“I can hear you loud and clear,” she replied. “Sounds like a fun place.”
“On any other day, I might enjoy a pint, some Irish hospitality and the ponies, but not today,” I replied.
The Curragh looked magnificent in the sunshine, and the crowds for the Derby easily surpassed those for the Airlie Stud Stakes. I was swept along until I reached the main grandstand, where I found a tout who sold me a general pass for five times face value.
My heart jumped a gear when I thought I saw recognition in the steward’s eye, but he waved me through the gate without hesitation and I filed onto the course, on my way to the grandstand.
“I’m in,” I said for Mo-bot’s benefit.
“I know,” she replied. “I can see your phone.”
“We’re watching the key exchanges,” Sci chimed in. He was referring to online bookies and spread betting exchanges.
Mo-bot had used an artificial intelligence program to identify betting patterns at the 1000 and 2000 Guineas and zero in on sites used by Lawrence Finch to launder Propaganda Tre money. Apparently, these were easy to spot once she knew what to look for.
“Are we ready to make bets?” I asked.
“Everything is set to go,” Sci replied.
We’d set up accounts on the key exchanges, and Private had put up a total of half a million dollars in stake money.
“We’ll start placing bets as soon as we see Finch’s people make their moves,” Mo-bot said.
I went into the main grandstand, which was heaving. All the men were in suits and the women wore fine dresses, and most of them were loud and rowdy, which was perfect because it meant no one paid attention to me as I scanned the owners’ boxes for Lawrence Finch.
I finally spotted him with Jackson Kyle at his side. Finch was surrounded by a group of twenty or so people, many of whom I recognized from my confrontation with him in the winners’ enclosure bar. They were all standing on a terrace above the main grandstand, laughing, chatting and enjoying drinks from the private bar in Finch’s box.
I settled into my seat near the very front of the grandstand, which allowed me to keep watch on him as I waited for racing to start.
Chapter 87
There is something unique about horse racing in Ireland. Similar cheering, clamoring crowds can be found at other racetracks around the world, as well as the thunder of hooves on turf, the thrill of a wager on a runner with a meaningful name, free-flowing alcohol, party atmosphere, beautiful surroundings... these are all replicated elsewhere. However, as I stood watching the Derby Day scene at the Curragh, listening to Mo-bot and Sci follow the action of Lawrence Finch’s clandestine syndicate and place bets of their own that followed Propaganda Tre’s flow of dirty money, I realized that the quality that makes Irish racing so special is its magic.
I’d noted that Ireland was a special place when I’d first seen it from the air, and it was brought home to me again as I watched beautiful, gleaming thoroughbreds come charging down the final straight. Somehow the Irish still keep wonder and mystery at the heart of their everyday life and I think that is part of what makes them such a hospitable people. They want to share the magic they’ve discovered. They want to welcome strangers to their beautiful corner of the world and showcase the wonder of it. And that ethos means every Irish endeavor is doubly celebrated, not just for the joy of the pursuit itself, but for the fact that it is an expression of that wonder. There is a unique quality to this country that everyone can feel, but few can describe, and in that magic lies much of what makes Ireland so special. At least that’s how it seemed to me as I absorbed the Derby Day atmosphere.
Lawrence Finch rarely bet on his own horses, but one of his was victorious in the race before the Derby, the 3:25 challenge for horses over three years old. The winner was a five-year-old gelding called King Finch. I watched Finch and his entourage cheer the win and saw him leave his box.
That was my cue to make my own way out of the grandstand. I navigated the throng of racegoers, many of whom were now cheerfully unsteady on their feet, making my way to the winners’ enclosure, where I stood beside the gate and watched people coming and going.
I waited until I saw a particularly drunk man staggering away from the enclosure with his arms around a woman in a peach-colored summer dress. I started toward them and deliberately bumped into him. When we collided, I apologized profusely and snapped off his lanyard without him noticing. Mollified by my display of remorse, he and the woman went on their way, and I tied the lanyard around my own neck before heading to the gate.
It was thronged as people were changing stations between races, and everyone wanted to be in their chosen spot before the Derby started. The hustle and bustle helped me because the steward gave my pass only the most cursory of glances before waving me through.
I found Lawrence Finch in the winners’ circle awaiting the return of King Finch. He was surrounded by people who were congratulating him and celebrating his moment of triumph. He spotted me as the horses were led in, and this time he didn’t smile. In fact, his mood turned instantly sour. His eyes blazed with anger and he nudged Jackson Kyle, who immediately started toward me.
I was in no mood to deal with underlings and followed the white-painted railing around the enclosure, pressing through the assembled crowd as though it wasn’t there. I didn’t break stride as I encountered Jackson but slugged him in the mouth before he had the chance to open it. He fell hard, and the people around us gasped and backed away.
Someone shouted for security, but I was in front of Lawrence Finch before anyone could stop me.
He flinched and took a step back.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Finch. I promise I’m not here to hurt you,” I said. “I’ve come to finish you.”
Chapter 88
“This man is deranged and has been harassing me,” Finch told the onlookers. “He’s wanted for questioning in relation to two murders.”
“Murders your associate committed,” I fired back as loudly as I could.
I saw security guards pushing their way toward us and was conscious I didn’t have much time.
“My name is Jack Morgan, and last week my colleague and I were shot at after a screening at the Motion Picture Academy in Los Angeles. Some of you might have seen it on the news,” I said as loudly as possible, so people at the very back of the crowd could hear me. I was pleased to see some already had their phones out.
“Don’t listen to him,” Finch countered, but his tone betrayed uncertainty and a degree of weakness.
“The gunman was an employee of Mr. Finch’s, a man called Sam Farrell, one of the victims in yesterday’s shooting.”
I saw the security guards slow their advance and eye Lawrence Finch sidelong, willing to listen to the rest of my tale. There were police at the scene now too, making their way through the rear of the crowd.
“I followed Sam Farrell to Ireland,” I said, “where I discovered his connection to Mr. Finch.”
More people were filming me now, including a couple of journalists with press badges, who had turned their DSLR cameras and shotgun microphones in my direction.
“He’s lying,” Finch yelled. ‘The man’s making this up — can’t you tell?”
“Then you can sue me for libel,” I responded quickly. “Except truth is a defense and I have proof of everything I’m saying. I can prove your connection to another corrupt Garda officer called Conor Roche, who tried to frame me for last night’s murders. I can prove the group you lead, which was behind murders in Rome and Monaco, was responsible for the firebombing of the Richmond Refugee Centre here in Dublin. I can also prove you’ve been financing these illegal activities by rigging horse races after intimidating local owners, trainers and breeders to collude in fixing results.”