The store was narrow but deeper than he’d imagined when he’d seen it from the street. A wizened, gray-haired man wearing spectacles stood behind a counter at the far end.
“I believe you have something for me,” Jake said.
“If your name is Straka, I do indeed.”
“ItwasStraka,” Jake said pointedly, but his meaning was lost on the little man.
“You’re taller in person,” the man said. Jake wondered what pictures the man had seen.
The shopkeeper wiped his hands on the canvas apron he wore over his shirt and pants, reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small, sealed manila envelope. He handed it to Jake.
With a curt nod, Jake stuffed it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, turned and left the shop. Outside, he glanced around, but saw no one suspicious. The streets were crowded with tourists, an unusually large group since Dublin was celebrating its Millennium, as well as the Dublin Horse Show, the biggest event of the year, starting next week.
Jostling his way along the bustling sidewalk, Jake rounded the corner and walked a few blocks. The green lawns of Trinity College beckoned, a quiet respite where he could sit undisturbed and open the package that seemed to burn a hole in his chest.
Finding a shady bench, he pulled out the envelope and carefully broke the seal. Inside he found a small round plastic vial contained a pair of contact lenses, two hotel keys—one to the Lansdowne, one to the Shelbourne—and a bottle of chalky white liquid. The instructions were simple:
On the morning of the Nations’ Cup competition, you will substitute the enclosed contact lenses for those worn by Felix McGrath. The night before, you will exchange the enclosed prescription for the one used by Clayton Whitfield. Your final instructions will be given on Friday morning at ten o’clock.
At the bottom, a diagram showed the location of the Friday morning rendezvous, the day of the Nations’ Cup. Saturday was the final day of competition.
Jake looked at the brown plastic bottle of chalky liquid. It had a typed label on the front showing Clay’s name and the name of his doctor. It looked exactly like the bottle Clay always carried.
He studied the contact lenses floating in the tiny vial, certain they would be identical to Flex’s. What the consequences would be for Flex and Clay? What if the substances were deadly? What if Jake was supposed to murder Flex and Clay?
Jake’s stomach rebelled at the thought. Could he actually commit murder? His conscience screamedno! But his mind warned he had to think carefully, stay open to every possibility if he was going to save Maggie and Sarah and his mother and sister.
But about Clay and Flex?
His fears increased. Jake walked a few more blocks then went into a small, crowded restaurant. Heading straight for the men’s room, he found it empty and ducked out through a low window that overlooked an alley. He couldn’t chance being traced to the chemist’s shop he intended to visit.
He needed answers. Maybe he could get them there.
Late in the afternoon, Jake returned to the hotel. The telephone was ringing when he walked into his room.
“Jake, thank heavens you’re back.” Maggie’s voice rang with alarm. “I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m back. Everything’s okay.”
“Where have you been?”
Jake hesitated. “Why don’t you meet me in the bar? We can talk about it over a drink.”
“That’s...that’s fine. I’ll be down in five minutes.”
Jake hung up wearily.She knows me too well,he thought. Maggie had sensed something was wrong, but Jake couldn’t tell her what it was.
He walked over and stared out the window, thinking of the last few hours. All he’d discovered was that Clay’s prescription contained a mild amount of chloral hydrate. Not enough to kill him even if he drank the whole bottle, but enough to make him violently ill. Knowing Clay, he might still try to ride, but the odds of his winning would be almost nil.
Flex’s contacts remained a mystery. The chemist could find nothing unusual in the solution that housed the lenses, which appeared to be of the standard plastic material. Tomorrow he’d work on the puzzle again.
In the meantime, it didn’t look like they expected him to commit murder—at least not yet. Maybe things could still work out.
Then he asked himself the question he’d been avoiding all day:Why would the Soviets go to this much trouble just to ensure that the American team lost the Dublin competition?
There had to be more to it. Forcing aside his fears, Jake headed downstairs.
Maggie waited in the pub, a popular spot called the Pirate’s Den, sipping a glass of white wine. A whiskey and water sat in front of the empty chair across from her, ready and waiting for Jake. She glanced across the room to the staircase just as he reached the bottom step and started toward her. Maggie forced herself to smile, though after worrying about him all day, it was an effort.
