“It was a fantastic race, Tony. I’m heartbroken that you missed it.”
“There’ll be many more races for that filly, I’m thinking.”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” Agnes Ann said, her voice alive with excitement. “She ran so well that Mr. Collier is even thinking about the Kentucky Oaks, if you can believe that. Of course, that’s a long shot, but we are going to rest her up over the winter and see how she looks as a three-year-old.”
“Will she run again as a two-year-old, do you think?”
“Possibly. We’re thinking of a stakes race at Belmont in about five weeks. Francine has had no aftereffects from the Prima Donna. She’s strong for a baby.”
She and Tagliabue both knew that all thoroughbreds turn a year older on January first of every year, no matter in what month they were born. Since a horse’s gestation is eleven months, owners and breeders strive to breed a mare as close to February 1st as possible. Ideally, a horse will foal early in January, so that on January 1 of the next year, when it turns one year old officially, it is nearly that in actual age. Consequently, championship stallions are in great demand during early spring. Despite the miracles of modern nutritional science, a coveted stallion can manage only a certain number of inseminations each week. Many mares have to wait their turn and may be as young as six months old when they officially turn one year. That’s a major disadvantage as two-year-olds and even three-year-olds. After that it doesn’t matter much, but most of the prestige races are for three-year-olds. Colts who win a Triple Crown race or a Breeders Cup often retire to stud following their three-year-old season.
Francine was dropped in March, so she was younger than some of the million-dollar babies with exquisite bloodlines. That was the nature of the competition for the Kentucky Oaks, the foremost race for fillies in terms of prestige, run at Churchill Downs during Derby Week in May. It was important to evaluate her size and musculature after a winter of rest and training.
“Jake got her at Heal Eddy already?”
“Yeah. Jesse’s staying there too. He’s his official assistant trainer now, although he’s not being paid much. There are maybe a half-dozen horses at the stable that they’re working with, including mine.”
“So you won’t be seeing much of your son or your horse.”
“Right. Time to let Jesse and Francine grow up on their own. He’s not my baby and she’s not my pet. Not anymore.”
“You sound lonely.”
“I miss you, Tony. I’m sorry you didn’t get to see the Prima Donna. She ran a beautiful race.”
“I know. I can hear it in your voice. Where are you?”
“I’m on the road, maybe an hour out of Maine. I’ve got to drop off this rental car. I’ve had it for months already.”
“Come to my apartment first.”
“I thought you’d never ask. I’ll call again when I’m close.”
Tagliabue walked down the block to Tom Sharkey’s apartment. It felt good to be out in the sun, and out of the ocean. No one answered at the apartment so he went down to the South End Dog Park by the river. Sharkey was sitting alongside a walking path that ran by the water, Polly resting on his shoulder, two young girls talking to him. As the children left, Polly barked at them and they turned to wave at the dog. When man and dog saw Tagliabue approach, Sharkey raised a hand to him and Polly thumped his tail twice.
“Have a sit, Anthony.”
“Thanks.”
He sat next to the old lobsterman on a weathered bench and scratched the dog’s ears. Polly accepted the gesture.
“You doing okay, Tom?”
“Okay indeed. How ’bout you? I been watching for your boat but ain’t seen her.”
“Ah, long story, Tom.”
Sitting there in the sun with another man of the sea, Tagliabue decided to share a sea story with Old Sharkey, knowing it would eventually become part of Maine lore that no one would ever be able to verify.
“Maven was shot out from under me and went down out by Georges Bank.”
The mass of wrinkles on the man’s face straightened some as his eyes widened with the news. He looked as if he wasn’t certain if his friend was telling him the truth or was about to launch into a tall tale. Who loses a workboat to gunfire during a peaceful Maine summer in the twenty-first century? Then again, he had heard a story, confused as it was, about some Russian ship firing off flares and even discharging her cannons out to sea a few nights ago. Nobody seemed to know what it was all about, and Anthony Tagliabue was locally famous for having adventures that no one was ever quite sure about.
“Do tell.”
“Yeah. Some crazed Russian opened fire for some reason and two of her rounds hit my boat and sank her.”
Sharkey apparently decided to go along with his tale, since he had nothing better to do but sit in the sun with his little dog on his shoulder. Both men might as well go further down into the depths of local lore with their lifestyles and stories.
“He have something against you, now?”
“He must have thought so. I guess I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“What was the Russki shootin’ at, do ya think?”
“Well, nobody seems to know, Tom. He’s no doubt back in Vladivostok or someplace by now, so we may never know. I reported the sinking to the coasties, so maybe our ambassador to Russia can find something out. I’ll be surprised to hear anything more about it.”
Tagliabue had done nothing of the kind, of course. If Giselle wanted the ambassador or anybody else to know what had transpired out over Georges Bank, it would be her decision to reveal it. Russia would probably not admit to a defection, Tagliabue thought to himself, and that was the main problem in his mind: where was the defector now? Could he salvage something from this mission by rescuing the guy? And who was this L. P. Cuthbert? How did he intercept the communications between Carlos and the defector?
As these questions tumbled around in his mind—now that he was safe and not concerned with matters of life and death— Sharkey brought up another unanswered question.
“Someone gonna buy you another boat?”
“Don’t know.”
It was a question Tagliabue had briefly considered before he realized that he couldn’t lay any claim for Maven without compromising his confidential assignment from The Clemson Project. It also depended upon what was officially known about the bizarre episode out on the fishing grounds. He knew he had to speak to the sheriff’s office—instead of sitting on a bench in a park with an old friend.
“Is the little dog still working out for you, Tom? Can you care for him okay?”
“Oh, aye. We’re getting along. This wee one don’t seem to want nothing more from this here life than me. We get along. He does get me outta the house more’n I’m used to, but that probly ain’t a bad thing either. We’re just two old cronies who like to sit in the sun.”
“You reckon Polly’s old? I don’t know how long Joshua had him.”
“Well now, he don’t jump around much and seems happy with a walk once in a while. When he gets tired he just climbs up on my shoulder for a ride. Ain’t that some shit, now?”
He shook his head slowly, realizing how absurd it must seem for a dog to hang on him like a pet parrot. Tagliabue smiled.
“The kids seem to like it.”
“Oh, they do, Anthony. They do. Every time we come down here some of them come by to say hey to this guy. I got to be careful what they give him to eat is all I worry about. He don’t snap or act mad or nothing. I think he likes the youngsters.”
“You been to the vet?”
“Young Doc Crenshaw come by the apartment the other day. She says he’s in good shape. Gave him a shot.”
“Good enough. Look here, Tom, I need to go see Johnny Coleman up at the county building about this boat business. Let me give you a little money for the dog’s upkeep.”
“No, no. I don’t need nothing, Anthony. I ain’t spent all you gave me last time yet.”
“Wel
l, get to spending it then. I’m responsible for this animal and I’m going to keep paying you for taking care of him for me. You might just as well get used to it. Don’t forget, you can spend it on yourself too. You’re the caregiver and need to be paid, got it?”
Sharkey nodded, saying quietly, “Caregiver, eh?”
He stuffed a few hundred in the old man’s shirt pocket and they shook good-bye. Sharkey’s hand felt like the worn wood of the park bench.
Sheriff Detective Coleman didn’t offer to shake hands but he did ask Tagliabue to take a seat in his office. He sighed heavily while he looked at him.
“I know someday I’m gonna be telling my grandkids about my adventures with Anthony Tagliabue, but just now I got to say that I wish I never heard of you. My life would be hassle-free and easy if you’d never come into it.”
“Somebody getting after you not to investigate too closely again, Detective?”
The baby-faced cop put his head in his hands and pressed at his temples as if he were trying to keep them from popping open. He said “shit” a few times before slouching back in his chair. He looked at Tagliabue with slitted eyes.
“No, but thanks for reminding me. That’ll be next, no doubt. Right now I got the Coast Guard calling with a half-million-dollar Hatteras tied up at a broken-down pier in Northeast Harbor. There’s a dead man on the back deck of the boat. An undocumented immigrant, as they say. A thirty-two-year-old Mexican national. We also got a report circulating through the system saying you went overboard from a sportfisherman. And yet another about two fishermen with a wild-ass tale about being hired on to run that Hatteras and then being marooned at sea like fucking Captain Queeg, or whatever his name was. Don’t suppose you know anything about any of this shit, do you?”
“I might.”
Coleman’s head jerked up.
“You might?”
His voice was high with hope. He had obviously been expecting Tagliabue was going to say nothing again.
“Yeah. The Hatteras I was on when I went overboard had an injured man on it, an Indian I thought. He never spoke but I guess he could have been an Aztec or something. You sure he’s dead?”
“The Coast Guard is sure. You try to treat him or anything?”
“The people who rescued me from my boat sinking were not friendlies. They tied me to the fighting chair next to that injured man. He didn’t answer me when I asked him questions. I got loose, I got out of my clothes, and then I got out of there. I never saw any of them again.”
The detective sat back in his chair and loosened his tie. He rubbed his cheeks with both his hands.
“What you want for dinner, Anthony?”
“What?”
“I’m fixing to order dinner for you and me, cause we’re gonna be in here a long time. I want the whole story from you.”
They ate fried clams and hush puppies from the Clam Basket while Tagliabue told Coleman about the sinking of Maven. He didn’t say who fired the cannon rounds or claim he knew why, only that the world around Georges Bank turned mad for a few minutes while he was out on the high seas trying to catch a mess of haddock two nights ago. When Maven foundered, he went to her life raft and was rescued by a big Hatteras. He described Cuthbert and named Brunson, leaving out how Brunson had holed the Hat-teras dinghy with the captain and his mate in it. If Giselle wanted the BPD to know what happened, she would tell them.
Coleman sucked soda through a straw as the wheels of the tape recorder turned. He burped quietly and asked: “Do you suppose the ship was firing at the Hatteras?”
“I suppose that’s possible. I had a bogey moving fast through the South Channel that night. I was worried about all the fishing boats and their nets, with her going so fast. It could have been the Hatteras. The gunship could have mistaken me for her.”
“What kind of vessel has guns that can sink a cargo boat?”
“It had to have been a navy ship of some sort. She stayed out to sea. It was a foul night and I never saw her at all.”
“Maybe a pirate.”
“God, I hope we don’t have armed pirates patrolling the Maine coast. Things can’t be that bad.”
“Nothing would surprise me anymore,” Coleman said. “I’m ready to believe it was a Russian warship firing at the USA, like I been hearing here and there on the street.”
He looked at Tagliabue when he said this, a question on his face, an invitation maybe for Tagliabue to reveal something. The big man stayed silent.
The cop looked depressed. Tagliabue felt sorry for him but he could not reveal what he knew about the Russian spy ship, and no official in the federal government was going to tell anything of vital national interest to a small county sheriff’s office. Coleman was going through the motions of an investigation with no hope of ever solving it. Based on his body language and his dull voice, he knew that all too well. He also probably knew that Tagliabue was involved in the high seas crimes, may even have caused them, but he was working for someone who pulled strings that Coleman wasn’t even aware of, no less able to identify. One thing was certain: when the county sheriff came back from talking to someone in the capital, he wanted everything to do with Tagliabue’s latest escapades kept under wraps. That could only mean that high level federal officials were pulling these strings, and Detective Coleman was astute enough to realize that his only option was to let things play out and hope only that Anthony didn’t start a bloodbath in town. He also probably understood that Tagliabue was on the right side of the nation’s foreign and domestic interests, that he was important enough to own a fortress apartment building and wield influence well above what Coleman himself could muster. That much was obvious from the instructions his boss gave him: “Hands off this mess, Detective.”
He said: “Investigation suspended at 2112 hours,” and clicked off the recorder.
“I’ll let you know what I find out about the deceased, Anthony, and if the Coast Guard ever identifies the boat owner. If something as valuable as a big Hatteras was stolen, somebody is sure to make some noise about it when he discovers it missing. All we know so far is that some unknown corporation is registered as the owner of record.”
He paused. “I also know that all this has your fingerprints all over it. But I’m not going to get in the way, because the sheriff will get a call from some mysterious suit telling us to keep our hands off. That’s okay with me. I’m not gonna fight it. I have come to believe that you are on the side of the angels. How’s that sound? My job these days is to cover my ass with paperwork, but I will keep you informed. If you come across any crime I can handle, please let me know about it.”
Tagliabue left the county building feeling bad—and a bit guilty—about Johnny Coleman. The cop thought a big boat was stolen and somehow Tagliabue had gotten aboard it with a dead man. Coleman had no idea of the mission to rescue the defector. He had given up trying to solve the mystery of gunfire and murder on the high seas. That was too bad, Tagliabue thought, because Johnny Coleman was a good and honest lawman who was being excluded from an adventure on his own turf, so to speak. It would have been better to have the sheriff’s office along as part of the assignment, but he knew that could never have worked: cops have too many rules and regs to follow. Assignments from The Clemson Project required flexibility. Still Tagliabue hated having to lie to a good cop like Johnny Coleman.
He drove to his apartment, where Agnes Ann was waiting for him with an opened bottle of pinot grigio. His mood changed quickly. Over breakfast the next morning he told her a nuanced version of the story he’d fed to the sheriff’s detective. Agnes Ann was having none of it.
“I know you can’t tell me what’s going on, Tony. That’s okay with me, but I’m afraid the other woman in your life sounds less accommodating.”
“You’ve spoken to Giselle?”
Tagliabue sounded shocked, and he was. He could never imagine the secretive Giselle even speaking to a civilian.
“Not exactly. Western Union sent a guy over with a message while you wer
e in the shower. It was open, so I, er, I read it. The message said: ‘Delta flight # 2178, August 28, 10:15 a.m.’ ”
“That today?”
“It is. I’ll drive you to the airport.”
After dropping Tagliabue off at the Portsmouth Airfield, Agnes Ann turned in her rental, and caught the noon hop to Westfarrow Island. Tagliabue flew to Albany, where a black Ford Expedition was waiting for him. A stone-faced driver took him to an Embassy Suites hotel and said: “Room 104.” It was the only thing he said once he’d gotten behind the wheel.
Giselle let him in when he knocked and asked how he was feeling.
“I’ve recovered, thank you.”
“Recovered, is it? Oh, my. You’d better tell me all about it, dear man.”
Before Tagliabue could get started on his story, there was a tap on the door to the suite. Giselle’s answer was an icy, “Yes?”
“Room service, Mrs. Hansen.” The voice was female.
Giselle pulled a handgun from her purse and slid it across the table. Tagliabue took it in hand and moved to the left of the door, tight against the wall. He immediately recognized that her Walther PPQ was a striker-fired model, ready to shoot. Giselle grasped the doorknob, nodded to him and jerked the door open suddenly. A young woman in a yellow and brown uniform gasped slightly, then pushed a cart into the room without looking around. Tagliabue turned away from the waitress and stuffed the gun in his belt as Giselle signed for the meal. A silent man in a suit appeared in the hallway. As the waitress left the room the man in the hall handed her a twenty and escorted her to the elevator. A tray on the cart contained covered plates of chicken salad and a carafe of coffee.
“I liked the food in Marrakesh better.”
Giselle smiled her thin smile, no teeth showing. “I didn’t want to order anything too heavy. You’ve got work to do.”
He told her what had transpired out by the fishing grounds, how Carlos had picked up the deserter and apparently had made it safely away from the Russian ship, only to end up mortally wounded on a large sportfisherman. How the Maven was shot out from under him and how he ended up on the same yacht as Carlos when he was picked up in his life raft. He figured time was short so he spoke briefly.
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