Unlimited Plan (*)

Big fella, small town

19

Vergèze, France

Michel lifts the visor of his welding mask and lowers the flame of his tungsten torch to hear the request from the stranger who has just entered.

"Do you know this person?" restates the man, showing him a large photograph.

A professional welder and inveterate smoker, the employee whose first name is sewn on his work overalls takes advantage of this unexpected break to light a Gitane non-filtered cigarette with the still-hot end of his torch.

"Yeah, sure," he grunts with a pronounced swagger. "That's the Yank."

"The Yank?" repeats the other, not understanding.

"Yeah, the rican, you know."

"The rican?" the stranger asks with a puzzled frown.

"Yeah, the American, the Yank, the Yankee, you know..."

The welder exhales a long, malodorous puff.

"Oh, I see. I'm American too," the man replies, extending his hand. "I'm actually looking for my friend."

"Oh really?" responds Michel. "You speak French pretty well, for a foreigner," noting as he sets down his torch to extend his own hand. "Not like Peter."

"Peter?"

"Your friend there, Peter, he doesn't speak as well as you."

"Ah! Peter... Yes... Of course. We didn't have the same education, that's why. You understand?"

"Not really, but then again, I don't really care much anyway."

The American pauses. He understands all the words of his interlocutor, and speaks French more than correctly, but he still struggles to make sense of the worker's sentences. He decides to cut the conversation short.

"Do you know where I can find him?"

The Frenchman takes another puff and shrugs his shoulders. "Mate, I'm here to fix trucks," Michel notes, patting the gigantic wheel of the Iveco rig whose step he was welding. "I'm not the receptionist."

And as the American stands dumbfounded, the professional reconsiders. "You're in the wrong place, mate... This is the depot, your buddy works in the factory, I think. You go back out there, take a left, and at the first roundabout, another left. The main entrance is along the canal. The offices are just next door, explains the worker, pointing toward the parking lot."

The man thanks him and gets back into his rental car. He has every excuse for having gotten lost in this immense industrial complex, where official tours use nothing less than a bus to transport their visitors across the different sites.

Following the welder's instructions, the man reaches the canal and passes the main entrance. To his left, he finds a parking lot occupied by both visitors and site personnel. Not a tree grows on the expanse of asphalt reserved for vehicles, and no wall rises high enough to cast a protective shade. In this region of southern France, this would be a handicap if he had to stand guard until evening. The sun beats down hard, and the man can't imagine sweating blood and water in his car waiting for the employees to leave. So, he decides to hunt his target directly at his workplace.

He grabs his travel bag from the back seat and pulls out a black case, which he opens. Inside, dozens of official documents are neatly arranged in plastic folders. He flips through them with an expert eye and retrieves a card from the French flying customs which he inserts into his wallet.

Exiting his car, he adjusts the holster under his jacket that holds a medium-caliber automatic revolver and a pair of handcuffs. He then proceeds towards the administrative-looking building. It stands out in this landscape mostly populated by industrial metal constructions.

He enters the large hall and heads to the welcome desk with a determined step. He puts on his strongest American accent to ask:

"Excuse me, miss, I'm just passing through the area and one of my friends works for you, Peter ... 'the Yank' as you call him here he told me..."

The receptionist, a tall, slender Creole woman with carefully maintained and regularly oiled mid-length hair, doesn't have to think for long. Many employees frequent this site, but only one deserves the nickname "the Yank."

"Yes, of course... Peter. He takes care of the network, I believe. Do you want me to call him?"

"Please," he confirms, deliberately stretching some phonemes to add even more of an Anglo-Saxon accent. "Oh! It's a surprise, so..."

"Don't worry," she reassures him with a wink, picking up the telephone handset in front of her.

"Hello? Peter? Can you come to reception for a moment, please? There's a delivery for you..." She smiles at her interlocutor and sends him a conspiratorial pout while continuing to talk on the phone. "I don't know, it looks like cables, I think... OK..." She hangs up.

"He's coming," she announces with a satisfied smirk.

"Thank you," the American responds, heading away to strategically position himself behind a marble pillar.

Several minutes pass, and a group of visitors enters the hall, preceded by their guide. "Come on, come on. Let's go in, there we go."

About thirty people are now ambling through the hall.

"This way, ladies and gentlemen," the guide urges, trying to get everyone to move to the right side. "This way..."

The man takes advantage to blend into the crowd, all the while scanning the area behind the reception desk.

"First, we'll go upstairs to watch a presentation on the history of this factory, the guide explains. Then we'll see how your favorite drinks are bottled. And we'll finish with the gift shop. You'll find unique items there that are not sold elsewhere, don't miss the opportunity!"

The crowd calmly moves towards the stairs, when behind the receptionist, a man enters. The obese man—he must weigh over 330 pounds—is wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt that fails to hide his enormous belly. The fat on his arms wobbles as he rounds the counter with effort. Despite the building's air conditioning, his forehead glistens with a light sweat. Two perspiration stains mark his shirt under the armpits.

The agent steps out of the tourist group and approaches the newcomer.

"Vaughan? Allan Vaughan?" he asks.

Surprised to hear his real name, the so-called Peter turns around. "What the fuck?"

He tries to flee, but his size prevents any subtle or quick escape. The other catches up to him in two leaps.

In the hall, the commotion does not go unnoticed, and several visitors cast their gazes towards the two men from the top of the stairs. The receptionist watches, mouth agape, not understanding.

"French Customs," the agent declares, now with a perfect French accent.

He pulls out his wallet with the appropriate card clearly visible.

"It's over, everything is fine... Mr. Vaughan will follow me without causing any trouble to get his papers in order..."

With a swift motion, he opens his jacket slightly to reveal the automatic handgun to the obese man's eyes only. "Right, Mr. Vaughan?" he continues.

The other wobbles in place. "Yeah... Sure..."

Addressing the hostess, the agent adds: "Sorry for the disturbance, miss."

And she watches the two men leave, still with her mouth wide open.