by Sam O'Brien
Marco nodded.
“So we buy older barren mares.”
“Barren?” interrupted Mike.
Oliver glanced at Mike. “Not pregnant. Anyway, the older they are, the saggier they are. That means we’ll be able to get things in and out easier – it was a bit too tough with Painter, and there’s no way we can be fucking around like that with ten mares to pack. So I reckon we could get five in each horse. Is that doable?”
Marco’s eyes lit up, and he let out a huge belly laugh. “You’re some piece of work. Sure, it’s doable. No problem. But we’ll have to time things to a fuckin’ T. This farm in Kentucky you’re using, no problem there? You going to be able to take care of a deal that big without anyone asking questions?”
“I’ll go to see the guy when I’m done here. We’ll have to rent the whole place from him the rest of the year. That’ll stop him taking on other clients. Don’t worry, he’ll buy into it.”
“So how much to buy the horses?”
“Should be able to get away with five to seven grand per mare.”
Marco was doing calculations in his head, smiling.
“Tell you what, I’ll give you a hundred grand, you buy for whatever you like and keep the change. How’s that?”
Oliver didn’t care about the money, but made a show of thinking about it for a moment.
“Sounds fine, but you’ll have to pay the shipping costs on top of that.”
“Naturally.” Marco nodded. He stood and they shook on the deal.
“It’s better if we don’t see each other for a while. Mike, you sort out the deliveries. And make sure those fuckin’ lunatics at the other end have their shit together, and remind them not to cut the goods more than twenty percent. Keep it fuckin’ quality.”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
“OK, I gotta go to Vegas. You relax and enjoy that girl of yours till November. By the way, when’s Shadows goin’ to run again?”
“Ricky has him in Saratoga. He might run next week. Should be on for a touch in the sprints. Then, all going well, the Breeder’s Cup.”
“Good. Call Mike when it’s on.”
“Will do.”
He swept out the door.
Mike ordered them two beers, and a tired-looking waitress brought it up. Oliver gulped it down as quickly as he could to escape listening to Mike’s vulgar bullshit. All he could think about was meeting Huntley in the usual room at Newark Airport in a couple of hours.
* * *
Oliver slid onto the chair opposite Huntley. The agent looked tired – his skin was almost translucent – but he was visibly excited. He tapped a folder with his pen and shook Oliver’s hand vigorously.
“You finally saw sense,” he said. “I just hope it’s not too late. Look, we can give you immunity if you help us. Tell me everything you know about Marco Romano’s business activities, including race-fixing and the incident in Ireland with your brother’s airplane, and why you took that horse to Ireland last month.”
Oliver had to stifle a smirk. “I’m glad you’re sitting down for this.”
Huntley narrowed his eyes. “Get on with it.”
“Well, all that other shit about race fixing is now irrelevant, and I didn’t want to discuss it with you before, because I still believed that I had a fair deal with Marco, and I thought I could just wrap it up and walk away.” He paused. “Anyway, things have changed. As you know, last month we took Painter Girl to Ireland. Supposedly, we took her there to get her pregnant, before selling her to Argentina. The real reason was to use her as a drug mule. We flew her to Ireland, carrying four kilos of what I imagine was pure cocaine.”
Huntley dropped his pen and his jaw on the table.
“Jesus H. Christ. You . . .”
Oliver put up his hand. “Please, let me finish – there’s more.” He swallowed. “Could I get some water, please?”
Huntley sighed and asked the guard outside to fetch two bottles.
“OK, I assume that you suspect Marco of drug dealing or trafficking, or whatever, otherwise the DEA wouldn’t be watching him. I feel stupid, really, for not realising it earlier. Anyway, it’s like this: we – that is me – are going to buy ten horses at the November sales in Kentucky, then we plan to fill them with a total of fifty kilos of coke and send them on their merry way to Shannon. This is where you come in, Agent Huntley.”
Oliver carefully outlined his plan. Huntley was astounded both at the plan and at Oliver’s calm, matter-of-fact demeanour.
The agent took it all in and sat in silence for a minute. Oliver drank from the water bottle and waited for him to say something.
Eventually, he leaned in close to Oliver and said in a dark voice, “I could have you put away now for smuggling. Who do you think you are?”
Oliver kept his cool. “Agent Huntley, I’m sorry if I was a smart-ass with you before. I assure you, I’m not trying the same thing now. I had no choice but to do the last job, and I needed it to go smoothly so I could suck Marco in for the big shipment. I consciously decided not to call you to keep it real and keep me sharp. I was worried that I might get a bit blasé and Mike and Marco would smell a rat, or you guys would step in and ruin it. Anyway, if you want to get Marco Romano, then this is it.”
Huntley regarded him with narrow eyes. “And you’re sure you can pull it off?”
“As sure as I can be. Rebecca thinks it’ll work, too.”
Huntley stared at the table for a moment. “Alright, I’ll give you the chance, but I can’t do anything if it happens in Ireland. You’ll have to do it on American soil. Is that something you can work into the plan?”
Oliver considered the adjustments, then after a second he shrugged. “I’ll have to run it past Rebecca, see how we’ll work the timing of it, but I reckon it’s possible.”
Huntley gave him an amused look. “It’d better be.”
“So, is that it then?”
“We’ll proceed like this: I’ll keep the whole thing between you, me, and my partner, Karl Rosen. You just go about your business, tell me when you’ve booked the plane, and when the shit hits the fan I’ll make sure Rosen is at the airport to meet you.”
Oliver nodded. “Will I have to testify against him?”
“That depends on how much evidence we have, but you can assume the DA will want to go with a witness. Besides, having looked into the legalities of your little business, it seems that the horses are officially the property of his son, and the money used to start the venture was clean, or well-laundered. So, as I say, testimony will be the cherry on top.”
“I figured as much. What kind of protection will we get in return? I’m going to need some kind of guarantee.”
“We?”
“Rebecca and I. And my mother.”
“I’ll have to see what I can do about your fiancée, but there’s no way any deal can stretch to your mother.”
Oliver hadn’t really thought of this. “Deal’s off then,” he said rashly.
“Oh really? How’s about I just toss you in jail now and round up Marco tonight?” He wagged his finger at Oliver. “Don’t get fucking smart all over again. I’ll see if I can arrange something for your mother, but guys like Marco don’t bother about women or family members. She’s not a priority.”
“She’s a priority to me.”
“No, your priority is not to fuck this up, or I’ll put you away for twenty. Got it?”
Oliver swallowed. “Got it. So can I go now?”
“Yes.”
Oliver stood and turned for the door, then stopped with his hand on the knob.
“By the way, I told Marco about our last two meetings. Nothing specific, just that you hassled me and I told you to piss off, but I’ll have to tell him much the same thing about today. Just in case.”
“I suppose that’s smart.”
“Thanks.”
He let himself out and dashed to the gate for his flight.
* * *
Huntley flipped open his phone and called Rosen
.
“Get me all the transcripts and recordings from The Gent’s house. I’ll have to go through it personally. The game has changed; we got an ace in the hole. He’s going down this time – real soon.”
“You’ve got a real hard-on for this guy, haven’t you?” said Rosen.
“Guys like The Gent think the rules don’t apply to them. That cocky little Irish shit needs a lesson, too. He’ll end up in jail, too, if I’ve anything to do with it.”
He ended the call and allowed himself the pleasure of a smile.
* * *
Mike answered his phone. “He did? Again? Keep an eye on the little prick. Yeah, in Kentucky, too. I don’t give a fuck. Do it.”
Chapter 58
Oliver fell into Rebecca’s arms at Bluegrass Airport.
“Marco bought it,” he whispered in her ear. “And Huntley likes the plan.”
She squeezed him tight.
When they were on the road she said, “You think they’ll be watching us?”
“Who, the Feds? Or Marco?”
“Both, either.”
“Huntley says he’ll keep his distance, but something tells me that Marco will want some kind of insurance, so I’m guessing he’ll have somebody keep tabs on us, if he hasn’t already. Or maybe that was Huntley. Or paranoia.”
“What?”
He told her about the grey cars.
“If it was Huntley, he’d have busted us at Pat’s with Painter.”
Oliver shook his head. “Shit, I don’t know. Anyway, Huntley says we’ll have to do it on American soil. That means, before the plane takes off.”
Rebecca pondered this for a second, as if considering a course of treatment for a patient.
Keeping her gaze on the traffic she said, “It might even be easier logistically. I’ll just hold off on the painkillers and antibiotics, but we’ll have to be quick. I mean, like, seriously quick.” She shrugged. “I reckon we can do it and all . . . Hang on a second, there’ll be flying grooms for the other horses on that flight . . .” She started to speak rapidly, and blurted out her idea to Oliver.
“Holy shit, Bec, you’re a genius.”
“I wonder if Huntley’s given much thought to the timing of it all,” she said. “I mean, he’ll have to get him before word leaks from the airport, or else he’ll have time to vanish.”
“And if they get him before it goes down, he’ll know we ratted on him.”
They sat in silence, neither one wanting to say what they were both thinking.
Eventually, Rebecca changed the subject. “Come to think of it, what’ll we tell Pat? Ten mares for treatment is going to look a bit strange.”
Oliver smiled. “Oh, I’ll seduce Pat. He’ll ignore anything we do if he’s getting paid, and we only have to load the horses up and get them onto the plane. After that, he can talk as much shit as he likes – or dares.”
Taking out his phone, he made the call to Mike and reported the official version of the latest encounter with Huntley, adding a touch of nervousness for dramatic effect. Mike again told him to relax and keep his head down, before abruptly ending the call.
Oliver breathed a sigh of relief. “He bought it. Greed and overconfidence are like blinkers on a racehorse – tunnel vision only.”
Rebecca shot him a lopsided smile. “The overconfidence thing can apply to us as well, you know.”
They drove the rest of the way home in silence.
* * *
Huntley shut himself in his house for three days, going through all the files and some of the footage from the three devices that Agent “Sherry” Wilkins had placed in Marco’s house. At the time, he had congratulated himself on a masterstroke, and his partner – the long-suffering Karl Rosen – had assigned a hand-picked team of two ambitious young agents to rent a house about a kilometre from the wall of Marco’s compound to intercept the fragmented transmissions.
The sound-activated devices would store six hours of audio in their tiny chips, and send that information automatically to the receiving unit whenever capacity was reached. The signal would then need to be processed by the receiving computer, using a code key, in order to render the information usable and to prevent interception by another system. If anyone did pick up the signal, it would simply look like a locked wi-fi internet band.
The listening team endeavoured to sort the wheat from the chaff and wrote transcripts. These transcripts were indexed, and any subject thought to be a code was noted. Copies of the audio footage were made to correspond to the key parts of the transcripts, and the files were burned onto CD. It was a laborious, meticulous job, which lacked satisfaction. The two single, male, junior agents assigned to the task for the past year were on the brink of insanity, and to make matters worse, nobody had ever asked them for a briefing or given them any idea if they were working towards anything specific. Every week, they compiled their reports and send them to Rosen. That was it.
Huntley found out to his annoyance, that not one single piece of relevant information had been gleaned from the device in the toilet. The device in the den yielded mundane conversations, and appeared to have stopped working after three months. The one in the office had plenty of interesting information on it, but the conversations were somewhat muffled.
Huntley swore and called his partner.
“Rosen, what the hell is this? One tells me more than I need to know about the shitting habits of a criminal. The second gives a little useless information before it stops working. Only the third gives me anything to go on, and even that’s thin. What the fuck was Wilkins thinking? Get hold of her, will you?”
“I’d love to, but she handed in her resignation two months after we pulled her from that job.”
“You’re kidding. Why wasn’t I made aware of this?”
“You were. I told you she signed up for psychotherapy. When she requested a transfer back to D.C., I had no choice but to agree. Shortly after that, she quit, citing stress as the reason. I think the undercover work kind of messed her up.”
“Really? I don’t remember that. Shit, if she couldn’t handle it, she’s better off out of the Agency. Anyway, we’re going to need testimony of some kind. We’re also going to need good timing when the shit goes down, how’s it going with your team selection?”
“I’ll use Kimble for the airport. The two poor saps who got stuck listening to him can go with you to The Gent’s place; they deserve it. I’ll get ten others from D.C. and lock them in a hotel in NYC. You can brief them at the last minute.” He paused, searching for the right words. “Don’t you think we should break it to the local PD, in case it turns into a shoot-out?”
“No. It won’t. The Gent won’t go out guns blazing, it’s not his style. All that security isn’t to keep us out, it’s to combat a mob war, or attempted hit. The only ones who might give you any shit are the guards, and even they’ll give up if he tells them to. I want you to get a construction team in the area; double check there’s no tunnel or way out we don’t know about.”
“Will do.”
“And for fuck’s sake, keep it low-key.”
“I have done this before, you know.”
Huntley ended the call, fondled his phone, and grinned. He hadn’t felt this good in a long time. At last, The Gent within his grasp, and for extra satisfaction, the arrogant little Irish shit was going to have to take the stand to send his sugar daddy away for life. Then we’ll see how cocky he is under witness protection, stuck in some shithole in the Midwest waiting for the day a Romano goon knocks on his door.
Chapter 59
The weather was unseasonably warm for Kentucky in the first week of November. Oliver found himself sweating under his thick jacket, but wasn’t sure if it was the humidity or his nerves.
The twenty-two-year-old mare he bid on had a long shaggy coat and a dipped back, from long years of carrying foals inside her for eleven months at a time.
Oliver’s bid got her without much opposition. She was the tenth and final addition to the team of tra
fficking mules. Each one had cost less than eight thousand dollars. He signed the sales slip and made arrangements to send the mare to Four Oaks Farm.
His throat was dry so he ambled over to the bar and ordered himself a congratulatory drink. In an instant, Pat materialized at his shoulder.
“I’ll say it again, that’s a quare bunch of mares you bought. Old as the hills, every one of them,” he said, staring at Oliver’s cold beer.
“True, Pat, but like I said, Marco and I want to try something different. They’ve all produced decent winners on turf in the past, if we can get them in foal to a good Irish stallion, we’ll be laughing.”
“That’s a big if. Sure, God was a boy the last time any of them gave birth.”
“We can only hope, Pat.”
“Ah sure, fools and their money.”
“I was about to offer you a drink, but if you’re going to take the piss . . .”
Pat’s eyes lit up. “Oh er, sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
Oliver rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, Pat. Bottle or draught?”
“Bottle.”
He shook his head in amusement as Pat guzzled the beer. It would be too easy to let Pat see us and call the cops, Oliver thought. But that would be a death sentence and, as annoying as he was, he didn’t deserve to be nailed to the door.
Oliver’s phone rang, and he used it as an excuse to extricate himself from Pat.
“What’s up, Bec?” he said, weaving through the bar.
“Got the last one?”
“Sure have.”
“Good. They’ll need a hormone shot tonight. Then we’ll get started treating in a week. I’ll keep them filled with hormones till we load up.”
“Sounds perfect. I talked to the shipping agent earlier. Three weeks from tomorrow. There’ll be twenty-five horses on the flight,” he paused for effect. “Two flying grooms. And you’re the only vet.”
