The Throughbred Conspiracy
Chapter 1
JFK International Airport – December 1995
The frigid wind whipped the powdery snow about the yellow and red luggage carrier, as it bumped and snaked its way across the tarmac toward the waiting 747. The dark eyed, olive skinned driver pulled the carrier just beneath the baggage door of the airplane. He was not an airport employee but was hired by an agent of a wealthy Arabian prince. Among the luggage, he placed into the cargo hold, was a small black bag, reminiscent of a time when doctors would make house calls carrying stethoscopes and medicines.
Not far away, a middle-aged priest stood waiting in the departure lounge, thinking about the declining health of a dear friend. Father Petrie knew in his heart that he’d earned this trip abroad, but was worried about the sickly, aging prelate Monsignor McSourley and the future of his parish. The atmosphere in the building was electric as he lost himself in the bustle of travellers, barely able to hear the tender weeping of a gray-haired woman about to leave her two daughters, as she preparedto board Trans Atlantic’s flight 718 bound for Rome. His own name over the loudspeaker startled him, interrupting his thoughts.
“Father Petrie, Father Francis Petrie please.”
His senses peaked as he reached in his black suit jacket pocket for another Rolaids tablet. He’d been eating the antacids like candy ever since Monsignor McSourley had taken a turn for the worse. Walking to the ticket counter, he announced to the lady in charge, “Yes, I’m Father Petrie.”
“You have an urgent call, sir. You may take it on the red phone.”
He’d attended many a parishioner’s bedside, over the years, and had been present for every kind of negative news one could possibly hear, but he dreaded taking the call.
“Hello, yes, this is Father Petrie.”
“Dear God no!” His face pursed as he listened to Bishop Dunn relate the fact that Monsignor McSourley had just passed away.
“Father, is there anything I can do for you?” asked the kindly bishop.
“I’ll return at once; the parish will need me. I, I’ll have to attend to the arrangements.”
“As you wish, my son. God bless you now.”
Father Francis Petrie felt all of his 58 years as he slowly turned to the ticket agent cancelling his long overdue plans to vacation at the Vatican. Like most men of the cloth, he’d always put the needs of his parish ahead of his own, and this was not the time for him to deviate from that habit. As his luggage was unloaded from the plane’s cargo hold, a small black bag, identical to his, came down the chute by mistake. Father Petrie’s bag, containing gifts for the friends whom he’d planned to
visit, would fly to Italy, while the mistaken bag was hastily thrown onto a luggage wagon and trucked back into the baggage handling area. Pitched onto a conveyor belt, it wound its way back from where it started, spilling down the revolving carousel to the distracted priest. With a tear-blurred glance at the numbers on his claim check, Father Petrie picked up the black bag along with his other luggage and made his way to the area gate. Walking through the automatic doors and out into the cold, noisy New York evening, his nostrils filled with the strong smell of jet fuel as he heard, “Help you, sir?”
“Uh, yes, please, a taxi.”
The tall man in a blue uniform waved for the next available cab in the departure queue. When the cab stopped, he placed the luggage into the front seat, as Father Petrie handed him a two-dollar tip.
“Thank-you sir and you have a nice day.”
“Penn Central Station please,” said the priest beginning his journey back home to St. Stephen’s rectory in northern Philadelphia. He wept, openly, as thoughts of what he would say to the family and friends of his departed advisor flooded his mind.
As Father Petrie’s cab sped away from the airport, a thin, middle aged cabin attendant made her way through the first-class section of flight 718, welcoming the passengers on board. She stopped next to a dark, handsome man, lost in thought.
“Excuse me, sir, would you like a magazine?”
“Thank you, no,” said Sheikh Efram Al-Farouad, sovereign ruler of Karoumi, a country not far from Saudi Arabia and the eighth and newest member of the United Arab Emirates. Reclined in first-class luxury he reflected on his visit to Chicago and L. A. and the connections he’d made in his quest to recruit the caliber of medical professionals necessary to build his hospital. He could have used his official plane for this trip, but he often travelled commercially, so as not to appear extravagant.
He listened with nervous anticipation to the whine of the four General Electric engines increase, as the monstrous machine roared down the three-mile ribbon of concrete. Climbing through the evening air, the plane banked eastward and flew into the twilight over the Atlantic. Efram marveled at the serenity of the late evening sky while he relaxed with a warm feeling that his life was under the clear direction of Allah. He was much like his father in that he wanted the best for his country and his people, but in sad contrast to his brother Rajad, the younger of the two princes, and second in waiting for the throne. When Efram thought of Rajad, he felt culpable that he himself had become the favorite son and that Rajad had allowed himself to develop into an undesirable character.
Allowing his mind to wander, he could hear the engine noise fade into the slipstream of air rushing by at over four hundred miles an hour. He was faintly aware of the chatter of the people around him, a festive sound laced with the tinkling of ice cubes and the throaty laughter of a full- figured woman seated directly across the aisle. Roused a second time from his dream-like state, he heard, “Excuse me, sir, would you care for a cocktail?”
“Thank you, no.”
His thoughts turned, once again, to Rajad as he tried to understand why his younger brother was so often in a hostile mood, cursing at him, provoking him into senseless arguments. Their father, Sheikh Ahmed Al-Farouad, loved both his sons dearly but was tied by royal tradition to groom the eldest as his successor. But, Efram took full advantage of his position whereby he often had Rajad followed so that he could report any of his illicit activities directly to their father. Although the Sheikh had known of most of Rajad’s shortcomings, he could never bring to bear the discipline the younger boy so desperately needed. This was due to the fact that the Sheikh felt responsible for Rajad’s mother’s death when Rajad was so young.
Becoming rebellious and defiant, Rajad often ventured beyond the realm of good judgment a royal prince should maintain, socializing with people of common and even questionable stature.
As flight 718 gained cruising altitude, Efram’s thoughts drifted back to the countless stories of one of the snitches he would employ to spy on Rajad, reporting to Efram any and all social infractions. The streets of Beladesh provided the perfect stage for a young man to hone a delinquent life-style. A place where succulent legs of lamb roasting over burning dung accompanied by the echoing notes of Muslim prayers wailing above dirty streets, that wanderlust could play to a standing room only crowd.
Efram remembered the call he’d received the night Rajad, then 14, and two of his friends were caught chasing a small herd of stolen goats through the village. A call was made to the palace constable whose job it was to relay any such message directly to Prince Efram who, in turn, relayed it to Sheikh Ahmed.
Efram recalled the young man with the large birth mark on the side of his face whom Rajad had befriended. The birthmark had earned him the nickname ‘Darkside’. During their escapades, the young men would pilfer and vandalize the small city of Beladesh after which the prince would sneak back within the sanctity of the palace walls. Through Darkside, Rajad was introduced to a street-smart dancer of 19 with whom he had been seen much too frequently until, in Efram’s judgment, something had to be done.
Staring blankly out the window into the dark ocean, Efram could hear Rajad’s anger reverberate through his memory as though it had occurred that morning.
“You had to tell him, didn’t you? Didn’t you? You bastard,” cursed Rajad through eyes of fierce black hatred.
He remembered his response as he wished he had not told their father.
“Rajad, my brother, it is for your own good. She was no one for you. Or for the family. She is a woman of the night and an embarrassment to us all.”
“You bastard, you stinking bastard. Who are you to judge me or my friends?”
“Rajad, please. I only ask that you think of who you are. Your position within the family.”
“Stay out of my life. I am the only one who can decide what is right for me.”
“I am always on your side. I am your blood.”
“That is by no choice of mine.”
“Then think of our father. Think of our people.”
“If you ever involve yourself in my affairs again Efram I swear. I,”
“You swear what? What will you do? Kill me? Is that what you are thinking? Rajad, I am always your brother.”
“Well, do not be this brother of mine. I do not need a brother like you. I do not need this, this BAD BLOOD!”
Efram knew that so much had happened since those early days and that negative feeling had widened the gap between them, a burden which seemed always on his mind. He begged Allah to soften his younger brother’s heart and allow the wealth of their brotherly good fortune to flow unimpeded through their lives.
Efram’s thoughts turned to his father, and how he could ever replace the man who, for so many years, was his hero, his confidant, his mentor. These thoughts dominated his mind as he drifted off to sleep, while the Atlantic Ocean heaved and rolled 34,000 feet below. It was another five hours to Rome.
Chapter 2
The Bluegrass of Kentucky – Three months later
Tucker Flannery, one hand on the steering wheel and the other trying to keep a cardboard box containing two large Styrofoam cups of coffee from spilling onto the seat of his Ford pickup, sped along the back roads of Kentucky, well within the heart of Thoroughbred country. It was a special night as Kissin Kouzins, winner of the Winston Challenger Cup and over $350,000.00, was in foal to Heart Lancer, stallion of the year in 1992 and 1993. Tuck had watched this horse grow from birth and, as manager of Fairhaven Farm was in a hurry to be by the side of his prized mare. As the truck pulled into the lot behind the foaling barn, the late March night, thick with chilly damp fog, permeated Tuck’s sleeveless jacket.
“Hey Doc, how’s it looking?”
Doc Baich, retired veterinarian, horse lover and close friend of Mrs. Audra Marcum Blevins, owner of Fairhaven Farm, was kneeling at the hind-quarters of the laboring brood mare.
“Hell if I know. Sure looks weak from here.”
They had detected a faint heartbeat but knew by the way the mare was carrying the foal that the offspring was not completely healthy. Kissin Kouzins, soaked with sweat and nearing exhaustion, nickered gently as Doc Baich grabbed the legs of the offspring protruding halfway through her birthing canal. Tuck went to the mare’s head and began stoking her cheek, offering what little support he could.
“Come on now,” said Doc Baich. “Just a little further. That’s it. There ya go now, easy does it.”
And with a final push and a weary groan, Mother Nature shook loose her newest Thoroughbred charge.
“Ohhhh Shhhhhit,” said the doctor, in a sorrowful voice. “Looks like we got us another one. Damn!”
It was the fifth straight foal death that week and Tuck was angry. There appeared to be an overabundance of stillborn foals in Central Kentucky, and Tuck, as well as other members of the breeding industry, were alarmed. Something had infected the best of the breed and was wreaking havoc on the most talented Thoroughbred lineage in racing history.
Tuck called Carney Puckett, Fairhaven’s head trainer, who’d spent the previous night at Turbalinda Farm where a seventh consecutive foal of Royal Thunder’s had been stillborn.
“Looks like we got a frigin virus around here. Damn, the only one we got that’s worth anything don’t weigh 70 pounds,” he barked into the phone to Carney. A newborn Thoroughbred should weigh on the average between 95 to 120 pounds and should gain its legs within sixty to ninety minutes following birth.
“Dammit, this thing’s outta control. Dammit! Hang on!”
Tuck turned to Doc Baich, “Doc, what about that friend of yours from the research center, that biologist. She ever call you back?”
“Nope, not yet. Whadayasay we give her a call?”
Gwendolyn Gardot, a 38-year-old microbiologist employed at the Kentucky Equine Research Center, awoke to the sound of her phone ringing on the table beside her bed.
Not this early, she thought. Her life had become a nightmare ever since this thing with the newborns had started, and she knew if she didn’t have an answer soon, there would be hell to pay.
She was a slight woman, but all business when it came to her work.
Please, Lord, let this be some good news. “Hello,” she said, in a sleepy voice.
“Gwen, Doc Baich here. I’m over at Fairhaven and, hell Gwen, we’ve got another one,” his voice dropping to a tone beyond sadness.
“Not Kissin Kouzins?”
“Yeah, Gwen, this thing’s bad. Really bad. Have you found anything?”
“Doc, the only thing I can tell you right now is that we’re doing everything we can.”
“Give me that,” said Tuck grabbing the phone out of the doctor’s hand.
“Doctor Gardot, this is Tucker Flannery. I’m the manager of Fairhaven Farm. What the hell are you people doing over there?”
Startled, and not used to being addressed in that tone of voice, Gwen fired back, “I can assure you, we are doing everything we can to resolve this situation.”
“Situation! Is that what you’re calling it, a situation?” Tuck looked at Doc Baich and snarled, “Now they’re calling it a situation.”
“Well, we’ve got more than a goddamn situation here missy!”
Having been under extreme pressure ever since becoming involved in this puzzling dilemma, she was quick to respond.
“Believe me, you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,” her voice somewhere between angry and professional.
“Well, when can WE expect to know something?”
“The moment I know myself.”
Tuck knew he had no right to take his frustration out on Doctor Gardot like that, and in a split second, felt ashamed.
“Okay, I uh, well look, thanks. I’m sorry. Guess I was just,” Tuck handed the phone back to Doc Baich and stormed out of the barn.