“Can’t you take the suitcases of cash into the Cayman Islands or somewhere and put it in a bank?” I had asked.
“No chance,” he’d replied. “It’s now more difficult to open a bank account in the Cayman Islands than it is here. They are subject to all sorts of regulations laid down by both the United States and the European Union.”
“But I thought they were an offshore center for saving tax. What have the U.S. and Europe got to do with it?”
“If the offshore centers don’t comply with the rules, the U.S. won’t allow its citizens to go there. It would be like Cuba,” he had gone on. “And the Cayman Islands rely on the tourism industry to survive, and nearly all their tourists come from the United States, mostly on cruise ships.”
I sat playing with the computer and thinking about how I would deal with millions of pounds in cash if I had been Mr. Komarov.
“Suppose,” I said to Caroline, “he sends the cash back to South America along with the empty balls. The customs don’t care about cash leaving. They’re too busy looking out for drugs arriving.”
“So,” she said, “what good would that do? Bernard said you can’t transfer large amounts from South America to banks over here without having to prove first it’s not drug money.”
“I know,” I said. “But how about if you don’t transfer it back. How about if you use the cash to buy horses as well as drugs.”
She sat there looking at me with her mouth open.
“No one,” I went on, “is going to worry about being paid in cash for a moderately priced horse or two in Argentina, Uruguay or Colombia. I bet that Komarov has hundreds of small horse breeders who regularly provide him with the horses for cash in hand. You simply send the profit generated from the drug smuggling back to South America as cash to buy more female horses to continue the trade in a never-ending cycle. It’s self-perpetuating. Remember, Toby said he doubted that the sale of the horses would make much profit. It doesn’t have to. It’s not there to make a profit. It’s there to launder the cash. In the end, you have legitimate money from the legitimate sale of the horses at the prestigious Newmarket Bloodstock Sales, where Mr. Komarov is seen as a pillar of society, and is, no doubt, welcomed with open arms and a glass of champagne because he brings sixty-eight horses to every sale.”
“But we don’t actually know he smuggles drugs,” Caroline said.
“It doesn’t matter what he’s smuggling,” I said. “It could be anything of high value that can fit into those balls. Provided someone is prepared to pay, it could be computer chips, explosives or even radioactive materials.”
“Wouldn’t that injure the horses?” she said.
“Not if they were alpha particle sources,” I said. “Alpha particles can be stopped by a piece of paper, and the horse would easily be shielded from them by the metal of the ball. But they are very deadly if they enter the body without any shield at all. Remember that ex-KGB spy who was murdered in London with polonium-210? That stuff is an alpha source, and it had to have been smuggled here from Russia or somewhere in Eastern Europe. These metal balls easily could have been used to smuggle polonium-210 here without any harm being done to the horse.”
Caroline shivered. “It’s scary.”
“It certainly is.”
“But surely the balls would show up if the horses were X-rayed,” she said.
“I expect so,” I said. “But they don’t X-ray the horses. X-rays can damage a developing embryo or a fetus, and many horses are transported after they are pregnant. It would be far too risky.”
“But,” she said, smiling, “if someone was to anonymously whisper to Her Majesty’s Customs that Mr. Komarov’s next jumbo jetful of horses from South America might just be worth X-raying, then Mr. Komarov might find himself in a bit of hot water, not to mention in the slammer.”
I kissed her. Perfect.
“But something is still worrying me,” she said. “Why did Komarov bomb the box at Newmarket? Surely that was stupid and dangerous.”
“I wonder if it was a punishment,” I said.
“For what?”
“Maybe Rolf Schumann was not paying his dues to Komarov.” I thought for a moment. “Perhaps he’d been using the cash from the drug and horse sales to support his ailing tractor business instead of passing it on. Maybe the bombing was a demonstration to warn Komarov’s associates in other countries around the world that he means business, and he won’t stand for anyone robbing him.”
“You mean he killed innocent people just to send a warning?” she said.
“Komarov wouldn’t care about the innocent,” I said. “Drugs kill innocent people every day, one way or another.”
TOBY WAS very moody in the morning. He snapped at the children over breakfast, and even swore at the dog in front of them. It was out of character.
He had been out on the gallops with the first string of horses at six, an unusually warm May driving them out earlier and earlier. Breakfast with the family was between the first and second lots, before the three little ones were packed off to school in the car with Sally. They were at an age when the coming and going in this house washed over their world of school, parties, television and computer games.
“Bye, Uncle Max,” they all shouted to me as they clambered into Sally’s people carrier, and then they were gone. I had left Caroline in bed, catching up on six hours’ time difference, and I had dragged myself from between the sheets only because I felt I had neglected the children the previous evening.
I went back inside and found Toby at the kitchen table trying to read the Racing Post. However, he obviously wasn’t concentrating on the newspaper, as I saw him restart the same article at least three times.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, sitting myself back down with a mug of coffee.
“Nothing,” he said, and set about reading the article for the fourth time.
“Yes there is.” I reached across the table and dragged the paper away from him. “What is it?”
He looked up at me. “Sally and I had a row.”
“I can tell,” I said. It had been obvious the whole time Sally was getting breakfast. “What about?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he stated firmly, standing up.
“It clearly does,” I said. “Is it about me?”
“I told you, it doesn’t matter.”
“So, it was about me,” I said. “Tell me.”
He didn’t answer. He turned to go out of the door, back to the stables.
“Toby,” I almost shouted, “for God’s sake, what is it?”
He stopped, but he didn’t turn around. “Sally wants you to leave here this morning,” he said. He now turned and looked at me. “She’s worried and frightened. You know, for the children.”
“Oh, is that all?” I said with a smile. “We’ll go as soon as we’re ready.”
“You don’t have to,” he said. “I put my foot down. You’re my brother, and if I can’t help you when you’re in trouble, then who will? What good am I as a brother if I throw you out of my home?”
I could hear in his voice that this was an argument well rehearsed during his row with Sally.
“It OK,” I said. “She’s right. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come here in the first place.” But I was glad I had. Toby’s knowledge of horses had been the key to everything.
“But where will you go?” he asked.
“Somewhere else,” I said. Perhaps it would be better if he didn’t know. “We’ll be gone when you get back from second lot. I’ll call you later. And thank Sally for me, for having us.”
Surprisingly, he walked across the kitchen and gave me a huge hug.
“Be careful,” he said into my ear. “Be a shame to lose you now.” He suddenly let me go, looked away as if in embarrassment and went straight outside without saying another word. Maybe he was too emotional to speak. I was.