Ships from North Africa, Spain, France, Italy, and Great Britain, warships, freighters, tankers, and cruise liners ply their trade through here. And in general terms, the American Navy brass were more comfortable opening fire in the vast, bottomless anonymity of the Atlantic, where no prying eyes would ever catch a telltale sign of a submarine split asunder by a Mark 48 torpedo.
Captain Abad was oblivious of the mindset of his enemies, unaware that anyone even knew he had left Beirut, and he was certainly not contemplating the possibility of instant death and the destruction of his newly refurbished submarine.
The Iranian would be well past Marsala before he even found out that the Cheyenne was patrolling these waters. The Kilo would be at periscope depth, with its air intake above the surface, when Commander Hank Redford’s sonars gained POSIDENT, and the Cheyenne could begin to move in closer.
Shakira Rashood waited in St. Stephen’s Square for her hired chauffeur to arrive. She had been in the Shelbourne Hotel for three and a half days, which she considered to be quite long enough even for a girl as unobtrusive as Maureen Carson of Michigan, who had died several years previously in Bay City up on the shores of Lake Huron.
Shakira had been furnished with this information when she was given her second forged U.S. passport. God alone knew how the forgers had laid hands on the data, but somehow they had. And so far as the Shelbourne Hotel was concerned, Maureen Carson had just checked out, having scarcely left the premises during her entire stay.
Mrs. Rashood had made her own car-rental arrangements with the Iranian embassy, which had offices on Mount Merrion Avenue at Black-rock, on the south side of Dublin. The embassy overlooked the Irish Sea, beyond which lay the shores of England.
She had liked the Shelbourne, and indeed had dined there each night, once falling into conversation with a very cheerful sixtyish Irishman at the next table who told her he was in town for the Irish Derby, the million-dollar classic run each year in early July.
Shakira had wanted to know where, in a busy city like Dublin, did they have room to run a major horse race. The Irishman, whose name was Michael O’Donnell, explained it was run on the Curragh, a few miles outside the city, in County Kildare, Ireland’s most historic racecourse being set on a massive swath of grazing land that dates back to Roman times.
“And how far did you come to see this horse race?”
“More than a hundred miles,” said Michael. “I’m up from County Tipperary. I breed a few thoroughbreds down there.”
“And is one of them running in the Irish Derby?”
“Not exactly. But a colt named Easter Rebel is. And I bred him. I still own the mare, Mighty Mary, and she has a filly foal at foot. I’ll get a big price for her if the Rebel goes well.”
Shakira, unsurprisingly, did not understand one single word of that. But she was one of those people who cannot bear just to say, “How interesting,” and move on. Shakira Rashood had to know precisely what was happening.
Of course, she was so endearingly beautiful that she was, generally speaking, indulged, especially by men, and particularly by important men, from terrorist commanders to Irish stud farm owners. Women blessed with great beauty live by an entirely different set of rules.
“You mean a mare named Mighty Mary is the mother of Easter Rebel?”
“Precisely. I sold him as a yearling, but he won four races when he was two, and two more this past spring, one of them a group race over a mile and a quarter in England.”
“Does that mean they all run together-a group race?”
And so on, until Shakira thoroughly understood that Mr. O’Donnell’s broodmare Mighty Mary would be very valuable if Easter Rebel should win the Irish Derby, and that her foal, the filly, could go on to be an excellent racer if she could run half as fast as her brother.
“She’s what’s known as a full sister,” said Mr. O’Donnell. “Same father, same mother.”
“I assumed they all had the same father and same mother,” said Shakira. “Is this like a marriage with horses?”
Michael O’Donnell laughed. “Hell, no!” he said. “We switch ’em around all the time, breeding the mares to any stallion who takes our fancy.”
“What if she doesn’t like him?”
“Oh, we tether ’em good and well so they can’t escape, and then bring the stallion in at precisely the right moment in her cycle.”
Shakira looked shocked. “But that’s terrible,” she said. “What if Mighty Mary hates every moment of it? That’s rape.”
“Ah, jaysus, Maureen,” said Michael. “We’re trying to breed winners, not run a dating agency. Tipperary is one of the most famous horse-breeding places in the entire world.”
“Well, I’m not sure I like your attitude,” she replied, “forcing those horrible stallions on the mares.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Michael. “The sire of Easter Rebel and the filly foal is not horrible. He’s one of the best-looking stallions you’ll ever see.”
“Hmmmm,” said Shakira. “What’s his name?”
“Galileo.”
“Could he run fast?”
“Maureen, there are three major twelve-furlong races run in England and Ireland in the high summer of the year-June and July. In 2001, Galileo won them all. And that does not happen very often.”
“Is one of them the Irish Derby?”
“Sure it is.”
“Then I hope Easter Rebel wins it, like his father.”
“I hope he wins it for his little sister.”
“Why is that important?”
“Well, today she is a very nice foal and may command £50,000 in the sale ring. If the Rebel wins this weekend, she’ll be known as a full sister to an Irish Derby winner and may be worth £400,000.”
“Who would pay that for a horse?”
“Probably the Arab sheiks, but in this case more likely the owners of the Coolmore Stud in Tipperary. She was born there, and they’d probably like her to come home eventually.”
“Is it a beautiful place?”
“The best. Full of perfectly mown paddocks, horsemen who have looked after thoroughbreds for generations, and many of the finest stallions in the world. All of it right down there in the heart of Tipperary, so many foals and yearlings. That’s the place, Maureen. Where the dreams begin.”
“And sometimes end?” said Shakira.
“Ah, no, my girl,” said the Irishman, somewhat mysteriously. “Nature never closes the book.”
And with that, Michael O’Donnell took his leave, heading out of the dining room to meet his wife and daughter. As he went, he called, “There’ll be some kind of a hooley at home on Sunday night if we win.”
Her reply “What’s a hooley?” was lost in the busy Shelbourne dining room.
And that, in a sense, was why Shakira was standing on the sidewalk in St. Stephen’s Green, her forged passport in her bag, awaiting her driver. She had decided, pending the arrival of her husband in a few days, to visit Tipperary, somewhere near this Coolmore Stud, 110 miles south of Dublin.
Detective Joe Segel was becoming an expert on brick walls, dead ends, and roads leading nowhere. In the past five days, he had experienced all of them-in his fruitless search for the vanishing barmaid. In his own mind, he was as certain as an experienced detective ever could be that Miss Carla Martin had indeed stabbed Matt Barker to death. It also seemed certain that the big garage proprietor had launched some kind of sexual attack on her and paid for it with his life.