Page 32

A brisk wind whipped Maggie’s hair and tugged at the bottoms of her pale gray slacks.

She wondered why Jake hadn’t returned but consoled herself knowing he’d spoken to Daniel, someone in authority, and that as team coach, he had a job to do.

Maggie propped her arms on the rail and looked out across the grassy arena.

Dublin fans filled the grandstand to overflowing.

The event had begun with marching bands and honor guards.

Teams of sleek-coated draught horses pulled wagons filled with flowers. Shep had ridden well, under the circumstances. Ellie had ridden brilliantly.

Clay had just passed through the beam of the timer, signaling the start of his round.

Maggie smiled as she watched him.

He seemed to sit taller, ride with even more confidence than usual.

He smiled easily as he took the first three fences: a red and gold vertical, a wide blue oxer, and a five-foot jump at the end of the arena.

The crowd applauded enthusiastically, warming to the beauty of his ride.

There was something about him today.

Something undefeatable.

He rode like the champion he was, and Max made the course look easy. They made the round in the time allotted and with no fences down. Only a few people had ridden as well; Ellie, a German rider; and a member of the Irish team.

Maggie glanced around, still looking for Jake.

No sign of him but Prissy stood at the rail in her riding clothes, in case of any last-minute changes.

“Wasn’t Clay something?”

she said as Maggie walked up.

“He and Ellie both rode beautifully.

I think being in love agrees with them.”

“No doubt about it.”

Several more riders took the course and finally Flex’s turn came up.

He and Sebastian got off to a shaky start.

Sparky settled down at the third fence, clearing it with room to spare, but Flex put him wrong at the water jump.

Flex completed the course with no more fences down but had several time faults.

“I think I’ll go console him,”

Prissy said.

“Good idea.”

While Flex rode out of the arena, Maggie spotted Jake striding toward her.

He was carefully surveying the people around her, but she noticed a subtle relaxation in his posture.

As he walked up, he surprised her by sliding an arm around her waist and kissing the top of her head.

“Miss me?”

“Enormously.”

“It’s almost over, Maggie.”

He relayed his latest conversation with Daniel, and that the Soviet government was not behind the threats to his family.

“As hard as it is to believe,”

he said, “the Russians seem to be doing everything possible to prevent whatever Popov and his minions have planned.”

Maggie felt a surge of relief so strong her knees wobbled.

“Thank God.”

She could feel the burn of tears behind her eyes.

“Everything’s going to be all right.”

He caught he shoulders.

“We can be married—if you’ll have me.”

“Oh, Jake.”

Maggie buried her face in the hollow of his neck and Jake smoothed a hand over her hair.

“Is that a yes?”

he asked softly.

Maggie looked up at him.

“Of course, it’s a yes.”

Unmindful of the milling crowd, the members of the team who stood a few feet away, Maggie kissed him.

“Just two more days and we’ll be home,”

he whispered against her cheek.

“All this will be behind us, and we can get on with our lives.”

She pulled a tissue out of her purse and dabbed her eyes.

“In the end, you did what was right.

I never really doubted you.

Just another reason I love you.”

Jake leaned down and kissed her.

“What happens now?”

Maggie asked.

Jake studied the overcrowded stands.

“We wait.

We watch.

And we hope like hell Daniel’s people stop Popov from doing whatever evil he’s got planned. If it doesn’t happen today or tomorrow, chances are their own people will stop them.”

Maggie squeezed Jake’s hand.

She wished they could be alone for a while, spend some time discussing their future.

Instead, she searched the stands and the people around them just as Jake was doing, looking for some clue as to what might happen.

In the arena, they were beginning the second round of jumping.

The final team scores would decide the winner of the Nations’ Cup.

The second time through, the difficult course took its toll on the horses.

From the beginning, the faults were higher; none of the first eight riders went clear.

Shep and Lass had time faults and three rails down.

Ellie had one rail down and Clay had one. It was Flex who saved the day, going clear and within the time allotted. His grin was so broad it almost touched his ears.

As the final horse and rider, a small dark Irishman on a big white gelding, took the course, the crowd came surging to its feet, their applause thunderous.

The Irishman rode beautifully, clearing the last fence well within the time allotted.

The crowd fell silent while the tabulations were made.

“We’ve won!”

Clay roared when the announcement came over the loudspeaker.

Flex released a high-pitched whoop of joy.

Jake hugged Maggie.

Clay hugged Ellie and Prissy, while Flex and Shep hugged two female riders who just happened to be walking by.

The team members took a victory lap around the ring.

Jake accepted the prestigious Aga Khan Trophy while the National Anthem played.

Afterwards, the showgrounds still in turmoil as the horses were put away, he slipped off for his final confrontation with Popov.

Before he reached the tack room, he spotted Clay.

“Congratulations,”

Jake said.

Clay grinned. “Thanks.”

“I need a favor.”

“Of course.”

“If I’m not back in twenty minutes, tell Maggie I had a meeting with Popov in the most easterly tack room in the farthest barn.

Tell her to contact Daniel Gage.”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the slip of paper with Daniel’s phone number on it and handed it to Clay.

“There’s always someone there.”

“What’s this about, Jake? Not more trouble, I hope.”

“I’ll explain everything as soon as I get back.

Twenty minutes,”

he repeated.

“It’s important, Clay.”

“I’ll see she gets the message.”

With long strides, Jake moved off through the crowd, making several detours to be sure he wasn’t followed.

When he reached the tack room and pushed open the door, a harsh white bulb had replaced the glow of the candle.

Popov wasn’t there.

Jake turned to go outside and wait, preferring fresh air to the musty odor of the tack room.

Then he spotted the white sheet of paper lying on the wooden table.

Jake’s pulse began to pound as he read the note.

In 1960 I defected to the United States of America, believing it a land of freedom and opportunity.

Over the years, I have discovered the United States is a land of decadence and privilege for the few.

I betrayed my homeland.

Now, I wish the world to know the truth.

Events of this day will not be forgotten.

My Soviet countrymen, remember what I’ve done as a lesson to you all.

The letter was signed Janus Straka, then Jake Sullivan.

The writing looked identical to Jake’s.

At the sound of the door creaking open, he dropped the paper on the table with a trembling hand.

“Good afternoon, Tovarich. ”

The gravelly voice betrayed nothing, the tone so mild they might have been passing on the street.

“My handwriting...how did you...?”

But he didn’t finish.

They had ways, he knew.

Forged passports, documents.

It was no trick at all once a sample of the person’s writing had been obtained.

The more important question was, “What have you done?”

“I see your impatience has returned.

I’m afraid it is a characteristic you will carry to your grave.”

Jake stiffened.

“You disobeyed your instructions.”

Popov smiled thinly.

“Which came as no surprise.

You, my friend, are far too predictable.”

“I intended to comply, but fate intervened.”

Popov grunted.

“Fate takes second place when events are well-planned, well-executed.

You, for example.

Your actions in this mattered little. There was nothing you could have done except divulge our involvement to the authorities. To avoid that, we counted on your unwavering loyalty to your family and friends.”

Jake said nothing.

He doesn’t know about Daniel.

“As to your compliance—it was merely a diversion.

Of course, each incident will ultimately be connected to you.

Revenge will be sweet, my friend.

Popov pulled a package of cigarettes from his inside coat pocket.

A match flared as he lit up and the acrid smell of sulfur filled the tack room.

“I presume you are here to plead for the lives of your family and friends,”

the Russian said.

Jake seized on the words.

“They’re innocent in this.

I’m the one who didn’t comply with your wishes.”

Popov released a raspy chuckle.

“You may ease your mind.

None of them will be harmed.

You were the pawn, they merely the device to obtain your cooperation.”

Popov’s smug, satisfied expression sent a chill down Jake’s spine.

“I see by your look,”

the Russian continued, “you wish to know why we have gone to so much trouble.

It is simple really.

Glasnost.

Among those of us loyal to our cause, it is a vile word. A filthy word that corrupts the people of our country.

“ New freedoms ,”

he said sarcastically.

“ A new Westernism .

Bah! Adopting bourgeois capitalist beliefs! Turning us into a nation of drug users, despoilers, and decadents.

Already it has caused unrest among the people. Surely you have read what is happening in Armenia—the rioting and protests? If it should continue, there is no telling where it might end. The very walls of Communism could be felled.”

Wouldn’t that be something , Jake thought.

“What is happening today,”

Popov continued.

“What we are doing in Dublin, is just one incident among many we have engineered to weaken the bonds between East and West.

The missile that accidentally destroyed the Korean jet liner, for example...or that airbus over the Persian Gulf your own Navy shot down.

Each event is designed to breech those ties, cause rifts and descent. In layman’s terms, we do not want peace with you. We are committed to doing whatever it takes to enforce and spread our beliefs.”

“Whatever it takes,”

Jake repeated, the room feeling suddenly airless.

“What are you planning to do in Dublin?”

“Since you will not live to see it, I suppose telling you can do no harm.”

He blew a thick stream of smoke into the air.

“You remember the inconvenience your people suffered here on Wednesday evening?”

Jake searched his memory.

“Sorry, I don’t recall.”

“Nothing much, nothing to be concerned about.

A broken waterline.

It could happen anywhere.

Except in this case... our people made the repairs. While they were working, they installed an interesting little device. A pressure valve set with a timer.”

Jake’s pulse began to hammer as Popov slid back the sleeve of his dark brown overcoat and checked his watch.

“It started working some time ago.

The valve was set to begin release at four o’clock this afternoon and continue, intermittently releasing small quantities of strychnine into the waterline that leads to your barn.

With each subsequent watering, your horses, along with those of the British and Canadian teams, will be ingesting lethal amounts of poison.

By midnight they will be dead—along with any persons unlucky enough to be thirsty. With the Olympic Games just a few weeks away, the impact should be extremely far-reaching. In fact—”

Jake lunged, knocking Popov out of the way and bolting for the door.

He jerked the latch and the door swung wide, but a hard grip on his shoulder and the feel of a cold steel barrel against his temple stopped him.

“Close it,”

Popov hissed.

Jake didn’t move.

“Now.”

The barrel of the gun slid lower, into the flesh under Jake’s jaw.

One bullet and the madman’s plan would succeed.

Jake needed time.

Time for Clay to tell Maggie where he’d gone.

Time for Maggie to reach Daniel. But there was no time. Not for the horses. Not for the people who might be dying right now.

The copper taste of fear filled his mouth.

Stepping back inside, he heard the door creak closed behind him.

The harsh white bulb reflected off the cylindrical object Jake recognized as a silencer on the barrel of the automatic pistol in Popov’s hand.

He used it to motion Jake away from the door.

His expression hard, Popov carefully positioned himself between Jake and escape.

“A wise decision, Comrade.

A few more moments of life, no matter how brief.”

He smiled ruthlessly.

“One must always take what precious little time one has been given.”

Clay looked down at the paper he held in his hand.

He’d been trying to find Maggie for the past ten minutes.

He had gone to look for her as soon as he’d left Jake.

Still no sign of her.

Worry building, Clay shoved against the tide of people leaving the show grounds.

He scanned the practice field as he moved toward the stables, rounded a corner, and slammed headlong into her.

“Maggie! I’ve been looking all over.”

He pressed the slip of paper into her hand.

“Jake said to tell you he had a meeting with someone named Popov in the most easterly tack room in the farthest barn.

He said if he wasn’t back in twenty minutes, you were to call Daniel Gage at that number.”

“How long ago did you see him?”

Maggie asked, feeling the blood drain from her face.

“About ten minutes.

He’s in trouble, isn’t he?”

Maggie didn’t answer, just brushed past him in the direction Jake had gone.

Clay grabbed her arm.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m not sure.

Something to do with the Russians.”

She glanced down at the paper she clutched in her hand.

She had to stay calm, try to think.

She handed the paper to Clay.

“Get to a phone. Call Daniel Gage. Tell him exactly what Jake said.”

“Let me go with you.”

“You’ve got to make the call.”

Clay hesitated only a moment, turned and rushed off toward the phone booth.

Maggie ran in the opposite direction, her heart thundering.

Dear Lord, she had to reach Jake.