Page 26 of Shadow of Doubt

Opening her iPad, she pulled up a series of photos and slid the device over to Conroy, who swiped through a handful of equestrian images.

“What am I looking at?” he asked.

“The Ukraine invasion rendered the Russians persona non grata at pretty much every international competition. So wealthy Russian elites began creating their own, like this equestrian event in Volgograd.”

“And?”

“And the rider you’re looking at is Peshkov’s mistress, Valentina Usova. She’s a former gold medalist who still loves to compete. The Volgograd event gave her a chance to do just that. The photographs you’re looking at are from the day before yesterday.”

“Who took these?” Conroy asked.

“We pulled them from local press coverage, as well as Rossgram—Russia’s version of Instagram.”

“Am I missing something? Was Peshkov in the crowd?”

“No,” Maggie said, taking the tablet back. “This was a real rich people’s event and Peshkov’s no fool. If he had been there, publicly supporting Valentina, there would’ve been photos of him splashed all over the place. He won’t hand his opposition, much less Russia’s angry citizenry, who are shouldering the weight of international sanctions, a let-them-eat-cake moment like that. He’s too cunning. But would he come in under the radar? Maybe adopt a disguise of some sort? That’s what we were wondering.”

“Did he?”

Maggie shook her head. “As we know, he’s paranoid about assassination attempts and travels with a large security element. The sheer number of men and vehicles would have been impossible to hide.”

“Then what am I missing?”

“This,” she replied, swiping right to a new set of images and handing the iPad back. “Satellite footage taken from after the event.”

“It looks like a horse being loaded into a trailer.”

“Correct. That’s Valentina’s trailer. But that isn’t her horse.”

Conroy looked closer. “How can you tell?”

“The first giveaway is the color. Valentina’s horse, Balthazar, has an autosomal dominant gene. It creates a dilute phenotype in black-pigmented horses.”

“In English, please.”

“It’s referred to as silver dilution. A horse with a black coat will actually be chocolate in color with a flaxen or silver-gray mane and tail. Balthazar’s are flaxen.”

“And the horse I’m looking at here, its mane and tail aren’t?”

Maggie reached over and zoomed in on the photo. “No. We believe this horse is a bleached blonde.”

“I’m starting to understand why you didn’t bring this to me sooner.”

“Bear with me,” she replied, committed to making her case. “The second giveaway is even more revealing.”

“Which is what?”

“The horse’s height. Balthazar is an Arabian. Arabian horses stand fourteen to fifteen hands high.”

“And how tall is the horse in this photo?” Conroy asked.

“Based on our calculations, it’s at least sixteen hands, and while it looks similar, it isn’t an Arabian. Our best guess is that it’s probably a breed known as an Oldenburg.”

He studied the photo for a few more moments. “For the sake of this conversation, let’s say they are two different horses. Why do we care?”

Leaning over, Maggie swiped to the next series of photos and replied, “Because about twenty minutes after Valentina’s trailer with Balthazar’s look-alike left for Moscow, another trailer departed, heading south toward Idokopas.”

Conroy scrutinized the new series of photos. “Remind me where Volgograd is again?”

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