by Cap Daniels
I tried to remain calm and not show the excitement I was feeling. I simply glanced at the BMW. “Nope, no big shot here. Just a humble little guy with a brand-new car.”
We pulled back onto I-95 and continued north. After we finished our doughnuts, he pulled a lockbox from the back seat and inserted a small key, releasing the top. Inside the box were a pair of Belmont Park ID badges on lanyards, a file folder, and a Walther PPK pistol in a well-worn leather holster. He slid the folder from beneath the other items, opened it up, and began to read silently.
After flipping through a few pages, he finally spoke. “Okay, here’s what’s happened so far. We’ve had a team of five operators in place for a little over two weeks. We’re shadowing the trainers, handlers, veterinarians, groomers, and every other human who gets anywhere near Breaker’s Folly. We even have a man with the training jockey, as well as with the jockey who’ll actually ride at Belmont. We’ve become embedded, so to speak, with the handling staff. It will appear to everyone outside our circle that our operators are just part of the crew. Believe it or not, we even have a little bitty dude working with the jockeys. If we’d put you in there, you would’ve stuck out like a sore thumb. Don’t worry, though. On your next op, you’ll be in the thick of things. This will be your last chance to sit back and watch.”
I liked the sound of that. I was looking forward to getting my hands dirty. I’d been in training for so long, I was itching for some real action.
He tossed the ID badge into my lap. “Here. Wear this. Stay with me and don’t speak. If anyone asks you anything, look at me, and I’ll answer. Just pretend to be invisible and mute. Got it?”
I opened my mouth to say, “Got it,” but I thought I’d just nod. It worked.
Dutch smirked. “Exactly.”
He handed me the PPK in the holster. “Here. Conceal this, and do not pull it for any reason other than to shoot somebody who’s trying to shoot me. Do you understand?”
“Got it.”
We drove across the Verrazano Narrows Bridge on I-278 onto Long Island just after noon. Jamaica Bay was beautiful, but the city was not. I’ve never been impressed by cities, and the south side of Queens was no exception. I found it impossible to tell when one town ended and another began. Everything ran together and was delineated only by signs. One of those signs announced that we’d arrived in the town of Elmont, New York, home of Belmont Park.
After checking into the hotel and freshening up, we headed to the stables. As good tradecraft dictated, I wore the PPK on my left ankle, just as I’d been taught. Since I was, for all practical purposes, ambidextrous, I could shoot equally well with either hand, but operators wore their concealed weapon on the inside of their left ankle so other operators would know where to find a gun if they found themselves in a pile of dead operators. There were, of course, other practical reasons for the weapon placement, but that one was good enough for me.
I did exactly as I was told and followed closely behind Dutch. I listened to every word around me. I made mental notes of every detail of everything I saw and carefully seeded in my mind the name and importance of every person we met. I knew Dutch would test me later, and I wasn’t about to let him down. After all, he’d just given me a fifty-thousand-dollar BMW.
We met Judson Bennett, the majority owner of Breaker’s Folly. I wanted so badly to ask why he’d named his horse such a ridiculous name, but as instructed, I remained silent. Judson Bennett wore an absurd sport coat and an even more laughable ascot. His appearance immediately made me think of Thurston Howell III from Gilligan’s Island. It was going to be an enormous challenge for me not to call him Thurston.
We met trainers, jockeys, veterinarians, photographers, groomers, and handlers of every imaginable responsibility, but I couldn’t get the veterinarians out of my head. I believed the best way to slow the horse would be through some difficult-to-detect injection of a substance that would slightly reduce Breaker’s Folly’s speed.
I actually caught a glimpse of Silent Storm on the practice track. He was a spectacular animal. If a more imposing figure existed, it had to be Silent Storm’s owner, Dmitri Barkov.
Of course, there were no introductions, but Dutch directed me to watch Barkov through my binoculars and absorb every detail of him. It was pristinely evident that Barkov was in charge of everything in his world. No one questioned him. His orders seemed to be obeyed before they left his mouth.
He was a dark-haired, imposing figure who wore a perpetually furrowed brow. He appeared to be between sixty and seventy years old. His eyes were deep and dark. He was overweight, but not obese, and carried his two hundred fifty pounds mostly in his shoulders and chest, with only a slight bulge at the waistline. He wore a black suit and an open-collared shirt, but the most obvious feature of his wardrobe was a pair of silver-tipped, snakeskin cowboy boots. The contrast of his dark appearance, dark suit, and gaudy boots was impossible to forget. He smoked long, black cigars almost constantly and never looked at the ground. He carried himself with such confidence that his eyes never left the horizon. He was a domineering and unforgettable figure.
“He’s a very dangerous man,” said Dutch. “He’s the type of man who fears nothing and who will do absolutely anything to get what he wants. Men like him are rare, but when you encounter them, never underestimate them—especially not that one.”
I didn’t remove the binoculars from my eyes, but I didn’t disregard his admonition.
Without looking up, I asked, “Why is this so important to him?”
Dutch thought for a long moment before answering. “He thrives on elite status. He’s one of the wealthiest men in Russia, so more money isn’t what he wants. He wants to be the only Russian to have ever owned a Triple Crown winner. The man has a long track record of getting exactly what he wants and crushing anyone or anything that stands in his way. Some twenty years ago, a woman named Katerina Burinkova told him that her heart belonged to another man. Barkov immediately cut her heart out using a dagger that he claims was once owned by Ivan the Terrible. He did it, so they say, to prove that her heart belonged only to him. I suppose he made his point.”
10
And They’re Off!
Race day was an exercise in ceremony and pandemonium. It was, in my opinion, a security nightmare. I couldn’t imagine how all of the people coming and going could be screened, searched, and monitored. There were simply too many of them. I would never be a mass security expert. If I had an element, I was definitely out of it.
Following closely behind Dutch, I’d worn my white linen jacket in an attempt to fit in among the multi-millionaire owners and the hordes who pretended to be the elite. We met briefly with Judson Bennett, Breaker’s Folly’s owner, before heading to the prep stables. The meeting was no more than Dutch showing his face and reassuring Bennett that the team was in place and his horse was in good hands.
Dutch actually assigned me a task. He handed me a set of binoculars and a credit-card-sized radio and earpiece. “Listen, Chase. You’ve done a very good job over the last two days, listening, watching, and shutting up. I’m pleased, and the rest of the team has recognized that you’re valuable to this operation—more than just a watcher. So it’s time to earn your keep.”
I felt like a kid on Christmas morning, and I waited eagerly for his instructions.
“Here’s what we need from you,” said Dutch. “You’re going to continue watching.”
My heart sank, but to my relief, Dutch continued.
“Unlike what you’ve been doing for two days, you’re now going to talk, too, but only to me, and only using this radio. The radio sits in your shirt pocket, and the earpiece is wired under your jacket and behind your left ear. The mic is pinned just inside your cuff. You can talk to me without taking the binoculars from your eyes. You’re going to watch Barkov, and you’re not going to blink. If he does anything that you don’t expect, you are to immediately tell me. If he blinks too often, if he spits out his cigar, if he scratches his ass with the wron
g hand, you tell me before you take your next breath. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I understand,” I said, with more confidence than was actually in my heart.
I turned, immediately searching for the perfect vantage point from which to watch Dmitri Barkov. I slid the radio into my shirt pocket and routed the wiring beneath my jacket. I pressed the power button on the radio and conducted a radio check while standing with Dutch.
I scanned the park. “I think the infield is the best place to see Barkov in his owner’s box, but I’m going to need some elevation.”
“I agree,” said Dutch. “Get down there and dig in. Your pass will get you into the infield, but don’t get caught acting like a spy.”
I laughed. “But I am a spy.”
Dutch smirked. “Indeed, you are, hotshot.”
I made my way toward the infield, acting as if I belonged there. Fred had taught me that perception is fact. If people perceived that I belonged in the infield, they wouldn’t question my being there. I snatched up a clipboard and a handheld walkie-talkie someone had abandoned. With this camouflage, I confidently strolled past the infield security and the police officers mounted atop quarter horses in a world of thoroughbreds. No one gave me a second glance as I reconnoitered for a place to set up my observation point—O.P., as we called it in my new world.
I settled on a position near the start gate. All eyes would surely be on the horses when the gates opened and the race commenced, so no one would notice me blending into the background. As the race progressed, the tractor would pull the start gates off the track, and all eyes would still be on the horses. I could climb on top of the start gate abandoned in the infield. From that vantage point, I would be able to put eyes on Barkov without being suspected of anything sinister, and most likely, without being noticed at all.
I took up my position. There was a flurry of activity as the horses made their way into the gates. The thoroughbreds pranced, postured, and snorted like the wild animals they were, beneath skilled jockeys perched lightly on their backs like gargoyles.
I scanned the owners’ boxes and quickly found Barkov. His size didn’t give him away as much as the cloud of billowing white cigar smoke around his head of thick, black hair.
“Dutch, this is Chase. I’m in position. I have eyes on the target.”
“Roger,” came the prompt reply. “You are six. I am one.”
I keyed my small mic and simply responded, “Six.”
I’d been taught proper radio procedures and discipline at length while at The Ranch, and knew that numeric call signs were almost always the standard.
Finally, all the horses were in the gate, and the crowd roared with excitement as the race began with the thundering of hooves and a cloud of dust.
I had never seen a horse race in person. That wasn’t going to change today. I never glanced at the horses and kept my eyes firmly locked on Barkov as he chewed through his first cigar and let it fall to the floor, leaving a trail of gray ash on his black suit. He was watching his horse, Silent Storm, almost as intently as I was watching him.
Through the earpiece, I heard, “Six, report.”
“One, Six . . . all normal.”
“One,” was the only reply.
I listened closely and was lured into the excitement by the animated tone of the track announcer. “And down the backstretch they come, with Silent Storm by half a length with Bay-man’s Beauty and Breaker’s Folly coming on strong. It’s Silent Storm by a head and Bay-man’s Beauty . . . no, it’s Breaker’s Folly now, then Bay-man’s Beauty on the rail. It’s Breaker’s Folly closing the gap on Silent Storm as they enter the far turn. It’s Silent Storm in a dead heat now with Breaker’s Folly at the one-mile mark at just over a minute thirty-eight, as the dream of our first Triple Crown winner since Affirmed in seventy-eight may be on the verge of realization as they turn for home. It’s . . . Silent Storm . . . no, it’s Breaker’s Folly by a nose as they open up down the homestretch. Here’s the pack. It’s Breaker’s Folly, Silent Storm, Bay-man’s Beauty, and Diamond Cutter outside in fourth. I Dream of Genie in fifth now in his stride coming hard on the outside, but the race is upfront with Breaker’s Folly and Silent Storm battling for the lead.”
I tried not to get completely lost in the melodic chant of the announcer, and I watched as Barkov ripped his latest cigar from his mouth and started mouthing something.
Excitedly, I keyed my microphone and almost yelled, “One, Six . . . target is agitated and saying something. I’m working on reading his lips.”
Again, the reply came, “One.”
I watched Barkov’s beefy red mouth shape something that looked like, “Sterilize the lotion.”
Sterilize the lotion? That doesn’t make sense.
Then, realizing the obvious, I felt like an idiot. He’s Russian. He’s not saying, “Sterilize the lotion.” He’s saying, “Strelyai v loshad!”
I immediately keyed my mic and yelled, “He just said, ‘Shoot the horse!’”
Barkov’s head turned sharply to his right and appeared to be focusing far off to the east end of the track and away from the action of the race. He was clearly looking for something or someone. Again, his lips formed the same words, but this time there was absolutely no hint of uncertainty.
Again, I keyed my mic. “He’s got a sniper at the east end. He’s going to shoot Breaker’s Folly!”
“Find the sniper!” Dutch responded.
I turned my glasses from Barkov to follow his line of sight out of the race park and skyward toward the eastern horizon. I found a water tower with “Elmont—Home of the Belmont Stakes” painted in blue letters. Atop the water tower in a perfect sniper’s position, poised behind a long black rifle, was . . .
A woman? What the hell is a woman doing with a rifle on a water tower?
“Got him . . . or, I mean, her!” I yelled into my mic. “She’s on the Elmont water tower with an unidentified rifle!”
The announcer’s voice once again filled my head. “Now it’s Breaker’s Folly by a head with Silent Storm stretching out and gaining ground, but no, Breaker’s Folly is pulling away, increasing to half a length now. Then it’s Silent Storm and Diamond Cutter with Bay-man’s Beauty falling out of the top three. I Dream of Genie still coming on strong, in his stretch now, but it’s still Breaker’s Folly out front with Silent Storm now almost a length behind. Dreams of the Triple Crown may be crumbling now with Breaker’s Folly opening up an ever-increasing lead over Silent Storm.”
I was focused on the sniper. I wanted to draw my pistol and start firing at the water tower. I knew I couldn’t hit her from that distance, but maybe I could interrupt her concentration by bouncing a few rounds off the tower, hopefully making her blow the shot, but Dutch’s admonition had been crystal clear—my gun stayed in its holster.
As I blinked, trying to bring the weapon into focus, I found myself mesmerized by the woman behind the rifle. She was thin, muscular, and had high-set cheekbones and captivating eyes. Her hair was pulled back into a long blonde ponytail that protruded from a black baseball cap. I watched her shoulders rise and fall with every breath. Then it happened. Her shoulders rose, then fell slightly, and her perfectly positioned body froze. She drew a full breath, let half of it out, and began the long trigger squeeze. I saw an instantaneous burst of red light from the rifle, but she never flinched. There was no recoil from the rifle. There was no muzzle flash, no sound, nothing except that brief flash of red light. The recoil from a rifle of that size should’ve sent her body shuddering.
Before I could react, I was pressing the key on the mic and shouting, “Shot!”
I saw the trigger pull and the flash, but there had been no actual shot. I was confounded and in disbelief. No matter how I tried to understand what I’d just witnessed, I couldn’t make the scenario make any sense.
The announcer’s excited tone heightened as he chanted, “Breaker’s Folly has lost his stride. It’s Breaker’s Folly drifting to the outside and Silent Storm comi
ng hard on the rail with Diamond Cutter less than half a length back. At the wire, it’s a photo finish, but it’s Silent Storm by half a nose over Diamond Cutter, with I Dream of Genie in third, and Breaker’s Folly in a disappointing fourth. Silent Storm has done it! Silent Storm has won the most coveted title in all of racing. The Triple Crown goes to Silent Storm and owner Dmitri Barkov. This is an historic day here at Belmont with Silent Storm, the first to win the coveted Triple Crown since Affirmed in nineteen seventy-eight. It’s Silent Storm by half a nose. Silent Storm!”
I hurriedly turned my glasses back to Barkov’s box to see him hugging everyone in sight, but still glancing occasionally to the east. I quickly pivoted my sight back to the water tower to see the sniper toss a long black rope from the tower, rappel down the line, and shake out her ponytail. Her silhouette disappeared behind the tower, but the image of her elegant, graceful movements, and that face, that perfect, flawless face, was burned indelibly into my mind. I remember thinking that I might’ve been the only person on Earth who’d actually seen what transpired.
Just like the Preakness, the Belmont Stakes had fallen victim to sabotage, only this time there were no boots falling apart. Something far more daring had occurred, and this time, there was a difference. I had actually seen the saboteur.
11
Can You Keep a Secret?
Escaping the infield after Silent Storm caused the most excitement Belmont Park had ever seen was easier than I’d expected. People were everywhere, laughing, screaming, celebrating, crying, and paying absolutely no attention to the linen-jacket-wearing operator slipping quietly through the throngs of horse racing fanatics. I had to find Dutch so we could start building a narrative of exactly what happened only minutes before, but when I found him, he wasn’t the receptive, mild-mannered professional I’d known for the past two days.
Instead of rushing me in to speak with Bennett to share what I’d witnessed, his eyes met mine in a stare that was something akin to the look a child gets when he’s caught in a terrible lie. He was red-faced with clenched fists. He authoritatively whipped his right index finger to his lips, signaling me to shut up.
