Read Chapter 9: Debt

They met at Lucas's workshop on Monday before sunrise.

The industrial estate sat beside the old mill, six metal units behind a chain-link fence. Lucas unlocked the office and switched on fluorescent lights. Roofing catalogues, unpaid invoices, children's drawings, and a framed photograph of Saint-Aurèle's 2014 championship side shared the walls.

Marc placed his phone on the desk.

“Start at the beginning.”

Lucas stared at the messages.

“My brother made the loan.”

“From Maret.”

“From Orbe Crédit. One of his companies.”

“Ninety thousand.”

“Originally sixty-five.”

“Interest?”

“Fees. Extensions. Penalties.”

“Legal?”

Lucas laughed bitterly. “We had a lawyer look. Legal enough.”

Marc waited.

“Two seasons ago,” Lucas continued, “Maret asked who was starting against Millau. Nothing secret. I told him. Then he asked whether our prop's shoulder was bad. I said yes. He gave me five hundred euros.”

“You took it.”

“I gave it back.”

“When?”

Lucas did not answer.

Marc sat opposite him. “When did information become outcomes?”

“Last year.”

“How many matches?”

“I didn't throw matches.”

“How many?”

“I never lost on purpose.”

Marc slammed the desk. “How many?”

Lucas flinched.

“Four.”

The word seemed too small.

“What did they ask?”

“Margins. Keep a win under seven. Give away a penalty before halftime. Make sure total points stayed below a line.”

“And you did it.”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“I couldn't always control it.”

Marc stood and walked to the window.

“How many other players?”

“I don't know.”

“Don't lie.”

“I don't know. Étienne, yes. Rémi once, I think. Maybe nobody else.”

“Jean?”

“No.”

“Vautrin?”

Lucas rubbed both hands over his face.

“They never said the mayor knew.”

“That's not what I asked.”

“I don't know.”

“Maret?”

“His people. Mostly a man named Serge Kovač.”

“The man in Pézenas?”

Lucas nodded.

Marc remembered mirrored sunglasses.

“What happens if you refuse?”

“They call the loan. They put liens on the workshop. My house is collateral.”

“You signed that?”

“My brother did. I guaranteed.”

“And now?”

“Now they say if I cooperate, the debt disappears over time.”

Marc felt anger rise, hot and clean, easier than pity.

“You betrayed your team for a roof.”

Lucas stood too. “For my children's roof.”

“And what do you think your teammates' lives are?”

“You think I don't know?” Lucas shouted. “You think I sleep?”

He kicked a filing cabinet.

“You left. You had contracts. Insurance. A pension from the league. I have twelve employees, two kids, a brother who drinks, and a bank that stopped answering.”

“And that makes this okay?”

“No!”

The office fell silent.

Lucas breathed hard.

“No,” he said again, softer. “That's the worst part. Nothing makes it okay.”

Marc sat back down.

“Do you have messages?”

“Some.”

“Payments?”

“Cash mostly. Sometimes they reduced interest.”

“Proof?”

“Statements.”

Marc thought of police, federation investigators, Claire.

“Will you testify?”

Lucas laughed once, empty.

“And lose my company before lunch?”

“Maybe.”

“My house?”

“Maybe.”

“Club suspended?”

“Maybe.”

“Then you're asking me to burn everything.”

Marc looked at the championship photograph.

“No. I'm asking whether you want them to own everything forever.”

Lucas said nothing.

When Marc left, the sun was rising over the dead mill. Rusted pipes shone orange.

At the gate, he found Claire waiting in her car.

“You followed me?”

“I followed Kovač yesterday. He came here at nine last night.”

Marc opened the passenger door.

“What else?”

Claire handed him a folder.

“Meridian Sports Advisory paid €180,000 to Orbe Loisirs over three years for ‘regional promotional services.’ Orbe Loisirs donated €110,000 to club-linked projects and sponsored municipal events.”

“Money laundering?”

“Could be legitimate layering. Could be influence. Could be both.”

“And Vautrin?”

“His campaign association rented office space from Orbe Avenir at below-market rate.”

Marc exhaled.

“Enough?”

“For an article? Enough to ask questions. For match-fixing? Not yet.”

Marc looked back at Lucas's workshop.

“Then we need him.”

Claire followed his gaze.

“Does he know that?”

“He knows.”

“And?”

“He's deciding how much truth he can afford.”

Claire started the car.

“Aren't we all?”

Before Marc left the workshop, Lucas opened a locked drawer and took out a cheap second phone.

“I bought this because Kovač told me to.”

Marc did not touch it.

“How many messages?”

“Some deleted automatically. Some not.”

The thread contained coded instructions that were only coded if one wanted to pretend.

KEEP TEMPERATURE LOW BEFORE HALF.

NO MORE THAN +6.

NUMBER 13 CAN GIVE ONE AWAY.

Marc felt his jaw tighten at the last line. Lucas wore thirteen.

“Payments?”

“Look under ‘materials rebate.’”

Lucas showed him monthly statements from Orbe Crédit. After certain matches, fees vanished from the loan account. Five hundred euros. One thousand. Once three thousand.

“That's evidence.”

“It's a loan statement.”

“Combined with messages.”

“Maybe.”

“Lucas.”

“I know.”

The captain sat heavily.

“There was one match I refused. Against Montclar last year. They wanted us under a margin. I scored the try that put us nine ahead.”

“What happened?”

“Kovač came to the workshop next day. Put a copy of my house deed on the desk.”

Marc's hands curled.

“He didn't threaten you?”

“Not in words.”

“That's a threat.”

“Yes.”

“Why keep playing?”

Lucas looked almost offended.

“Because rugby was the only place I still felt like myself.”

The answer hit Marc harder than excuses about money.

He knew that dependence.

After his knee failed, Marc had trained through pain for months not because doctors believed recovery likely, but because without rugby he did not know what shape his days should take. He had judged teammates who retired easily. Later he understood some had simply been healthier.

“Give me the phone,” he said.

Lucas hesitated.

“If I give it, there's no going back.”

“There isn't anyway.”

Lucas placed it in Marc's palm.

“Don't lose it.”

“I won't.”

“My life is in there.”

Marc closed his fingers around the cheap plastic.

“No,” he said. “The part they're using is.”

Outside, employees began arriving. Lucas stood, becoming the boss again before the door opened.

Marc put the phone in his jacket.

Evidence was strangely light.