Identity

She paused at the section of the application that asked for her Social Security Number and work history. – Jen Luby

For a split second, Constance was inclined to enter the real information, her true SSN and work history. However, that wouldn’t get her the job. That fateful night five years ago, the night that changed her life, seemed very far away. Now, an international journalist, Constance had traveled to the hottest hot spots capturing a world at war. Being a reporter gave her work for the CIA a bulletproof cover. She briefly fantasized about typing in her actual accomplishments like saving a captured British diplomat in Afghanistan, or undermining an assassination attempt in Chad. Constance let out a tiny sigh before clicked the ‘submit’ button and leaned back in her chair. Dusty golden light filtered between linen curtains as the afternoon call for prayer began to filter through the streets of Istanbul. Maybe a fresh start would end the nightmares, the insomnia, the jumping at shadows. Now that she was looking at thirty, Constance had decided to hang it up. She snapped the laptop closed and rose. It was time to pack.

***

As Constance’s car pulled away from the airport curb, she rolled down the window and breathed the heavy humid air of Washington D.C. in spring. She marveled at how green the world was, even through the traffic fumes. After a short meeting to debrief and hand over her gear and papers, she was free. Monitored, maybe, but basically free to go back to being a regular citizen. Constance smoothed a finger over her new cell phone and called up the offer letter from Horse & Hound magazine for the thousandth time. She smiled, privately gleeful that she’d be their new U.S. based features editor. In her old life, she’d had a horse-mad period in junior high and high school. Her parents had indulged her in riding lessons until the car accident that took their lives.

***

Constance reveled in the sloping green Kentucky hills topped with ragged forests as she drove west in her newly purchased red hybrid SUV. She’d rented a cottage on the outskirts of Lexington, right in the middle of horse country. The magazine had given her a week to get settled before the team meeting to touch base with the staff and her writers. Constance flexed her hands on the steering wheel and grinned. This new beginning sent electric tingles to her fingers and toes. Maybe she’d finally be able to sleep.

Three weeks later, Constance pushed open the door to the Amsden Coffee Club in Versailles. She glanced over the bustling hipster space and spotted her writer in the corner nursing a steaming mug and crumbling a muffin. She strode over, her long dark hair swinging over the shoulders of her green sweater. Constance had decided to embrace jewel tones now that she didn’t have to wear the khaki colors of the desert or hide her hair under a scarf. She could afford to be noticed and she appreciated the handful of glances pointed her way as she sauntered across the creaking wide planked wood floors.

“Hey there!” Constance called as she slid into the seat across from Annie Edwards, her freelancer.

Annie Edwards looked up, startled, from her phone. “Oh! Hi. Um, how are you?”

“I’m grand. It’s such a beautiful morning,” Constance firmed her lips into a smile, biting back the observations threatening to tumble off her tongue. She hadn’t realized just how lonely living alone could be. She physically stopped herself from commenting on the traffic, the planters full of flowers, and the preponderance of beards on young men nowadays. Annie looked at her warily and Constance pulled herself together. “I’m going to grab a coffee. Do you need a refill?” She waved a polished nail at Annie’s china mug.

“Er, no, I’m good. Thanks.” Annie muttered. Constance rose, grabbing her bag. She returned shortly with a latte steaming in a matching white china mug.

“So, you made it sound pretty urgent in your email. What’s up?” Constance asked, stirring her drink.

“Well, I’ve been working on those profiles of the major farms as well as some minor ones with a long history,” replied Annie, lifting her brown eyes to Constance’s. She blew at her blonde bangs. “Look, I know you’re new to this gig at the magazine, but, well, how much do you know about horses?”

Constance’s brows shot up and she almost sputtered out her drink. “I thought we covered that at the meeting a couple of weeks ago?” Annie tilted her head, inviting her to elaborate. Constance carefully set down her mug, gathering her thoughts, remembering her cover. “I’m an enthusiast at best, yes, but you’ve seen my resumé. If you’ve got a story, I want to know”

Annie hunched forward and lowered her voice. “Here’s the thing. I was born and raised here. My dad’s a horse trainer and so are all my five brothers. My whole family has worked in horse breeding and racing for generations. They think I’m the black sheep because I write.” Constance nodded, her instincts sizzling.

Annie continued, almost whispering, “Look, I don’t know you. Our last editor was an idiot from New York that got banished to this assignment as punishment for coke parties. He left us alone and greenlit any story we gave him.”

Constance cleared her throat, “You know I’m not going to do that. I made that pretty clear. You’re going to have to be above board on sources and pitch me stories. We need to raise the caliber of the pieces beyond the horse society report.”

“I know, I know” Annie waved her fingers and took a big sip. “That’s why I like you. I’ve been meaning to really dig into some of the farms and their practices for a while now, but…”

“But, what?” quizzed Constance. “I think it’s past time for a little investigative work.”

Annie heaved a sigh. “Ms. Boughton, there is so much money at stake here, I’m not sure you get it.”

“First, just call me Constance. Second, I’ve been poking around even before I took this job. I’ve a pretty good idea how many millions is floating around.”

“Try billions,” muttered Annie. Constance’s spine stiffened. Millions, sure, she knew that horse racing was a big industry, but billions?

“Really,” breathed Constance.

“Really,” agreed Annie darkly. “And I don’t think it’s in horseflesh.” Annie glanced around, nervous. “I think I’ve found something bigger.”

Constance looked around the coffeeshop as she took a fortifying drink. It was a mix of generations, some older folks in sweaters and slacks, a healthy swath of hipsters in jeans and flannel, the odd businessman sprinkled in. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the two ladies in the corner. Constance allowed herself another sip and swept the room, this time with her trained senses. Annie was right to be concerned. Leaning on the counter by the window, a tall, muscled man in thick boots and leather jacket seemed to check his phone, but Constance suspected he’d just taken their photo.

“Let’s take this conversation elsewhere, shall we?” Constance tilted her head in invitation. Annie shrugged and the two women collected their things, dropping their mugs in the bin by the door. Constance kept the suspicious guy in the corner of her eye as they walked out. She directed Annie down the block in front of the courthouse.

“Is there a park around here? Somewhere with a bench or something?” asked Constance, watching the plate glass windows across the street for reflections.

“Um, sure, here,” Annie grabbed her arm at the end of the courthouse and directed her to the Versailles Methodist Church. Constance didn’t see her suspected tail, but that didn’t mean anything, yet. Annie led her between the church and another whitewashed building to a little path charmingly planted in flowers, shrubs, and trees. In a few steps, they were off the street and screened from view. Constance spotted a convenient bench a few yards away. It would give a good site line to the street but was concealed enough that they wouldn’t stand out.

“Here,” stated Constance, “take a seat.” Annie, bewildered, sat down. “Now, what’ve you got?” demanded Constance.

Annie took a deep breath and began to outline her suspicions. Her dad and brothers worked on a couple of different farms, but between them and her uncles and cousins, the Edwards clan had connections at almost all the farms in Lexington County. Evidently, a wave of new money was being spent on horses, especially with older farms that hadn’t seen significant investment in years. There seemed to be some loosening in regulations in the new administration that allowed horses to be traded more freely between the U.S., the European Union, and Russia. The prices on yearlings were skyrocketing and breeding studs had been imported from all over the world. Two farms, in particular, Victorluna and Eastlake, Annie’s dad was particularly worried about. Eastlake had been a huge champion breeder in the 40s and 50s with a few bright spots in the 70s and 80s but had faded in recent years under multiple changes of ownership. On the flipside, Victorluna had been bought as an investment from some telecommunications tycoon and was winning big on the major races, all in the past five years.

“Why are you telling me?” asked Constance, a bit overwhelmed.

“Because the imported horses, the ones they are bringing in, particularly Eastlake,” Annie took a deep breath, “those are really odd.”

“How so?” inquired Constance, eyeing the glimpses of the street between the leaves.

“They’re premium purebred Arabian stock. We haven’t seen horses like these in years, maybe decades. But the animals are in trouble. They’re thin to the point of malnourished. They’re incredibly sensitive to handling and have some really weird reactions.” Annie sighed. “My dad’s really worried about them.”

“Well,” Constance rubbed her hands on her knees to scrub the tingling away. New stories always got her blood up. “I’m not sure how suspicious that sounds, so why is your dad so concerned with skittish, skinny horses?”

Annie shrugged. “If they aren’t happy, they won’t breed. If they don’t breed, then, well, the investment is down the drain and they become a liability instead of an asset. But mostly, Dad is worried about their provenance. The paperwork, the microchips, the lip tattoos are all there, but,” Alice sighed. “Maybe it would be better for you to talk to him.”

Constance’s heart leapt at the chance to get out to a farm, to be around the animals she adored and talk with trainers. “Sure. I can do that.”

“Good. I’ll check with Dad and send you a date and time,” replied Annie.

The two women went separate ways. Constance continued down the garden path to the park below. Maybe this was a story and maybe it was a wild horse chase, but at least it was more interesting than the latest styles in saddle stitching. In the meantime, she’d give the old office a call and have them start digging into the finances at Eastlake. Victorluna, too, just in case.

***

Two days later, Constance found herself walking down the center of the far barn at Eastlake, her bootheels echoing on the bricks and her nose tickled by the dust of hay and straw. She tried valiantly not to sneeze. Annie waved to her from the box stalls at the end, a short man next to her. As Constance approached, Annie introduced her to Tom Edwards, her father. Tom’s brown hair was fading to grey at the temples. Abundant crows feet and frown lines framed his face, but his blue eyes twinkled as he took in Constance.

“So, your Annie’s new editor,” drawled Tom. “Nice to meet you.” Constance nodded. “Welcome to Eastlake and our new crop of horses.” He gestured to two mares fidgeting on the far side of the large stall and indicated the stalls around them. Constance noted that no horse faces peered out in curiosity, unlike the other end, where chestnuts and bays had eagerly greeted her. “Yeah,” Tom shook his head at Constance’s inquiring look, “skittish isn’t the right term for it.” He leaned both elbows on the smooth wood sill, taking in the mares. “We got two mares and four stallions last week.”

Tom Edwards ran down the list of issues with the horses. They were starving, bruised, cut, terrified, and all around the sorriest bunch of abused animals he’d ever come across. He’d gone through their papers personally and “There’s something not right, there, Ms. Boughton. I don’t have proof, but I went back into the historic records. Underneath all the abuse, these horses are pure Arabians with some of the finest breeding I’ve seen in years. I conferred with my brothers and we think that these are from the original lines out of Syria.”

Constance rocked back on her heels. Syria. How on earth had Arabian horses from Syria ended up in Kentucky? She didn’t doubt Tom for a moment. She knew an expert when she saw one.

“Wow,” breathed Constance. “Why Syria, though?”

Tom shrugged. “I suspect they came through Russia. The lip tattoos have some characteristic Russian flare if you look for it. Those tattoos are odd, too. Something’s off, but I can’t for the life of me tell you what. They just raise my hackles.”

Excitement fizzed through Constance and she resisted the urge to bounce on her toes. Now this was a story! “Is there any chance I could take a look at a couple of them?”

“Do you know what you’re looking at?” Tom cocked a skeptical eyebrow.

“You might be surprised what I’ve picked up along the way,” murmured Constance.

Tom opened the stall and coaxed a raven black mare out on a lead. The horse bucked and skittered until he ran a calming hand over her forehead and muttered nonsense in her ear. Eyes huge, the mare allowed herself to be lead into a shadowed corner. Tom gave the halter to Annie and pulled out a flashlight. Constance stepped to the horse’s head. Deftly, he gently lifted the mare’s upper lip, shining the light to reveal a string of six numbers. Constance peered at the tattoo as the horse stood stock still, skin shivering. She took her time and inspected the whole area. Tom let her examine the inside of the bottom lip as well, just for good measure.

Straightening, Constance looked Tom square in the eye, “Yes, you’ve got something special there. Let me make some calls.” She turned away and marched down the paddock, bringing her cell phone to her ear.

***

The next day, Constance had an urgent email waiting in her inbox. Her former boss had jumped on the problem as soon as she’d called. An agent was in the air and Constance was to collect him from the airport. When she pulled up to the curb and hopped out, she nearly fell over in shock. Jake was waiting, a knapsack slung over one shoulder. Of course, Constance thought, because fate laughs at me.

She filled him in on the way to Eastlake. Jake was thoughtful and polite, asking leading questions. Constance pulled herself together and put her investigative reporter face on. At last, she pulled alongside the barn. Tom Edwards strode over to greet them. The trio walked straight to the new horses. Jake complimented Tom on the clean, efficient barn and Tom merely grunted. Jack cocked an eyebrow at Constance, who shook her head a little. She hadn’t realized how much Annie’s trust led to Tom’s.

This time, they examined the mouths of all the horses inside. Jake used a flashlight and an ultraviolet beam to inspect the tattoos. After the last horse, Jake blew out a breath and gestured for them to step outside. They walked through the paddock a bit, grass sticking to their boots.

Jake paused and took a deep breath. “Sorry to drag you all the way out here, but I wanted to make sure we were away from the building.” He gravely inspected Tom. “You’ve got one hell of a problem on your hands, sir.”

Tom’s eyes crinkled, “Don’t I know it. It’s going to take every last bit of experience I have to rehab those beasts.”

Jake shook his head and glanced across at Constance. “Sir, it’s bigger than their physical and mental health. Those horses were captured and shipped through Russia. They’re some of the oldest Syrian bloodstock of Arabian horses. We’ve actually been looking for them.” Jake ran nervous fingers through his wavy black hair. “In between capture and export, though, they’ve gotten even more valuable and even more dangerous.”

Tom grasped the lapels of his canvas coat. “Well, what the hell can make them dangerous?”

“There’s a unique ink mark on each of those tattoos. One of the dots reacts to ultraviolet light, and that tells me it holds something special. We need to get those dots off the horses and under a microscope.”

“What do you think it is?” asked Constance quietly.

Jake sighed. “It could be anything, but I fear the worst. Knowing these horses came from Syria, I hope to hell it’s not the formula for the next big chemical weapon.”

Tom inhaled sharply and Constance leaned back on her heels. Annie was getting a raise for this.

***

A week later, Jake called Constance and invited her out to dinner. She accepted immediately, eager for an update. They met at a small bistro and took a table in the back, facing the room. Old habits died hard, Constance mused, as she perused the menu.

“So,” she started. Jake cocked an eyebrow.

“So?” he asked.

“Oh, c’mon! What happened with the horses?”

Jake’s smile slid easily into a grin. “Good job on that. Yes, the ink contained a microdot with the formula to a chemical weapon. It’s safely on its way to the lab. Eastlake is officially under investigation, although they think it’s just an audit. Victorluna checked out though, just FYI. The owner has enough bank to play the moneyball version of horseracing.”

Constance smirked, satisfied and then stiffened. “Tom – he’s going to be OK, right?”

“Oh, yes. Nothing is linked to him, we made sure of that. He and his family, though, are turning out to be able assets. The whole county is getting a thorough vetting, thanks to Tom. We’re not sure if we’ll find anything else, but it doesn’t hurt to look.” Jake looked deep into her eyes until Constance glanced down, embarrassed. “Hey,” he mumbled, and she looked up. “I’m sorry.”

Constance gave a tiny shrub. “It’s OK. It was business.” She kept her eyes lowered to the menu, afraid he’d see the lie.

“Oh, Ruby, it was never about business with you,” Jake murmured. “I couldn’t be objective anymore. I had to leave before I put us in danger.” He toyed with his fork. “I’m so sorry.”

Constance sat frozen at the sound of her old name. She closed her eyes at the searing pain stitched across her heart. As she took a slow breath, Constance ruefully realized she’d never gotten over him, just stuffed it away in a box. She glanced up into his sorrow-shaded blue eyes. “I accept your apology,” she whispered. Constance knotted her fingers in her lap to keep them from shaking.

Jake studied her, and the chair creaked as he shifted his weight. “There’s more good news out of this.”

Constance blinked and tried to get her shoulders to relax.

“This is my last official assignment. I sent my resignation this morning. Now, we’re both two people with questionable pasts free to make our futures our own.” Jake reached across the table and Constance laid her trembling fingers in his warm open hand. “Can we start over?”

For the first time in a long time, her smile danced in her eyes. “I’d like that,” and she tightened her grasp, “That would be fine.”