressed in separate areas of the locker room and barely acknowledged each other as they waited in the tunnel. It was more than pre-match nerves and it wasn't gamesmanship. These two young women did not like each other. The icy relationship was apparent to the television cameras and was picked up on by the commentators. Bud Collins suggested the match be rescheduled for Siberia.

Lisa walked out of the tunnel onto Court Chatrier smiling and waving to the crowd. Ball boys carried her tennis bag and a beautiful bouquet of roses. The crowd stood and cheered. I was so proud.

Moments later the French crowd greeted Ambre with a chorus of boos and jeers. Only last week she had been darling of France. Now she was seen as a villain and the ex-girlfriend of Agbu, the terrorist who had nearly succeeded in blowing up Roland Garros. There was no smile on Ambre's face. She was all business.

Agbu rode his scooter ten kilometers to the small café where he had agreed to meet Muhammad. He arrived early and was pleased to see that Enrique was waiting with a large briefcase at his side.

"How is the leg today? I see you are limping."

"I'm fine. Did you bring the canisters?"

"Just as you instructed," Enrique answered, pointing at the briefcase. "There is enough in there to cover a square mile if delivered properly."

"Well done. We'll let them worry about delivery. I really don't care."  
Muhammad and two Al-Qaeda operatives joined them at the table.

"Agbu, it's good to see you again, my friend. I have been reading about you in the newspapers," he said glancing down at Agbu's leg. "Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine," Agbu replied, embracing his associate. Agbu pointed at the briefcase. "This is everything you asked for. Are you ready on your end?"

The Al-Qaeda leader was obviously pleased as he briefly inspected the containers. "Yes, but we have some details that we need to discuss. Let's go over the plans one more time." An hour later everyone knew his role. The strategy was simple. Agbu and his group would create panic inside the stadium, forcing the fans to flee Roland Garros into the Al-Qaeda trap. It was a good plan.

"I don't trust him," one of the Al-Qaeda men said aloud as Agbu and Enrique departed. "He's up to something."

"No matter," Muhammad replied. "That's why I didn't tell him what we are planning to do with the anthrax."

Agbu indeed had another agenda that he didn't share with Al-Qaeda. An hour later they arrived at the small airport where Stefano had hidden the crop duster. The five friends from Basque country went over their assignments. "Timing is critical," Agbu emphasized. "The devices must detonate exactly two minutes after completion of the third set, not before."

Gate security at Roland Garros was good, but still did not satisfy Chris. She had a persistent feeling that there was something she had missed; some clue or tendency that would indicate what Agbu was planning. She doubled the security on the Simpsons, but was still worried. The women's finals would be a logical time for Agbu to strike, particularly with Lisa Simpson on the court. Two young agents dressed like tennis pros were seated behind Pete in the players box, their guns hidden by the loose fitting sweat suits. The agents sported headphones like many of the other players, except their headphones didn't play music, but kept them in contact with Chris and spotters stationed in the press box above him. Many eyes scrutinized anyone approaching the players box, or the friends and family box. Chris hoped this would be enough.

The CIA was watching Carlos closely as he had a leisurely dinner in the Latin Quarter with his coach and trainer. Agents sat a nearby table watching the crowds pass by around them. "Nothing out of the ordinary," the agents reported. "There's no sign of Agbu." Carlos returned to his hotel around 10:00 and the agents settled in for a long night. They would be there if Carlos left the hotel.

Lisa won the toss and chose to serve. She had only lost serve seven times in six matches, an excellent percentage on red clay of. Her flat serve was in the 110-115 MPH range, occasionally reaching 120. This was enough to keep her opponents honest, but it was her kick serve that was most effective, particularly to the Ad court where it got up high on her opponent's backhand forcing a defensive return.

Lisa's first serve was a 118 MPH bullet up the middle for a service winner. Ambre barely got her racquet on it, and the crowd roared their approval. The French crowd was totally behind Lisa. Ambre's icy demeanor never changed. Lisa missed her 15-love serve wide, and kicked her 2nd serve wide to Ambre's backhand. Lisa had barely finished her follow-through when Ambre's return rocketed up the line for a clean winner. The 15-all point seemed like an instant replay. Ambre stepped inside the baseline and took Lisa's kick serve on the rise and hit it for another winner. The crowd gave Ambre polite applause, but she didn't seem to notice. She was all business. Lisa took a little off the first serve and barely got a racquet on the hard return at her feet. Ambre easily put away the weak return. Lisa missed her first serve at 15-40 and faced a tough 2nd serve. She looked over at Ambre who was already two feet inside of the baseline ready to bounce. Rather than kick another serve wide, Lisa tried a hard, flat serve up the middle that missed by inches. Lisa was broken for the eighth time in the tournament.

Players like to say they play one point at a time, and one game at a time. They try to forget the last point that was played and concentrate on the next. This is easier said than done. There is intimidation in all sports, where one team or one player establishes dominance over their opponent. One player knows they are in control and the other knows they are overmatched. This happened to Lisa. You could see it on the changeover. Ambre's look was one of steely resolve while Lisa looked like a whipped puppy. Ambre not only had broken Lisa's serve, but she had broken her confidence.

The first set was over in 25 minutes, 6-1. Lisa managed to hold serve once at 0-4, but had failed to break Ambre. She had only a single break point, which was erased by a service winner. The crowd was stunned. The booing stopped, but Ambre received only polite applause for what was a terrific set of tennis.

Lisa came out for the 2nd set with a new determination. Ambre won the first game, but only after surviving two break points. Lisa had elevated her game, but Ambre was not finished. You could see it in her eye

The second set was tennis at its' best. Lisa broke to go ahead three games to two, but Ambre broke right back by ripping a second serve up the line for a winner. At five all, Lisa played a fabulous point to reach break point by ending a long point with an acrobatic, backhand overhead. The crowd was on its feet screaming, willing Lisa to make a comeback. Ambre's first serve was in the net and many in the crowd applauded, a tremendous breach of tennis etiquette that would never happen in London. Knowledgeable tennis fans cheer good shots, not mistakes. Ambre glared at the crowd as she waited for the noise to subside. On second serve, down break point in the finals of the French Open, Ambre hit a 122 MPH serve up the middle for a clean ace. The crowd was silenced. Ambre quickly won the next two points to take a 6-5 lead.

There was polite applause and more than a few jeers as Ambre walked to her chair, which quickly turned into gasps of surprise. I had been watching Lisa when I heard the crowd noise change. "What happened?"

"Ambre just flipped off the crowd. I saw it but I can't believe it." Many in the crowd were now booing as they realized what happened. Others applauded. One man yelled out, "we deserve it, Ambre."

Lisa served at 5-6 to try to get to a tiebreaker and stay in the match. She played a great game, hitting five out of six first serves and had only one unforced error. It wasn't enough. Her opponent was too good. Ambre won the game, set, match and championship by hitting a solid service return and volleying away the weak return for a winner. The crowd was silent.

Ambre waited at the net for Lisa where they embraced and talked for 20 seconds. Ambre then shook hands lightly with the chair umpire, packed her tennis bag and left the court. She looked straight ahead and did not acknowledge the polite applause, stopping only to sign a few autographs for the kids lining the court.

It was the strangest championship ceremony in grand slam history. The champion didn't show up. The crowd gave Lisa a tremendous ovation as she accepted her runner-up trophy. The roar got louder as she handed a camera to a ball girl and posed for a picture. They waited anxiously as Lisa walked to the microphone,

"Parla La Vu my French. Thank you so much, everyone, for the support you gave me over the last two weeks. I want to thank my parents, Jim and Mary, and my big brother Pete, who really is my great hero. Good luck tomorrow, Pete!" The crowd interrupted with loud applause.

"I also want to congratulate my opponent, Ambre, who played a tremendous tennis match. I can't play any better than I did in the second set, but it wasn't enough. Today she was unbeatable." Many of the crowd booed at the mention of Ambre's name, which seemed to irritate Lisa.

"It's a shame that you finally have a French born champion, but can't enjoy it" Lisa admonished the crowd. "I saw articles written about Ambre and me, and Ambre and Pete, that were not true. Ambre and I are not best friends, but I respect her. She was gracious after the match today. I'll let Pete speak for himself, but suffice it to say that Pete would not be playing for the men's championship tomorrow without Ambre's support." The crowd sat in stony silence.

"I don't know anything about the Basque or this terrorist, Agbu. Tennis players are athletes, not politicians. I do know that Ambre played great tennis and deserves your support. Lisa paused before concluding. "Thank you so much for supporting me. You are the greatest!" Lisa pulled her new Nikon camcorder and filmed the crowd as they roared the applause rained down upon her.

Ambre listened to the speech from the locker room, and noted the boos when Lisa mentioned her name. She had almost gone back out to accept the trophy, but changed her mind. The French people could wait another 40 years for a French champion for all she cared.

She turned around and saw a friendly face. Security had finally allowed Pete into the locker room.

"Ambre, go back out there," Pete implored as he held her. "The crowd will love you for coming back. Give them another chance. Come on," Pete said as he pulled her to her feet.

"What will I say?" Ambre asked when they got to the door.

"You'll think of something. Tell them what's in your heart."

A French official was accepting the Championship trophy on her behalf when Pete and Ambre walked out of the dark tunnel and into the sunshine. Applause started from the people near the entrance to the tunnel and spread through the stadium as the crowd recognized what was happening. Lisa, still holding her runner-up trophy, met Pete at the sideline and escorted Ambre the last 15 feet to the podium. The crowd gave Ambre a standing ovation that grew louder as fans returned from the exits. The noise was deafening as Ambre took the trophy from her coach and walked to the microphone.

Ambre wiped tears from her eyes as she waited for the applause to abate. The crowd was silent as Ambre turned at looked around at her adoring fans.

_In French_ , I am so proud that I could win this Championship for France. I love you."

Lisa quietly snapped a picture to give Ambre as a souvenir of her triumph.

"There are two people that I want to thank. Without their support, I wouldn't be here today. Pete Simpson, you are simply the best and I owe this all to you."

The crowd roared in approval as Ambre blew Pete a kiss and Pete blew a kiss back.

After the crowd became quiet, Ambre began again. "There is one other person who has been there for me all my life. He is like a father to me and without him, I would never have been able to come back from, come back from the where I had fallen. 'Coach,' would you do me the honor of standing beside me on the podium?"

Most of the crowd had never heard of "Coach", but applauded as they watched Ambre embrace her mentor. Television cameras projected onto the Sony Jumbotron showed the tears streaming down the faces of this nineteen year old girl and the 65 year-old man. Tears flowed down Ambre's cheeks as she listened to the applause and realized what she had accomplished. "Thank you 'Coach' - thank you so much for believing in me," she whispered. The crowd continued applauding, recognizing that this was indeed a special relationship.

"Thank you," Ambre said to the crowd as they stepped down from the podium carrying the trophy proclaiming her as French Open Champion, the first French-born champion in 45 years. Tears came to my eyes as I saw "Coach" escort Ambre to the sideline where Pete was waiting.

"Lisa snapped a perfect picture of the symbolic transfer which she could have sold for a fortune if her father and mother hadn't claimed it for their own.

Susan Peterson had watched the match with particular interest. She and Bill had played a lot of club tennis and she could appreciate the talent of these young women. Susan wondered what Ambre had seen in Agbu. _What type a woman falls for a killer like Agbu?_

Day 14

The Men's Finals

Pete and Carlos dressed in separate areas of the locker room. Gregg and I sat with Pete and watched as a WTA trainer taped his ankles. There wasn't any need for last minute strategy; we had discussed forehands and backhands last night. At this point it was mostly mental.

I could tell that Pete was anxious and ready to get underway. Gregg gave him some last minute advice. "Once the match starts, Pete, it will be just another tennis match, just you and Carlos. Play your game and you'll be fine." It was a fine line between staying relaxed and being fired up for a Grand Slam Final.

"Time," an official announced as he peered around the lockers. "Let's queue up by the door."

"It's time," Agbu said to Enrique and their three friends. "Any questions? Rico? Tito? Stefano, is the plane ready? Remember, everything starts after the third set is over. After you're done, meet back here. If anything goes wrong, make your way back home any way you can. Good luck!"

Enrique walked Agbu to the door. "Agbu, do you trust Al-Qaeda? Are they going to do their part?"

"Don't worry, they will do what they promised. I met with them earlier and everything is set. They are fanatics and they don't give a damn about the Basque cause, they just see this as an opportunity to hurt the non-believers. We use each other."

"May God protect you, Agbu," Enrique said softly, giving his nephew one last hug. He had a feeling that he would not see Agbu again.

"Goodbye, Enrique. I love you."

Sunday morning Chris and Earl Donavon met with the French police and stadium security to coordinate their plans. The French were still staking out Agbu's motel, but there was no sign of Agbu. "We missed him by a couple hours yesterday. I doubt if he will come back," the Frenchman reported. "All we can do now is wait until he makes his move."

The French were convinced that Agbu was planning a chemical or biological attack, most likely using the Basque crop duster to disperse the deadly chemicals over the stadium. Precautions were taken. They expanded the no fly zone over the stadium to five miles and warned private airports to avoid this area, or run the risk of being shot down. In addition, the French air force would have two F-4 fighter jets and helicopters patrolling the skies. Hospitals and medical facilities were put on alert.

Extra airport screening technology was installed at each entrance. All packages, purses and shoes would be screened. No beverages will be allowed into the stadium. Ticket holders were encouraged to arrive early and anticipate long lines.

Chris focused on the what-if; what if the French were wrong, and the chemical threat was a diversion? Chris didn't see how a small plane such as the Basque' crop duster could get close enough to Roland Garros before being shot down. "He must have something else in mind," Chris argued. "Agbu is no dummy."

"What about a suicide mission?" Earl asked. "Can we afford to shoot down an airplane loaded with chemicals?"

"The Basque are crazy," the Frenchman responded, "but they are not fanatics. This isn't the Middle East. Catholics don't blow themselves up, do they? However, just in case, we did consider the scenario of shooting down an airplane loaded with chemicals. I'm told there will be little remaining of the plane and any chemicals will be dispersed and blown away. The wind this afternoon should be 10-15 knots at an altitude of 200 feet. There would be little danger to the people in the stadium."

Chris was not convinced, but this was no time to argue. Her job was to protect the Simpsons. She was convinced that Agbu's true motive was revenge on Jim Simpson for killing his brother, Anton. Her instincts told her that Agbu would come after them close-up and personal, but how would he do it? Earl's question about suicide missions gave her reason to consider the possibility _. Was Agbu that crazy?_

"Sorry about your sister losing yesterday, I was pulling for her. Let's have a good match today and forget about all the bullshit," Carlos said to Pete as they waited in the tunnel.

Pete was surprised at Carlos' overture. They had not spoken more than a few words to each other over the past two weeks. "You too, Carlos, good luck." He much preferred to concentrate on tennis, rather than worry about all the gossip and side issues that swirled around the tournament.

It was time. Pete preceded Carlos onto Stadium Court and received a warm reception from the crowd. Mary and I hugged each other as we watched our son walk onto the court. It had been a long road for us as well as Pete. I thought back to the first time he had asked me to play _. Dad, I want to play like Borg._

Carlos followed seconds later and received a mixed reaction from the French crowd. The international media had been unmerciful in their criticism of the French tennis fans that had booed Ambre in victory. Many in the crowd gave Carlos a warm welcome and there was a vocal, flag-waving contingent of vocal Spanish fans that were solidly behind Carlos.

The match was about to start and the lines entering the stadium were long, just as they had anticipated. They hoped that security guards would be too busy to check everyone thoroughly. Enrique waited nervously as the tennis fans in front of him passed through the gate scanners and security people checked packages and purses. Many of the people were frisked. He watched with relief as Rico was searched and then allowed to pass through. The explosives they carried were undetectable to this type of sensor, just as Bruno had promised.

What Bruno did not know was that an additional level of security had been added since he was terminated. The cameras above the security entrance were taking pictures of each man and computers immediately matched these photos against a database of known terrorists and criminals. Enrique was in that database.

"We have a definite hit," the technician reported. "It's Enrique, Agbu's uncle."

Enrique was unaware of this development as he passed through the scanner without setting off the alarm, and was still confident when he was asked to step to the side for a routine body search. He first suspected that something had gone wrong when his arms were seized and he felt the handcuffs on his wrists. He looked up and was glad to see Rico disappearing into the crowd. At least one of them would be successful.

Police found the explosives hidden inside the lining of a camera case, protected by a plastic plate that made them undetectable to the scanners. It was another example of the terrorists finding a way to stay one step ahead of the latest security systems. It was an ongoing battle.

Chris tried to figure out what Agbu had in mind and Enrique wasn't talking. The explosives were dangerous, but not nearly enough to cause widespread damage. Chris didn't believe the Simpsons were the target. Agbu would want to do that himself. What was he up to? She never considered that Agbu's sole objective was to create panic and drive the crowd into the waiting grasp of Al-Qaeda, but she did consider that he might not have been acting alone.

"Ray, get me those security tapes showing Enrique in the queue." Twenty minutes later she had her answer. "See Enrique watching that young man in the next line going through security just ahead of him. Watch closely, that's the same man that ducks into the crowd when Enrique is arrested. See how they make eye contact?"

"He fit's the description of Rico, one of the three men that disappeared with Enrique when we raided Vitoria-Gasteiz," Pierre concluded. "Let's get his description circulated and find him before it's too late. He is wearing a yellow shirt and a blue cap. He shouldn't be too hard to find."

Rico was accounted for. Where were the other two men? Chris wondered. What are Stefano and Tito up to?"

Rico watched as security guards pull Enrique out of the queue, and waited, hoping that this was just a routine search. The handcuffs told him otherwise and Rico knew he must act quickly. He cast one final look back before he lost himself in the crowd. Minutes later he purchased a souvenir T-shirt and hat, discarding the yellow shirt and blue cap he had worn into the stadium. Dark sunglasses completed his impromptu disguise. It was now up to him to plant the explosives that would create panic and drive the crowd from the stadium. Without Enrique, there was only enough Semtex for ten charges and he would need to place them carefully to accomplish their objectives. Rico set about his job, saving two devices for the targets inside the Philippe Chatrier stadium court. The tennis match had just started and there was no need to hurry, it would be at least a couple hours before the third set was completed.

Pete won the toss and elected to serve. I felt this was a good omen, knowing how important it was that Pete got off to a good start. His first serve was a 128 MPH ace up the middle that just clipped the service line, 15-love. I thought back to that first tennis match in New Port Richey where Pete had started the match with an ace. Gee, I couldn't believe that was eight years ago. Someone once said that the days go slow, but the years go fast. How true when you watch your kids grow into adults.

Pete held serve and went on to win the first set, 7-5 breaking Carlos in the 12th game with the help of two uncharacteristic errors from Carlos' backhand that gave him two break points. He only needed one as he ripped a winner up the line after a 23-stroke rally, but who's counting. Mary was so excited that she spilled her cola, but didn't seem to notice.

Our happiness was short-lived as Carlos came roaring back. He settled down and began playing the dominating brand of tennis that had earned him three clay court titles leading up to the French Open. Carlos combined artistry and power like no other clay court player with the possible exception of Roger Federer. Unlike Federer, Carlos was totally comfortable on clay and glided around the surface. His speed and agility were amazing and his groundstrokes were heavy and reliable. At net, he displayed the deftness of John McEnroe. Pete fought for every point, but Carlos was unbeatable. The set ended 6-1 and momentum was clearly on the Carlos' side.

"I'm not sure what Pete can do to beat him when he is playing this well," I said to Mary as the players rested during the changeover.

"It's a long match, Jim. Let's hope Carlos cools off."

"The third set was more of the same as Carlos jumped off to a four-love lead and won by the identical 6-1 score. There was nothing Pete could do. To his credit, he fought for every point, but Carlos was too fast and too strong.

Pete wisely headed for the locker room after the third set ended. He needed to do something to change the momentum of the match. It was like taking a timeout in basketball, hoping to cool off the opponent. Maybe the delay would slow Carlos.

The scuba diver dropped over the edge of the small boat into the polluted water of the Seine River. Clouds covered the evening stars and crescent moon, made it easy to swim the 200 meters undetected to his target. Forty minutes later the charges were placed. Twelve hours later Muhammad gave the signal.

The first bomb exploded while Pete was in the locker room changing his shirt, and Paris' oldest bridge across the Seine, often called the walking bridge, disintegrated under the force of five ounces of C-4, crumbling into the water taking 14 pedestrians to their deaths.

The second bomb exploded moments later at the Musee d'Orsay art gallery currently featuring a heralded exhibit of French Impressionists. Priceless works from Monet, Manet, Cézanne, Degas and other French masters disappeared in smoke, lost forever to the world.

The third bomb exploded in downtown Paris when a suicide bomber drove his explosive-laden 1994 Peugeot into French police headquarters. Nine police officers and civilians were killed and many more wounded.

Muhammad watched from his vantage point as French Police raced towards the scenes of destruction, leaving only a skeletal crew to guard Roland Garros.

The crowd heard none of these, but they were able to see a small, single engine plane flying slowly towards Roland Garros dragging a banner proclaiming "Basque Independence." They watched as two, F-4 military jets swooped down on the plane and a helicopter approached from the north. Instructions to the fighter pilots were clear, "blow it up unless he turns in 10 seconds." Stefano got the message and at the last minute slowly turned away, followed by the military escort.

Tito was the youngest and had the easiest job. From his perch outside the stadium, he could see the huge Jumbotron in the courtyard, which allowed him to watch the tennis and listen to the noise of the crowd. He had played tennis in high school and was a huge fan of Carlos. Even after he lost the first set, Tito remained confident that Carlos would come back. Simpson was playing well, but it was obvious that he was overmatched, Carlos was too good. Tito enjoyed watching Carlos dominate the 2nd and 3rd sets, and was so excited that he almost forgot his assignment. Moments after the third set was finished, Tito ambled over to the new statute of the legendary four horsemen. His large bag of popcorn was almost finished as he placed the bag next to the feet of Rene Lacoste and slowly walked away. He didn't look back as the four horsemen disintegrated, together with a British family with two small children that had stopped to admire the statues of the great French tennis legends.

The huge explosion shook the stadium and stunned the crowd. They learned later that the statue of the Four Horsemen had been destroyed. A few headed for the exits as security officials tried to maintain order, but most of the fans stayed in their seats unaware of the wanton destruction throughout Paris.

Security guards converged on the statue despite pleas from the French Police to maintain their stations. During the frenzy, security cameras were unattended when a young man with a players' pass approached the players' entrance moments after the explosion. Nobody took the time to check his tennis bag or wonder why a player would need his tennis racquets when the tournament was almost over. The statue of Rene Lacoste and his three friends had served its purpose. Agbu was inside the stadium.

Chris was in the Security office high above Phillip Chartrier Court and was getting constant updates of the attacks throughout the city. She sensed that the chaos had only just begun. "This is a diversion, maintain your posts," she yelled into her radio at the agents assigned to the Simpsons. "Keep them in their seats and be on alert."

"Watch for another plane," she calmly suggested to her French counterparts. "That banner plane might have been a diversion. Get those jets back here." The order to the F-4 pilots had just been given when a private jet appeared on the horizon heading straight at Roland Garros. It looked like the typical Boeing corporate jet and was probably just a private aircraft that was unaware they were entering restricted air space. The Roland Garros crowd was mesmerized as they saw the F-4s come over the horizon.

"It's not responding to our warnings," the pilot radioed back.

"It might be having radio problems," a French official suggested.

Chris looked at her French counterpart. "I don't believe in coincidences, do you?"

Pierre grabbed the microphone and calmly gave the order, "Shoot it down, NOW."

The crowd saw the missiles launched simultaneously from both F-4s. The Boeing 221 was only a half-mile from the stadium when it literally disintegrated before their eyes, looking like a huge fireworks display that lit up the sky. One moment the Boeing jet was there and the next moment it was gone. The crowd was starting to head for the exits until an announcement asked that they stay calm and remain in their seats.

"Get a plane in there and test the air," Chris ordered. "We need to see what we are dealing with." Five minutes later they had their answer. Fortunately, the explosion was downwind from the stadium and presented no immediate threat to Roland Garros or the city. The decision was made not to evacuate the stadium, but the order was given to close the domed roof _. It's a little late for that, Chris thought to herself._

"Chris, Ambre is outside and says she needs to talk with you."

"Not now, Ray, I'm busy." Reports were streaming in about the bombings and Chris was trying to determine if there was a pattern. _"What was the purpose of blowing up the statue?" she wondered._

"Chris, I'm sorry to interrupt, but she says it's important. She has information about Agbu."

It took a moment to sink in, but when it did Chris wasted no time getting to the door. "Ambre, what can you tell me?"

"I think he is here in the stadium."

"Why?"

Ambre related what happened three nights ago when she had met Agbu. "He asked a lot of questions about how players got into the stadium; which gate we use, are we searched and stuff like that."

"Did you give him a player's pass?" Chris asked.

"No, but it sounded like he already had one. There are a lot of Spanish players in this tournament," which Chris knew was a classic understatement.

"Ray, check the cameras to the players entrance and see if any players have been admitted in the last hour or so. We think Agbu might have tried to get in through the player's entrance. Let me know what you find out."

"If he didn't want your pass Ambre, why did he want to meet with you?" Chris asked. "It seems he was taking a big chance with so many people looking for him."

"Carlos was telling the truth. Agbu and I were more than friends and it was Agbu that got me into drugs. He still has a thing for me and might have been hoping that I would help him. He also wanted to talk about Pete."

"What about?"

"Where Pete was staying, but I told him I didn't know."

"Anything else?" Chris asked.

"No, not really. We just talked about tennis and how it felt like to be in the finals. He wanted to know how the locker rooms were laid out, whether Lisa and I would get ready in the same part of the locker room, if we had assigned lockers, stuff like that."

"Did he ask about the men's locker room?"

"Yeah, the same kind of stuff. Where the lockers were. Did players have an assigned locker, and so on. I told him the story about the note I left in Pete's locker room after the third set of his first round match, and the way I got past the guard at the door. Agbu got a big kick out of that."

"Pierre, get security down to the men's locker room now. Agbu might be trying to get at Pete."

Agbu waited for the explosion and watched as security guards raced towards the cavity where the statue had been. It was a natural reaction that Agbu had counted on. Moments later he approached the player's entrance where one security guard was left to guard the entrance. Dressed in sweats and carrying a large tennis bag with six racquets, Agbu looked like a tennis player.

"What happened," Agbu asked the guard as he quickly showed his player's pass.

"I don't know," he replied, still trying to see over the crowd that had gathered at the scene. "It was a big explosion. I hope no one is hurt."

"Me too," the young man said as he walked into the stadium.

It was only later that the guard realized that the young man's face looked vaguely familiar. He should have looked more closely at the photos that security had provided.

Agbu made his way towards the locker room when he witnessed the F-4s intercept the Boeing jet and blow it out of the sky. So that's what Al-Qaeda had in mind, he thought. That is why they wanted Stefano to fly his prop-plane towards the stadium, as a diversion. Well, it didn't work, but the chaos accomplished something more important. Agbu was smiling as he watched the domed roof slowly begin to close. He was still smiling as he approached the men's locker room where Pete was changing clothes. He had 18-20 minutes to plant his devices and find Jim Simpson.

The uniformed guard stationed outside the door to the men's locker caused Agbu to turn down the other corridor and enter the unguarded door to the ladies' locker room. The ladies championship had been decided yesterday, and the room was empty. The door to the unisex player's lounge opened easily from the inside revealing a plush haven for players to relax before their matches or during rain delays. The latest video games were available to players and coaches, but today the room was vacant. Agbu neared the opposite door leading to the men's lockers and saw the coded, digital lock. He depressed the six-digit code he had been given, *2007*, and turned the latch gently to the left. Nothing, the door remained locked. Agbu thought a moment and entered the code again, *2007*, and turned the latch to the right, and felt the click. He gently pushed the door opened and stepped into the men's locker room, just as his friend had promised. Still dressed in his red Nike sweatsuit, Agbu walked around the corner and came face to face with Pete Simpson.

"Hey, you scared me," Pete said in surprise. "I didn't know anyone else was in here."

_He doesn't recognize me, Agbu thought. He must think I'm a player._ "Sorry, I must have fallen asleep in the lounge. Let me change and get out of here. I'll get out of your way."

"No problem. I was just told something is going on out there and the match has been delayed. Carlos should be coming back here any minute."

Agbu knew he had to hurry, and quickly went around the corner to change into his street clothes, correctly guessing that security cameras had picked up his entry into the stadium. They would be looking for a man wearing a red sweatsuit and tennis cap, which were now hanging neatly in the closed locker, together with the bomb that was set to detonate in 15 minutes. It was ironic. Agbu had the weapons to kill thousands, but he lacked a knife or gun to kill the son of his mortal enemy.

Tennis pros went often through three or four racquets a match, especially on clay courts where the heavy topspin chafed the strings causing the racquets to lose tension. New balls are provided every nine games in pro tournaments, and it was Ivan Lendl that began changing to a new racquet with each change of balls. It made perfect sense. Why take the chance of breaking a string during a crucial point? Lendl went a step further. All pros string their racquets to a preferred tension measured in pounds of pressure. Lendl's racquets were strung at 72 pounds. John McEnroe strung his racquets loose, at 56 pounds to get the additional feel. The average pressure was probably 60-62 pounds on clay courts. The string hanging from the racquet stringer caught Agbu's eye. It wasn't the perfect weapon, but it would do. Simpson's back was turned when Agbu slipped the noose around Pete's neck.

"Whaaa," Pete tried to scream as he felt the string tighten around his throat, choking the air from his windpipe and preventing the noise from surfacing. It was only the quick reactions of a young athlete that allowed him to get his fingers inside the ever-tightening grip of the catgut that prevented him from breathing. Pete fought back, trying to reach back and grab his attacker with his free hand. He kicked with his stocking feet, wishing he had not taken off his shoes that were discolored from the red clay. The struggle went on for what seemed to Pete like several minutes, before he felt himself losing consciousness. His last thoughts were that he would never accomplish his dream of winning the French Open.

Carlos entered the locker room and saw immediately what was happening. "Agbu, what are you doing," Carlos screamed as he entered the locker room and raced to break Agbu's stranglehold on Simpson. Carlos threw his boyhood friend against the lockers, "Are you crazy?"

Security guards appeared at the door and Agbu ran for his life. _Didn't Carlos understand? he wondered._ _It didn't make sense, Carlos should have understood._ Agbu raced through the player's lounge and escaped through the women's locker room with a single thought in his demented mind, he had to find Jim Simpson.

Carlos turned Pete on his back and administered mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, fighting to breath air into Pete's lungs until the trainers arrived and took over. Chris raced into the locker room moments later and Carlos told her of Agbu's escape, and provided a description of what Agbu was now wearing. He had ditched the red sweat suit and was now clad in a black t-shirt. Chris broadcast the description and then alerted the security team watching the Simpson family. "Bring Jim and Mary to the locker room, Pete's seriously hurt. But be careful, Agbu is out there and might be looking for Jim."

Chris glumly watched as the emergency medics arrived and tried to pump life into Pete's limp body. There was no sign of life. Chris felt a terrible sense of failure and sat down, trying to hold back the tears. It had been her responsibility to protect the Simpsons. Part of her wanted to give up as she watched Pete's face turning blue from lack of oxygen, but something was eating at the back of her mind, not allowing her to wallow in self-pity. Her professionalism took over. What was bothering her? There was something she was missing, but what was it?

It hit her like a ton of bricks, Agbu's tennis bag. "Ray, what happened to the tennis bag Agbu was carrying?"

"I don't know. We checked the cameras in the player's lounge and he still had it when he entered. It's here."

Chris discovered the bag in the next aisle lying in front of several locked, lockers. "It's empty," she thought. "Where is his red sweatsuit?"

"Get these lockers open," she screamed. Chris had a premonition they were searching for more than the sweat clothes, and she knew they didn't have much time.

"I'll get a master key from maintenance," someone yelled.

There was no time. Chris pulled her 38-caliber pistol and told everyone to stand back, as she blew off the lock in front of her. The door popped open, revealing an empty locker.

"Stand back," she shouted as she blew off the lock to the left. Nothing!

"Stand back," she repeated as she blew open the locker to the right, revealing the red sweat suit and a crude, but deadly bomb on the floor of the locker.

Chris didn't hesitate, grabbing the bomb and racing to the shower room where she dumped the explosives into the three-foot deep sauna. She fled the small room slamming the door behind her. Seconds later the bomb exploded, knocking everyone in the locker room to the floor. The water and heavy door did their job, minimizing the impact of the explosives and saving many lives, including mine.

Mary and I arrived in the locker room just as the bomb detonated, throwing us back against the door. Mary was hurt, but nothing could stop her from getting to Pete who was lying on the floor gasping for breath.

Agbu raced out through the still-unguarded ladies' locker room and into the corridor before anyone could react, and exited Court Chartrier through an emergency exit leading into the pedestrian mall. Glancing skyward, he saw the dome was now almost completely closed. In a few moments the massive, steel arches would slide together, closing the electrical circuit and igniting the explosives that would collapse the dome. Agbu stopped and watched, anticipating the satisfaction he would have when the dome that Simpson built was in ruins. He regretted that he wouldn't see the look on Jim Simpson's face when the stadium collapsed in front of him. Agbu closed his eyes and thought of Anton. This is for you, my brother.

Agbu waited for the explosion and the resultant turmoil, but nothing happened. There was no explosion. Something was wrong! Agbu opened his eyes and saw that the dome was closed, but nothing had happened. Bruno had promised it would work. He contemplated his next move when he spotted his friend Rico walking towards him across the mall. Agbu motioned to his friend to join him at the nearby brasseire where they could order a sandwich and be less conspicuous. Rico told him about Enrique being detained by security guards at the gate and was surprised that Agbu didn't seem to care. He was preoccupied.

"Have you placed the charges?"

"Eight of them, I'm saving the last two for the closing ceremony like we discussed."

"Give them to me, and give me your cell phone. I'll handle it from here."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Get out of here. Find Tito and try to get home."

"Should we wait for you?"

"Don't bother, my friend. I don't think I'm going to make it."

"Good luck Agbu," Rico whispered, kissing his friend on either cheek, before heading out of the stadium.

"That's him," one of the security officials told his partner, holding up a picture that French officials had developed from the security cameras. "Stop right there, and raise your arms above your head," the guard commanded.

Rico had been walking in a daze thinking about his conversation with Agbu. He looked up and saw two guns pointed at his chest and made the right decision, he surrendered.

Miraculously, Pete recovered quickly from his near-death experience and was sitting up and talking, albeit softly. "I want to play," he whispered in a raspy voice.

"Don't even think about it," Mary and I said in one voice. "Tennis isn't that important."

"Yes it is, this is what I have been dreaming about since I was twelve, and who knows if I will ever get another chance. Besides, I feel fine," he said, standing up to emphasize his point.

"Doctor, tell him he can't play," I said.

"Well, Mr. Simpson, there is really no medical reason stopping him. His larynx was severely bruised, but he'll have a sore throat for a couple weeks whether he plays or not. Playing tennis won't cause any further damage."

"Chris," Agbu's still out there. Do you think he will try again?"

"He might, but I think he'll come after you, not Pete. I'll be with you the entire time. Besides, I just heard from the French that Roland Garros is no longer in any danger from the chemicals, so it's up to tournament officials if they want to continue."

George Hawes had made his way to the locker room. "It's up to the players. Carlos?"

"Let's do it. I agree with Pete, who knows when we will get to play in the finals of the French Open again?"

"Okay, I'll make the announcement to the crowd. We'll start in 30 minutes, and allow a ten minute warm-up."

"Pete, there is somebody outside waiting to see you. Should I let her in?" I said for Lisa's benefit.

Lisa smiled and Pete nodded his head.

It was obvious that Ambre had been crying, but the tears erupted unabated as she saw that Pete was all right. Chris posted guards outside both doors, and we went into the players' lounge to give the kids some privacy.

Susan Peterson spent the long intermission in the offices of stadium security officials, courtesy of an invitation from her French police friend, Georges Caron. He had sat with Susan during the match and suggested she would be more comfortable getting out of the sun while they waited to see if the match would resume. Georges had been a great friend during the trip. She was not aware that George's friendship was partially due to a call he had received from the doctor explaining her fragile mental condition. "She hasn't been well since her husband was killed and I'm afraid that this trip might push her over the edge. Watch out for her if you can."

Georges needed no further prodding. Susan's phone call announcing her trip had awakened unpleasant memories and feelings of guilt. There must have been something more he could have done to prevent Bill Peterson's senseless killing. "This is something I need to do," he explained to his boss.

Mrs. Peterson was fascinated with the weapons spread out on the table; knives, screwdrivers, box cutters, spray canisters of mace and even a small 22-caliber handgun. "Where did these come from?"

"They were all confiscated today," the security official explained. "Most people say they had forgotten to take them out of their purse or handbag. The woman had a permit for the gun, but didn't understand that it was no good in here. She can pick it up tomorrow."

They listened, as the announcement came over the intercom that the match would be resumed in 30 minutes. It was not unexpected, as few people knew about the attack made on Simpson in the locker room. Susan had mixed emotions. The television picture of Agbu and Carlos kept flashing through her mind. She wanted so much for Pete Simpson to win but knew enough about tennis to see that Carlos was too good. The gun was not on the table when Georges and Susan returned to their seats.

Agbu didn't see Rico get arrested. He had already broke into the maintenance room found the equipment he needed. The uniform was a size too large, but it would do. The yellow hardhat and utility belt completed his disguise. Five minutes later he was climbing the inside of the dome in plain view of television cameras and fifteen thousand tennis fans and security guards. The pain in his leg was almost unbearable, but he continued upward. He was hiding in plain sight.

It took ten minutes to scale the steel girders leading to the top of the dome and another five minutes to find the problem. The wire sending the ignition spark to the Semtex had been severed when the steel slabs came together. _What are the odds of that happening, he thought, one in ten?_ No matter, five minutes later he had placed the detonation fuse next to the Semtex and began his descent, receiving light applause from many of the tennis fans watching his progress. Agbu waved acknowledgement to the crowd, being careful to keep his face hidden from the television cameras. Rico's cell phone, which he would use to detonate the explosives, was securely fastened to his belt.

Agbu reached the bottom just as Carlos and Pete Simpson were leaving the locker room and heading toward the entrance, followed by security guards. Mary and I walked with Chris, and brought up the rear of the entourage. They passed within ten feet of Agbu, but nobody recognized him in his disguise. The players walked side-by-side like old friends with Carlos' arm on Pete's shoulder, a fact not unnoticed by the television cameras and commentators. "Something's happened during the 90 minute break," John McEnroe said. "They weren't even talking the first three sets."

"Maybe it has something to do with that plaid scarf Simpson is wearing around his neck?" Bud Collins added. "It looks like something from one of my outfits." In fact, it was a scarf that Ambre had given Pete for luck, and an attempt to camouflage his neck injury. It didn't work.

The cameras zoomed in for a close-up. "Look at his neck," Mary Carillo exclaimed excitedly. "That's either the biggest hickey I've seen or someone has been choking him," not realizing how close her second guess was to the truth.

Carlos and Pete emerged from the tunnel and the crowd rose as one to give them a standing ovation. Both players hesitated and waved to the crowd. The live images on the scoreboard clearly showed Pete's injury and the applause increased. 90% of the crowd had stayed and the noise was deafening. Mary and I watched from the tunnel behind the players, holding hands and enjoying the moment. Pete was finally getting his due after living in Lisa's shadow for the last two weeks. He earned it.

Susan Peterson watched from the first row of her box seat, only twenty feet away from the players. She had calmed down since she had left the security office and was resigned to the likelihood that Carlos would eventually beat Simpson for the title. Maybe it was the horrible bruise on Simpson's neck, or maybe it was the crowd screaming, but something inside of her snapped. Susan would say later that she didn't remember pulling the gun out of her purse, taking off the safety and firing until Georges knocked the gun from her hand. She remembered none of this.

Georges would blame himself for getting caught up watching the players and not reacting in time to stop her. He knew there was something he should have done although he didn't know what. The gun landed next to Carlos who slowly fell to the red clay clutching his white tennis shirt that was slowly turning blood red.

Mary and I heard the shots and feared the worst. We raced out of the runway and saw Pete on the ground, holding Carlos in his arms. There was so much blood on both players that I wasn't sure if Pete had been hit. "Are you hurt?" I yelled as I reached Pete.

"I'm okay, but Carlos is hit bad. Some lady up there shot at us," he said nodding his head towards the box where police were holding a sobbing woman.

"Come on Pete, let the doctor work on Carlos," I said pulling him to his feet. I looked down at Carlos and thought he was breathing, but couldn't be sure. Paramedics already had him hooked up to a breathing machine and were attempting to stop the flow of blood. I noticed the small handgun still lying next to Carlos and absent-mindedly picked it up.

I was still holding the gun when a small explosive device landed at my feet and Agbu appeared at the tunnel entrance holding his cell phone above his head. "Simpson, this is for my brother, Anton."

Chris later told me Agbu had already entered all nine digits to the phone number that would have detonated the explosives at my feet and the explosives wired into the roof, killing my entire family instantly and bringing the dome down on the 16,000 tennis fans packed into Philip-Chartrier stadium. I shot him three times in the chest before he could depress the green, send button.

### Epilogue

Wimbledon, the third leg of tennis' grand slam was over and Mary and I were taking a much-deserved two-week vacation. Ireland in July is beautiful, especially if you can afford to stay in an authentic, 15th century, air-conditioned castle overlooking the Celtic Sea. Ken and Chris decided to join us even though there was no longer any need for protection. Agbu was dead and Chris assured me there were no more brothers seeking revenge.

The kids were scheduled to arrive tomorrow from London' Heathrow airport. Pete had lost in the second round to a qualifier, but made it to the quarterfinals in doubles. He was still not fully recovered from his neck injury and we hadn't expected much. Lisa had made it to the quarterfinals before losing to Venus Williams in three sets. Ambre almost made it two grand slams in a row, losing to Williams in the finals. Pete was at her side.

Carlos nearly died on the operating table and his life hung by a thread for several days. One bullet collapsed his lung, narrowly missing his heart. Another bullet entered his stomach and required several operations to repair damage to his lower intestines. He was still hospitalized and his prognosis looked good, although doctors warned him he that could never play tennis again. The injuries to his lungs would never completely heal. The mantle of Spanish tennis had been transferred from Carlos to Nadal.

I thought of Susan Peterson and the unlikely chain of events that had placed the gun in my hand. The French released her into U.S. custody where she would receive the treatment she obviously needed. Mary took a personal interest after learning how her husband Bill had died, and planned to visit when her doctor said she was strong enough. Mary and I both felt that in some way, Mrs. Peterson had saved us from Agbu.

Pete and Carlos were named French Open co-champions. There was no precedent for what had happened and French officials were undecided. Sentiment was growing to award the title to Pete since Carlos was unable to continue, but Pete wouldn't hear of it. A compromise was reached to name co-champions and the week before Wimbledon Pete had delivered the single trophy to Carlos in his hospital room. "You keep it for a while, at least until you are out of the hospital." Mary and I agreed with Pete's decision, particularly since Pete might be dead if Carlos hadn't intervened in the locker room. Sharing the championship and the trophy was the right thing to do.

"Chris, does the CIA think there was enough explosives to bring the roof down?" I asked. "I've been getting conflicting reports from the Clark engineers."

"Nobody knows for sure, but I can tell you this. If Agbu presses the send button, you wouldn't be around to worry about it."

"None of us would be," Ken added. That little puppy would have blown up everything within fifty feet."

"I'm well aware of that and I hope this is the last time Jim has to save my life."

"Did I hear that there were other explosives around the stadium?"

"That's right, Mary, they set eight other charges inside and two outside the complex. We found and defused half of them, but the others would have killed a bunch of people. Even worse, there would have been panic. That was their objective."

"Why? If Agbu was after me for killing his brother, why would he try to create panic? I understand him trying to blow up the dome to get at me, but why the rest of it? Why the anthrax?"

"That wasn't his idea, that was Al-Qaeda. Agbu's uncle Enrique and the other Basque told us the whole story. Al-Qaeda couldn't find a way into the stadium so they forced Agbu to use his Basque connections to create a panic and force the people outside the perimeter. They had bombs in the parking lot and canisters of anthrax in the subway cars. The death toll would have been in the thousands."

"Why did Agbu do it? He must have known the Basque would be implicated."

"Yeah, but he still needed their drug connections. That's how he was funding his New ETA movement. Enrique told us that Agbu disliked Al-Qaeda, but still needed them until his Mexico connections came through."

"So it was Agbu that blew up the stadium in Mexico," I concluded. "Who set off the bombs in the city?"

"Al-Qaeda set off the bombs at the walking bridge, police station and the Musee d'Orsay art gallery, but Agbu's group blew up the statue outside Roland Garros. He needed a diversion to get into the stadium."

"How did he get into the men's locker room," I asked. "Didn't he need to know the combination?"

"I'm not sure who gave him the combination. Ambre remembers telling him how she got in and left a note for Pete the first day, but she swears she didn't give him the combination. Carlos met with Agbu, but denied even knowing the combination. He might have gotten it from one of the Spanish players, the same one that gave him the player's pass. We probably never will know for sure."

"You know, there's another option; Bruno. He might have used his connections to get hold of the code. You know, the code wasn't changed since the day before the tournament began."

"How did Bruno fit into all of this? Why would someone want to sabotage the stadium that he had helped build?"

"The French picked him up a week later in Lisbon, but he isn't saying much. Rico told us he was looking for revenge after being fired, but there might be more to it than just revenge. He grew up in Southern France in one of the two departments that the Basque claim as their homeland. Whatever the reason, the French are going to prosecute him for attempted murder. He was responsible for giving Agbu the detailed plans of the stadium and security."

"Chris, what is going to happen to the New Basque movement that Agbu had started? You know, he was doing some pretty good things for the Basque people."

"It's interesting you bring that up because I got a call last week from Carlos. It seems he is interested in taking up where Agbu left off, but without the drug money. Carlos grew up with Agbu and still believes in the Basque cause."

"I guess it's the old half-empty or half-full debate," Ken concluded in his obscure way. It bothered me sometimes that I understood him, and tended to agree with him most of the time. There was a lot of brilliance in what Agbu did for the Basque.

"Hey, look who's here?" Mary said, pointing to the three familiar figures walking towards them.

Lisa, Pete and Ambre were striding towards us with smiles on their faces. The sun glittered on the large diamond that Ambre wore on her left ring finger.

### Phenom

Another Thrilling Suspense Novel

By

Jim Plautz

Coming Soon!

The final score was 21-9. Don Kojis, pro basketball player and former Marquette All American, congratulated Mathew. It was just a pick-up game at the Marquette gym, but Kojis had been taken to school. "Where do you play your college ball?"

The boy replied, "I'm a senior in high school." Kojis couldn't believe it. He looked up at Al McGuire and mouthed the words, " _high school_ " and pointed at the boy _._ Here is my shirt Mathew, you earned it" The new boy took off his shirt and put on his prize. He had being wearing his shirt inside out. Kojis could now read the lettering, Jerry West, #44, Lakers.

"I've heard of you, "Kojis said with new respect. "You're the high school kid from California that plays the Lakers' players one-on-one and beats them? I heard West bragging about you."

The boy smiled as he answered, "yeah, I've played against West, Baylor, Goodrich and Chamberlain. Wilt is too tough, but I have had some luck against Jerry and Elgin. This shirt is my prized possession. I wasn't going to lose it in a pickup game."

Ms. Thompson loved poetry. Every year she looked forward to this part of her senior English class. "Okay, class, settle down. This week we are going to study some of the great love poems of modern times. Can anybody give me an example?"

"Anybody? Come on, I know there is someone out there that has quoted poetry to their girlfriend."

Silence. "Okay. I'll give you an example," she said as she turned to write on the chalkboard. As she turned, a male voice resonated from the back of the room.

"Your words are my food, your breath is my wine  
You are everything to me"

The room was quiet. It was not only the words, but the way the lines were read, with depth and feeling that glorified the words and presented a mood that the author intended.

"Excellent, Mathew. Sarah Bernhardt is a great example of Victorian poetry. Do you have another example?"

"Of course, Ms. Thompson. More than one poem is required to win a girl's heart. Elizabeth Barrett Browning is one of my favorites."

" _I love you not only for what you are,  
but for what I am when I am with you._

Tears came to Ms. Thompson's eyes. This poem had special meaning. How did Mathew know?

Father Sean McGinnis had worked on his homily until midnight and felt prepared. The readings were from the book of Revelation sometimes referred to as The Apocalypse of John, from the New Testament. It was a favorite subject of his and vital to the church, as it provided much of the basis for the schism between Catholics and Protestants. He had spent hours debating alternative interpretations with his peers in Rome. Was the Catholic Church the Antichrist referred to the Revelation? It was a complex and difficult subject, particularly when he only had 10 minutes.

There was a murmur going through the congregation as a tall, young man walked into the church and took a seat in a middle pew. Most priests would have ignored the interruption and continued with the service, but Father McGinnis had a playful streak and decided to have fun with the young man. "Young man, what's your name?"

"Mathew Wilson, Father."

"Mathew, you seem to have everyone's attention, perhaps you would like to give the Homily today."

Mathew looked directly at Father McGinnis for several seconds attempting to read what was behind the offer. Later Father Sean would say that he felt the boy was reading his soul. "Thank you, Father, I would be honored. The controversy surrounding John's book of Revelation is an exciting subject that I have given much thought."

Father McGinnis watched and listed in awe as the boy spoke, marveling at his ability to communicate. He scanned the congregation and realized that every person was hanging on his every word.

The boy's argument was well thought out and his opinion was based upon what he believed were misinterpretations of the scripture, passages that Father Jean had often questioned. He was caught up in the boy's argument when the boy abruptly concluded, exactly ten minutes after starting. His final message was, "Be prepared, the Apocalypse is coming."

Father Sean was no stranger to leadership and had a gift for public speaking, but he had never witnessed a performance like this. Mathew Wilson was in total control. Father Sean was smart enough to save his own Homily for another day.

"Who is this boy?" he wondered.

DEDICATIONS

To Rosann, who made this book possible. Thank you for your encouragement.

To my three children, Kelly, Mike and Bill, who provided many of the experiences that are incorporated into this novel.

To my children's spouses and s Katy, Claire and Brandon. Thank you for my grandchildren and for making my kid's lives complete.

To my parents, Bob and Marion Plautz, who introduced me to tennis and played for many years. I wish you were alive to read this novel. Maybe you can?

To all the tennis players that I have played with in Milwaukee, Washington, DC, St. Louis and Tampa.

To the great game of tennis; there is no better sport.

### Back Cover

**DOUBLE FAULT at ROLAND GARROS** is a novel about four junior tennis players from Spain, France and the United States that are destined to meet at Roland Garros, home of the French Open, the second leg of the Tennis Grand Slam. The four teenagers meet at the Saddlebrook tennis academy in Tampa, Florida where tennis lessons are spiced with love, jealousy and revenge. Basque ETA terrorist plans to blow up the newly rebuilt Roland Garros stadium set the stage for a thrilling and surprising climax. The author has created a cast of intriguing, real life characters and themes.

"You don't need to play tennis to enjoy this book."

"The character development is excellent."

"This is a love story."

**Jim Plautz** is a businessman, avid tennis player and father of three. Originally from Wisconsin, Jim now makes his home in Tampa, Florida with his wife, Rosann. This is his second novel.

"My novels are similar in structure to the Stephen Frey books (The Day Trader, The Vulture Fund, Silent Partner, etc.). These are action thrillers set in a business environment. I add a sports theme. My first book was about golf and my next books will be about basketball, baseball, football and soccer. This book is about tennis."
