Black Diamond (29 page)

“I think five million minimum. I'm talking dollars. You'll walk away with at least fifty million at ten-to-one. I'm hoping for more.”

Sweeney's Irish complexion had ranged between blanched white and tomato red in the previous ten minutes. It was currently on the blanched side.

“I don't have five million right now.”

“That's not the question. Can you raise it?”

He rubbed his face with his hands. The whole thing must have seemed surreal. Drops of sweat were oozing out of every pore.

“I don't know. It'll take time.”

I looked at Harry. “When do you have to leave?”

Another unanswerable question. I think Harry went with his most earnest desire. “As soon as possible. Tonight.”

It was a good answer. I nodded in assent, and addressed poor Harry. “I'll stay one more day for Mr. Sweeney's answer. You can leave this evening, Mr. Qian.”

I turned back to Sweeney. “I'll be at the Gresham until tomorrow noon. We'll need to hear by then. Do what you can. I'll take your note for as much as you can put together now. You can commit to the rest when you've raised the credit. Bear in mind, you don't give us cash. Not a dime. We don't deal in cash for obvious reasons. It's all strictly debt owed to Mr. Qian's syndicate. You'll owe nothing until after the race. At that point we simply transfer your winnings electronically to any bank account you name. I'd set up a numbered account in the meantime to receive your winnings. Perhaps in Switzerland.”

I stood and held out my hand to Sweeney. He still looked a bit blank, but he took my hand. Harry rose and bowed at the waist before I could stop him. Sweeney gave him a slight bow in return.

I took Harry's arm and guided him through the door. I turned for one last word to Sweeney.

“I'll look for your message by tomorrow noon. I'm at the Gresham, as you know. You can use the name, ‘Alexander Hamilton.' Just remember that serious commitments have been made. I would not want to disappoint these people for the well-being of all of us.”

Given the business he was in, I was sure he could fill in the implications of that statement.

Harry and I caught a quick lunch at the Sports bar in the Gresham before he caught a cab to the Dublin Airport for the flight back to Boston and his safe, comfortable laboratory. Bizarre as his performance had been, it might have been exactly the touch that was needed to edge Sweeney into a decision. At the very least, he left the suggestion that the people he represented could make pot stickers of Sweeney and his army.

In looking around the bar and lobby, I was surprised that my finely tuned antenna for someone on my tail was turning up no signals. If I was right, it left me free to use the afternoon to tend to what Rick McDonough would call a “burr under my saddle.”

I was never comfortable with the official record of Black Diamond's unimpressive sire and dam. It's true that occasionally a horse with blazing speed pops out of a line of sluggards. But it's rare. If I were going to all the deceptive effort it would take to distort the time of every public workout of a two-year-old colt, beginning with the very first, I'd want some high-test blood flowing through that colt's veins to bank on.

I called Kieran Dowd at the Dubh Crann Stables. He was in his office, planning the morning's workouts for the fifty or so horses he trained. I got him alone, so I was able to test a theory.

“Kieran, I'm with Martin Sweeney. We have a question for you.” I figured that would imply that Sweeney was right there approving of anything I asked.

“Mr. Schwarzenegger. Or is it your excellency, the governor?”

Thank God he mentioned it. I'd forgotten what name I'd left with him.

“‘Mister' will do. A question for you. This has both of us curious. There was another horse in the stable that was foaled about the same time as Black Diamond. What's his name?”

That was a guess.

“What makes you ask that?”

“Curiosity. We have a bet. He told me you'd know.”

There was a hesitation that led me to believe that my shot-in-the-dark suspicions might be on track.

“I think I'd better be speakin' with Mr. Sweeney himself.”

“Suit yourself. We're having lunch. He's gone to the men's room. He told me to get an answer by the time he gets back. I could call him out of the men's room, but I don't know how that would go over.”

Another hesitation.

“Your call, Kieran. Hold the phone. I'll go get him.”

“Wait a minute. Damn it, you're always in a hurry. What do ya want to know again?”

“The other two-year-old colt in the Dubh Crann Stables that was born the same time as Black Diamond? It's a simple question. Mr. Sweeney says he just can't think of the name.”

“Shannon Moon. Born the same night in March.”

“I'll tell him. He'll be pleased. He thought it was the name of a river. Thank you Kieran.”

“Hold the line. I'll be speaking with him when he comes back if ya please.”

“Here he comes now. I'll put him on. Oh, wait a minute. He stopped to talk to someone the other side of the room. We'll have to call you back.”

That was interesting. I went to the guests' computer room of the Gresham, put in a couple of euros, and got on line. I used Bing.com to get into the registry of Thoroughbred breeding. I typed in the name Shannon Moon and got another interesting bit. The sire of
Shannon Moon was listed as an Irish stallion named Knight Thief. His dam was Blue Rose.

I used
Bing.com
again to find that Knight Thief had won the Irish Derby in his day. He had gone on to sire a number of Grade One stakes winners. Blue Rose was also descended from a line of champions. They were a powerful combination, and each of them had a record for passing their best genes on to their offspring. Another strange coincidence was that both Knight Thief and Blue Rose were owned by and stabled at the Dubh Crann Stables. As Kieran Dowd had mentioned, both Black Diamond and Shannon Moon were foaled the same night in the Dubh Crann foaling barn.

I checked out the track record of Shannon Moon and found that he had run two races in Ireland, coming in at the back of the pack in both.

One last curious bit of information was that every registered son of Knight Thief had the word “Thief” in his name—except Shannon Moon.

I brought up a picture of Shannon Moon and found, to no great surprise at this point, that his markings were not exactly identical, but very similar to those of Black Diamond. They could have passed as brothers.

I recalled the words of Mick, my guide at the National Stud Farm, that a representative of the Irish National Registry was required to be present at the birth of every registered Thoroughbred born in Ireland. The official would insert a chip under the skin behind the foal's ear. A simple scan of the chip would reveal the sire and dam of the foal from then on.

Mick also said that the system cannot be beaten. Well, I wondered. What's that old expression about a chain being only as strong as its weakest link?

Now it was more than a burr under the saddle. It seemed more likely than not that these thugs had gone the full distance. They not only fudged Black Diamond's track times, they might have messed with his recorded lineage. I was sure enough to put it to the test.

A bit more research indicated that a board called Horse Sport Ireland keeps the register of Thoroughbreds, as well as other purebred horses foaled in Ireland. The offices are in the town of Naas, the county seat of Kildare County, and just a short hop from the Dubh Crann Stables.

When I showed up at the car rental agency on South Circular Street, the agent grinned and automatically reached for the key to the Jaguar. This time I was going for a low profile. When I asked for a Honda Civic, the grin dropped from his lips like dying rose petals.

I was at the Horse Sport Ireland registry offices in an hour. I put on a happy, innocent face and used my “novelist” cover story. I asked the young clerk at the desk which agent attended the foaling of Black Diamond and Shannon Moon. Since it was hardly classified information, and since there was the distinct hint of a mention of her name in “the novel,” she checked the records and came up with the name, Thomas Casey. She was, in fact, a fountain of information. I could find our Mr. Casey at the Shamrock Stables about five kilometers away.

Our Mr. Casey was a tidy little white-haired gentleman in a perfectly pressed suit and a bow tie. I found him in the office of the head trainer. He appeared to be about to leave. I introduced myself and suggested that we walk together to his car.

“What is this in relation to, young man?”

I loved it. He exuded the kind of “officialness” that infects some older minor officials. His choice of “young man,” instead of the perfectly good name I had given—Chevy Chase—was the clincher. He was ripe for the picking.

We were approaching his car when I gently tucked him under my right armpit and guided him to the shade of a gorgeous weeping willow, whose hanging branches gave both shade and privacy.

“Mr. Casey, you've probably guessed that I'm American.”

He snapped off, “Yes.” He seemed somewhat antsy under my armpit, but I wanted him close.

“There would appear to be a problem with some paperwork. Your paperwork.”

He stiffened and popped out from under. He rose an inch or two in indignation. He was still snapping his words. “What paperwork?”

“We're talking about Black Diamond.”

That put his head on a swivel, but there was no one in sight. “Young man, I have no idea what you're talking about.”

I looked up the path and saw one of the grooms coming in the distance.

“Very well, Mr. Casey. We can do this slowly and chance being overheard. Or we can cut to the chase. I have just one simple question. How shall we do it?”

He caught sight of the groom approaching from about a hundred yards.

“What is it? What do you want?”

I smiled benignly.

“Please relax, Mr. Casey. I'm on your side. I do business with Dubh Crann. I'm reaping the benefit of your handiwork. We'll want to do it again someday. I have no interest in exposing anything, shall we say, out of the ordinary.”

He eyed the groom. “Quickly, young man. What?”

“To recall the occasion. Black Diamond and Shannon Moon, born the same night. You observed for the registry.”

I paused. He just fidgeted. I went for the kill.

“There was an arrangement. A switch of identity between the two. Do I have to be more specific?”

His breath was getting shallower and his pink Irish complexion was becoming rosy. But he was not leaping in to deny it.

“When you did the paperwork, there was apparently a spelling error. There was an
e
on the end of Moon. It could cause registration
problems in the States. We wouldn't want that would we? Especially in this case.”

He was edging close enough to tuck him back under my armpit again. I resisted.

“That can't be, young man. I saw to that paperwork myself.”

“For which you were well paid, Mr. Casey. We'd simply like you to pull the records in the registry here and be sure the spelling is correct. If it is, there's no problem. I can handle it in the States. Can you do that?”

“Certainly. But—”

“That's all. If it's correct, don't contact us. We'll be in touch when we can use your services again. Now, see there, Mr. Casey, that was harmless, wasn't it?”

I shook his hand before he had a chance to answer.

“Incidentally, Mr. Sweeney sends his very best wishes.”

He was looking me straight in the eye when he said without the slightest apparent purpose of deception, “Who?”

I'd said it clearly. There was no point in repeating. It was not exactly like a blow to the kidneys from Mugsy McGuire, but I have to say it was close. Only someone at the top of Sweeney's organization would have the clout to pull a switch with the national registry. I'd had it from Rick McDonough and Billy Coyne, and confirmed by Superintendent Phelan that the top man was Sweeney. That one word from Casey set everything spinning. I was virtually sure now that all of them were wrong. There was someone higher than Sweeney.

That was a personal rocker for me because now I had no idea where the heavy fire might be coming from.

I was back at the Gresham by noon. I left word with the switchboard that I was taking calls for Arnold Schwarzenegger. When Sweeney called at nine the next morning, I was seeing him in a different light. I wondered what kind of commitment he'd make if he were not the top dog.

The answer came quickly. Apparently his slightly subordinate position was no deterrent. A night's sleep seemed to have fortified his determination to go for broke. That raised the interesting question of whether our Mr. Sweeney had consulted his higher-up or was striking out on his own.

I had set a figure of five million as the minimum table stakes, but that was just to get him thinking in terms of serious money. He came on ready to take no guff over a commitment of three million euros—about three million, nine hundred thousand dollars at the then exchange rate.

“And that's it. That's my last word. Take it leave it. And you can tell that to your damn syndicate.”

“I don't tell my damn syndicate anything. In case you didn't get the picture, they tell me. I'll take it to them. Maybe if I kick in a few more dollars, they'll go for it.”

“And you can tell them for me, I pull the strings on the horse. Without me, they have nothing.”

“I hope you don't mind if I soften that a little before I pass it on. You really don't want to know what's happened to people who gave them attitude.”

He seemed to go into neutral. Perfect.

“Mr. Sweeney, there are documents. I'll need your signature. I'll come by at one this afternoon. Your office?”