“Fyad, I need transport to my aircraft,” she paused, listened, then said, “Yes, now.”
Chapter 10
Race Day. David and Renée arrived at the track early. It was Renée’s debut as head trainer. The day was worth millions to their stable if successful. The partnership had found its normality. Both absorbed in their respective race day tasks. They ate an early breakfast. Once at the track they went directly to the stables in which the horse was being housed. Renée would remain there until race time. David left after a half hour to mingle with the other owners. He would return once the race was complete.
Renée began her pre-race rituals. She had two tasks which were time sensitive. Both were equally important to her. All other duties would be scheduled around those. First, was a meeting with the jockey for a final discussion on how he was to ride the race. She would work around his or her schedule as on most race days a jockey rode in multiple races. The two discussed the blueprint for the two minute, twenty six second ride on a number of occasions. Yet track and weather conditions could alter their original strategy.
The second tradition which required her precise timing was magical. Exactly fifteen minutes before the race parade, all her staff would back off the horse allowing Renée to talk to the animal. She would lay the side of her face on the horse’s cheek. Cup her left hand around the bottom of its chin, while her right hand would brush its mane and forehead. Today’s recipient of her nurturing was Charlotte’s Choice. It was one of the most successful horses in the world, the favorite on today’s tote board.
Renée spoke to the horse in a very low voice. Her objective was to create calmness within him. She believed the animal understood her. Anyone who witnessed this synergy would attest to the interaction being a sincerely touching moment. She would discuss the game plan for the upcoming run, or sometimes she would just talk about her life. The horse seemed to go into a Zen state. Its breathing slowed, it stood motionless. She was a true horse whisperer.
Normally after she completed her chat, she would saddle the horse then lead it through the post parade where the animal was handed off to the jockey. Today that task was given to one of their most trusted groomers. As a head trainer in a stakes race, it was expected of her to watch the race from the owner’s balcony. For this she needed a few minutes to change her clothing. Out with the stable attire and into a dress that was purchased solely for the occasion.
David was already settled into the owner’s box when Renée arrived. Right away he realized he had never seen her in a dress before. She chose a Victoria Secret sleeveless, white lace tiered dress. Her shoulders covered with a new denim jacket. True to form the outfit was complimented by a pair mid-calf cowboy boots. The dress had the effect of being see-through although it wasn’t. It had a loose flow to it, but yet clung to certain parts of her body. When she walked, it would slither side to side accentuating her figure. It was sexy. David took notice. The first thought that came to his mind was free. Here she stood, free of any pretentiousness. She was a breath of fresh air. Free.
Renée positioned herself beside her boss who also sported a pair of cowboy boots, jeans, and a dark blue shirt opened at the collar, covered by a grey sports jacket. There were introductions to the other owners and their families, few of which she knew prior to the day. Also present were a handful of her adversary who had been in the business for much longer. Most were skeptical on her ability to handle such a prestigious horse. The general thought was Serge would have overseen every aspect of the training, allowing Sandy to replace him as a figure head.
The sound of the bugle call echoed throughout the grounds. All eyes now turned to the track as the announcer introduced the horses and jockeys parading past the stands. Everyone in the seating area had a connection to one of the horses on today’s race card. There was an eerie silence among them when the horses prepared to enter the starting gate. Renée was an even-keeled person with one exception, race time. Her adrenalin kicked into high gear.
“They’re at post, they’re off,” the beginning of the race call was heard over the PA system.
“It looks like we have a clean break from the gate. They’re running four wide with Natures Gift at the front of the pack setting the pace. The favorite Charlotte’s Choice is stationed fifth along the rail. They’ve made the quarter in a blistering twenty three and one fifth seconds. Can Natures Gift go wire to wire at this pace?”
Everyone was fixated on the race. Renée’s excitement got the better of her and she unintentionally grabbed David’s arm. He didn’t resist. No one else noticed Renée’s tugging of his jacket. Truth be told, Renée hadn’t realized what she was doing as she was so intently focused on their horse. David would be lucky if he didn’t inherit finger nail marks in his arm by the end of the race.
The call continued, “as they pass the half mile pole Gabriela D’Angelo has Natures Gift a length and a half ahead of the field. Sky is running in second, followed by Remember When, and Redneck Willie now running two wide. The favorite Charlotte’s Choice is taking the ground saving ride by hugging the rail, but will Mario Rossi be able to break out of the pack. Summertime and Just Call Me Great have him blocked in with Scare Me Silly trailing the tightly packed field.”
“Come on, come on, come on,” Renée whispered in a low voice as she began rocking, subconsciously trying to assist her jockey ride the horse. “Make your move now, you got to get him out now. Come on, come on, come on.”
David was silent. His body movements weren’t. He was hitting the side of his leg with the program. Mimicking the motions used by a jockey with their riding crops otherwise known as their whip. So into the race he didn’t notice the arm of his jacket being pulled from his shoulders.
“They’re rounding the back turn. No one wants to challenge Natures Gift. They seem content. Natures Gift may have himself a wire to wire. As they round the last turn and make their way for the home stretch the favorite is boxed in along the rail by the remainder of the group. It looks like no one is going to catch D’Angelo’s ride. She’s got Natures Gift two lengths ahead of her closest rival. Positions have remained the same. No one wants to race her today. Wait a second. It looks like Charlotte’s Choice has found an opening along the inside of the field. How did Rossi do that? He’s found himself out of the pack but can he catch Natures Gift? Charlotte’s Choice is gaining ground but may run out of race track. Here they come. It’s Natures Gift, Charlotte’s Choice, Natures Gift, Charlotte’s Choice. They’re making their way to the wire. It’s Natures Gift, its Charlotte’s Choice. They’re neck and neck, it’s, it’s, it’s, oh this is too close to call. We’re going to have to wait for the results of the photo finish. How in the world did Rossi find a line out of that crowd? What a great race. Here are the results folks. Charlotte’s Choice remains undefeated.”
It took a second for it to sink in before David and Renée caught on to the fact that the photo finish results confirmed their win. His jacket sleeve was pulled down over his hand exposing the blue shirt covering his shoulder.
“Oops,” a wide eyed Renée said after realizing she pulled his coat half off as she tried to fix it.
He laughed it off. Then caught up in the excitement, he gave her a congratulatory hug, lifting her right off the ground while spinning her around. The white dress flowed in the air almost exposing her Victoria Secret panties.
They began making their way to the winning circle. Everyone around them was offering handshakes, acknowledging their win. Once on the main floor, security cleared the way to the gate which opened onto the track. They walked across the turf to the infield. There they were congratulated by the racing officials.
Soon Mario Rossi steered Charlotte’s Choice into the winner circle. He was sporting a grin which was as wide as his face. Renée held the horse’s reins. Once again she laid the side of her face on the animal similar to her pre-race ritual. She thanked him and promised him a well deserved rest. David watched. If he didn’t know better he’d swear the horse answered. H
er ability to converse with these thoroughbreds was transcending. In all his years, he had never witnessed anything like it.
The presentations began. The track announcer joined them with a microphone. The sound system echoed the introduction of all within the circle. The chairperson of the stakes race presented the trophy to David and Renée. Renée was also presented with a bouquet of flowers. At the end of the ceremony a groomer walked the horse back to the stables. The jockey followed an official for the winners weigh in. David and Renée crossed the track once again. They did not return to the grandstand, but instead elected to check in with their staff at the stables. Along the way Renée would be interviewed by three different networks covering the race. David stood by her side and tried to say little.
Both were drained from the rush the race had induced. They took time to visit with Charlotte’s Choice, who was gently being walked around the paddock to slow his heart rate. The horse would be washed down and allowed to rest the remainder of the day before being transported home early the next morning.
“Well, our work is done here,” David said to Renée. “I believe we earned the right to celebrate with dinner and drinks. Care to join me?”
“I would love to,” she answered.
“Perfect. Let’s go find ourselves the most expensive restaurant in town. Jacob McGinnis will be footing the bill tonight.”
David reached for his phone, “I’ll arrange for a ride. Can you wrap things up here? I need to give Sandy a call to fill her in on the race. Then it’s dinner and a bottle of their finest.”
“I’ve got it covered. Say hi to Sandy for me. We’ll meet back here. Thirty minutes work for you?” She said then disappeared into the stables after he nodded his approval.
David dialed Sandy’s number. It went straight to voice mail. Not sure what time of day it was in the Middle East, nor did he care, he pressed the redial key. He was pumped and exhausted at the same time. Again there was no answer. He wasn’t going to leave a message. This was special, not something you leave on an electronic answering service. A vital part of a successful marriage is being able to share these occasions. He waited five minutes, tried once more, but it proved to be of no avail.
Back at the stable, Renée finished instructing the staff on transportation of Charlotte’s Choice. The next time she would see him would be at the ranch. She thought about changing back into her everyday clothing but decided against it. It felt nice to be dressed up. Something she should do more often. She wanted to feel good tonight.
As she left the paddock area, David was approaching her.
“Our ride is here,” he said. “Are we good to go?”
“Oui, everything seems to be running smoothly,” Renée replied.
“Good.”
Walking to the parking lot she asked, “was Sandy excited about our win?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t answer.”
Hearing the frustration in his voice, she dropped the subject and left well enough alone. David was disappointed. It is important to share high points of your life with someone you care for. This wasn’t the first time he was left feeling the emptiness.
“It’s just you and me tonight kid. Let’s go drink a few too many.”
On the way towards the VIP parking area where a car awaited them, she could sense his disappointment. It wasn’t fair, a joyful event such as this carried sadness with it.
David left it up to Renée to choose the restaurant. He called ahead to reserve a table for two. Directions were given to the driver. The eatery was again close to their hotel. Convenient should the alcohol consumption surpass their previous get-togethers. A walk back to the hotel would be in order.
***
Sandy heard her telephone ring. The screen displayed David’s name. She just arrived at the aircraft which was parked in a private hanger and would have welcomed a conversation with her husband if she did not have such a pressing matter to attend to. In a little while, once the business at hand was dealt with, she would return the call.
She was functioning on very little sleep. During the past couple of days there were only a few cat naps. She possessed the ability to adapt to sleep deprivation. Taught to function with the utmost attentiveness during situations such as the one she currently found herself in.
After searching the hanger, confirming she was the sole occupant, she stepped into the aircraft. Although her plane was the only aircraft parked in the private facility owned by the King, Sandy would not rest until she was certain she was alone. The two employees of Fyad who chauffeured her to the airport positioned themselves outside, guarding the perimeter as was their instructions. Next, she pressed the close button next to the door. The ladder slowly disappeared into an opening below the hatch. The door swung on its hinges and locked. Caution was imperative to safeguard the intelligence gathered during her outing.
She then made her way to the cockpit. When Sandy was recruited by the CIA, her father authorized the agency’s installation of additional gadgetry within the cockpit panel. This extension to the plane’s instrumentation would never be exposed during an aircraft inspection by a customs officer. An airplane’s mechanism would not be questioned during this sort of examination. Secure outlets for general telephone conversations and information of a less level of security were also placed in the passenger area.
Jacob’s only condition was the Agency provide two of the Air Force's finest pilots to command the jet during all of Sandy’s flights. It was comforting to him knowing she was in good hands during her travels. These men were on duty as pilots only. They were ordered to observe from a distance and not act in any other capacity unless Sandy was in a life threatening situation. The pilots were not aware of her employment within the organization. They knew of her closeness to the White House and that she at times would transmit sensitive information. To whom they did not know, nor did they care. There were no questions. They followed their superior’s directions. Sandy had never been officially informed the pilots her father employed were Air Force. Yet she was well aware of their appointments.
She plugged the cord from the equipment which contained the computer information into a port in the cockpit panel. Then she pressed a button that initiated the transmission of her findings to a secluded room at the CIA’s headquarters in Langley, Virginia. It would be read instantly. The data which this room was the recipient of came from a select few. For the most part it contained intelligence critical to USA’s arrestment of terrorism.
She proceeded to connect her cellular telephone to another open port in the panel, then pressed number one on the phone. It was a secure, direct line to Christopher Young, the Director of the CIA. He picked up on the first ring.
“Sandy, I was expecting your call,” he answered, then continued. “I just hung up with the communication office. Your information is being decrypted as we speak.”
“Only at Langley,” she was referring to the expeditiousness of the agency.
“You were so kind as to put your life in harm’s way, it’s the least we can do.”
“It is appreciated,” was her reply.
“Christopher, I have something else of interest which I haven’t transmitted,” she began to explain the contents of the files she had found. “I felt it would be in our best interest if I sent copies of these two documents to you personally. I believe one of them divulges the location of an existing American hostage. The troublesome fact is, if this information is correct, it is a staunch ally of ours knowing or unknowingly allowing housing of the hostage.”
“Sandy you need to include it with the other transmission,” he wasn’t suggesting that she do this. He was ordering, “I have agents in place that specialize in addressing this form of intelligence.”
“I understand what you are saying Christopher, but,” acknowledging his instructions, then taking a deep breath before dropping the bomb, “it’s Emily Wilson.”
There was an uncharacteristic silence from the chief of the CIA. You don’t become the head of an
organization like the Agency by being tongue-tied. His position required an unwavering instant decisiveness. At the moment that attribute was absent.
“Christopher, are you still there?”
Emily Wilson was a respected journalist, photographer, spending the majority of her career reporting from the Middle East. She was considered an expert on the political atmosphere of the area. One year earlier she disappeared. There was no demand for ransom. No radical organization proclaimed responsibility.
It was first thought she was abducted. As time went on, most involved in the investigation were resigned to the fact that she had been murdered.
“Sandy you’re right,” he said. “For the moment this information will remain between the two of us.”
Emily was a CIA special agent. She worked undercover posing as a journalist. Only a handful of people knew of her true identity. Sandy had her suspicions, but her boss never had any reason to enlighten her. At the time she went missing, Sandy was asked to keep her ear to the wall during her travels. She never did garner any intelligence on the kidnapping.
Emily earned the trust of a number of the radical brotherhoods. She was one of the selected few allowed access to the inner circle. When the group felt the need to release their propaganda to the world, Emily was the chosen one who they trusted to report their words verbatim. Such trust if found fraudulent would yield dire consequences, hence the determination that she had been executed.
“You said you discovered two items you wish to discuss,” he questioned her.
“Yes the other document I believe is making reference to the location of groups we may be interested in,” she explained.
There was a moment of silence both waiting for the other to continue the conversation.
“OK, there, I just sent it to you,” informing him of the transmission.
Love Lonely Page 12