Triple Crown

by Felix Francis

  ‘A silencer?’

  ‘In case we need to be covert,’ she replied. ‘But we don’t use it as a general rule. It upsets the balance of the weapon in the hand. Tends to make the shots go high and right.’

  She snapped the magazine back in and returned the pistol to its holster in a single movement. She clearly was completely at ease with such deadly apparatus.

  ‘I thought expanding bullets were illegal,’ I said. ‘Aren’t they against the Geneva Convention?’

  Expanding bullets would flatten out or fragment on impact with anything hard, like human bone, causing serious trauma over a much wider area than a normal bullet. They had been much feared during the American Civil War due to the horrendous wounds they produced.

  ‘It was the Hague Convention,’ Bob Wade said. ‘But it only applies to warfare, not to law enforcement. All US police forces use them.’

  I must have looked somewhat aghast that ammunition banned in war as being too brutal and cruel was standard issue on the streets of America.

  ‘Expanding bullets,’ Bob said in explanation, ‘are less likely to pass right through suspects and into innocent bystanders behind them. They also have more stopping power.’

  Nevertheless, I was still not convinced that using them was ethical. No wonder more than a thousand members of the American public were shot dead by police each and every year.

  Tony Andretti had said in the lay-by near Oxford that he couldn’t get his head round Brits and guns.

  Well, I couldn’t get my head round Yanks and guns either. Statistics showed that, in all circumstances, you were seventy times more likely to be shot to death in the United States than in England. And that must have something to do with the number of guns at hand.

  And what worried me most was that the section mole was likely to have a Glock 22C holstered on his hip with fifteen .40 expanding bullets in the magazine, plus a silencer and two more loaded mags on his belt.

  I really would have to watch my back.

  5

  By the end of the day I had been round the whole office and met all the section staff except for the most junior admin assistant, who was away on maternity leave.

  I had a good memory for faces and facts and I had been easily able to match the individuals to their life stories as outlined in the personnel files. The only difficult thing was not appearing to know something that I hadn’t been told. For example, I nearly asked one of the two intelligence analysts if he liked working for FACSA more than for a bank when he hadn’t actually mentioned his previous employment.

  ‘Monday is a good day for you to start,’ Frank Bannister said over coffee in the FACSA cafeteria at lunchtime. ‘It’s when all the special agents try to be in the office for meetings and such. Mondays and Tuesdays are usually dark at the major tracks, unless they’re public holidays.’

  By ‘dark’, he meant there was no racing.

  ‘Do you go to the tracks a lot?’ I asked.

  ‘I usually go somewhere every week,’ he replied. ‘All of us do. It is as important for us to be seen as it is for us to see what’s going on. I tend to concentrate on the northeastern tracks but I love going to the smaller ones too, especially those that race only for a few days each year. Over the years I’ve been to almost all of them.’

  ‘It must do wonders for your frequent-flier miles.’

  ‘We don’t get them,’ he said. ‘We often travel on government jets. Even when we are on commercial flights, federal-service rates don’t earn you miles.’

  ‘Where are you going this week?’ I asked.

  ‘Highlight of the year,’ he said with a big smile. ‘Louisville for the Derby. You coming?’

  ‘You bet,’ I said.

  For years I had wanted to go to the Kentucky Derby but it was run on the first Saturday in May, usually on the same day as the 2000 Guineas at Newmarket, and my presence had always been expected at one of the biggest days of the English racing season.

  Now I was free of that obligation and the prospect of going to Churchill Downs thrilled me.

  ‘How do I get there?’ I asked.

  ‘The whole section is going Wednesday. Make sure the boss puts you on the manifest.’

  ‘I sure will.’

  Overall, it was an interesting but somewhat frustrating day.

  Whereas I was welcome to wander round and speak to the section staff throughout the morning, I was sidelined for much of the afternoon as all but three of them gathered in a room for a meeting on the second floor. A meeting from which I had been specifically excluded.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked one of the non-participants, one of the two intelligence analysts, who sat resolutely at his computer throughout.

  ‘Planning and briefing for an operation.’

  ‘Why aren’t you there?’

  ‘No point,’ he said. ‘The op is not based on any intel I’ve looked at, and I don’t get involved with planning.’

  ‘When is the op?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Sorry. I can’t say. It’s a secret.’

  I suppose I shouldn’t really have minded. Back in London I’d given Tony rather a hard time for letting too many people know about FACSA operations so I could now hardly expect to be one of them.

  Mind you, to my sure knowledge, there were at least eleven at the meeting, which was still far too many for something so secret.

  ‘Where does most of your intelligence come from?’ I asked the analyst.

  ‘Information comes from a variety of sources. It is analysis that turns info into intelligence.’ He sounded rather full of his own importance.

  ‘What sort of sources?’ I asked, ignoring his second comment. ‘In England we have a network of covert informants from within the racing industry.’

  He nodded. ‘Us too. But they’re mostly disgruntled grooms who have a score to settle with their employers either for being fired or being overlooked for promotion. Much of the stuff is just malicious lies with no substance. It’s my job to apply contextual knowledge to sort the truth from the trash.’

  Perhaps he was important after all.

  The operational planning meeting went on and on, and there was a limit to the amount of time I could hang around doing nothing.

  The hands on the clock moved slowly round to four-thirty.

  ‘Tell Frank I’ve gone, will you?’ I said. ‘I’ll see him in the morning.’

  The analyst simply waved an acknowledgement and went on studying his computer screen.

  After escaping the security cordon, with the photograph on my new shiny identity pass scrutinised at every door and gateway, I walked back to the hotel via a 7-Eleven store, where I picked up a few essential supplies like coffee, milk, cereal and so on, as well as a ready-meal of cheese and pasta for my dinner.

  Back in my room, I called Paul Maldini. It was ten in the evening in London but he picked up straight away.

  ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘There was a call to the office from the US asking about you.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘At five, just as I was leaving.’

  Midday in Washington.

  ‘Man or woman?’

  ‘Man.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He asked for you by name. I’d had Reception direct any calls for you to my phone.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told him that Jeff Hinkley was away and was not available and could I help him. Then he asked me where you were so I told him you were in the United States.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘He asked what you were doing in the US and how long you’d be away. I told him you were visiting another racing authority and I didn’t know for how long. Just as you told me to. Was that right?’

  ‘Yes, Paul, it was. Thank you. Did you happen to ask the man for his name?’

  ‘I did but he said that didn’t matter, then he hung up.’

  ‘Any clues about his voice?’

  ‘He had an American accent,�
� he said. ‘Other than that I can’t help you. I couldn’t tell you which part. All Yanks sound the same to me.’

  Must be his Italian heritage, I thought. Tony Andretti would have been appalled.

  I thought back to what I’d been doing at midday.

  Even though Norman Gibson had told me to stick to Frank Bannister like glue, I’d been intent on meeting as many of the section staff as I could and, at midday, I had been moving from desk to desk introducing myself as a member of the BHA Integrity Department.

  I couldn’t be exactly sure when I’d rejoined Frank to go down to the cafeteria. Probably nearer 12.30. So any of the men in the section could have made the call. And why shouldn’t they? Other than a letter from the US Embassy in London and my passport, I had no documents confirming my bona fides.

  Had I called FACSA when Tony had turned up in London to check up on him?

  No, I hadn’t. But these guys were attached to the US government and far more security-minded than the BHA.

  Maybe the call had been merely an innocent check-up.

  But why then had the caller not given his name when asked?

  I used my new pay-as-you-go phone to call Tony.

  He answered at the second ring.

  ‘The phone arrived safely then?’ I said.

  ‘First thing this morning. Where are you now?’

  ‘Back in my hotel. Where are you? Can you talk?’

  ‘I’m in my car,’ he said. ‘Still in the parking lot at FACSA. I’m leaving for the day.’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Stay and listen. I need a couple of things.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘First, someone from here made a call today to the BHA offices asking about me. It may have been an innocent check or it might have been our friend being suspicious. The person declined to give his name. Can you access the section phone records? Can you find out if anyone called London at midday today?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ he said, not sounding particularly hopeful.

  ‘But don’t tell anyone else. If it was our friend who made the call, I don’t want to spook him.’

  ‘What’s the other thing?’ Tony asked.

  ‘I was excluded from an operational planning meeting today. If this is another operation where the details are likely to be leaked, I need to know what’s going on. I can’t do this job if I’m to be kept in the dark.’

  There was a pause from the other end.

  ‘Tony?’ I said.

  ‘I’m thinking,’ he said. ‘When Jason Connor first came to me with his suspicions, I sent a memo to all staff reminding them of the need for secrecy and not to let any non-agency personnel be aware of our operations. It would be a bit hypocritical for me to now insist you were brought into the loop.’

  ‘I agree,’ I said. ‘And it would flag up to our friend that I’m more than just an observer. But I still need the information. You’ll have to get it for me. And Tony, could you make a list for me of everyone who knows about the operation?’

  ‘No problem,’ Tony said. ‘I was at the meeting today so I already have the details. How shall I get them to you?’

  ‘Could your wife deliver them? After dark.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said again. ‘I’ll go back in and make copies of the paperwork.’

  ‘Tony,’ I said. ‘Be careful. If FACSA is anything like the BHA, you can’t make copies without entering your personal code on the copy machine.’

  ‘OK,’ he said with a resigned sigh. ‘I’ll use the small copier in my PA’s office.’

  As far as I was concerned no precaution was too minor to be ignored. In my experience, it was usually the accumulation of small clues that added up to create the big picture rather than any single dramatic revelation. The fewer traces we generated regarding the true purpose of my visit the better.

  ‘I also need account details for all the racing section staff, preferably recent bank statements. Whoever is leaking information may be being paid for it. If so, we need to find those deposits.’

  ‘That’ll need court subpoenas,’ Tony said.

  ‘Then get them. But will the staff then know their statements are being looked at?’

  ‘They shouldn’t. I’ll deal with it personally and the banks will get the subpoenas, not the staff. The need for discretion will be emphasised.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I want to go to the Kentucky Derby this Saturday. Frank Bannister told me the whole racing section is going to Louisville on Wednesday. Can you fix it so that I go with them?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Tony said. ‘The operation we were discussing today will be executed at Churchill Downs this coming weekend. I’ll ensure you are included on the flight.’

  ‘Carefully,’ I said. ‘You don’t know me, remember.’

  ‘I’ll have a quiet word with Norman Gibson.’

  ‘He’s not in the loop,’ I said. ‘I’d prefer it to remain that way.’

  ‘Don’t you trust Norman?’

  ‘I trust nobody to keep a secret that my life might depend on.’ Not even you, I thought, but I decided not to say so.

  The package from Tony arrived at nine o’clock as I was again studying the FACSA personnel files.

  Out of curiosity, I had looked up Tony Andretti’s own record.

  He was 64 years old, having been born on Staten Island, New York, in the 1950s. He was not named Anthony, as I had assumed, but Antonio after his Italian father, and he was married with three grown-up sons. He and his wife Harriet now lived in Fairfax, Virginia, a few miles away from his office.

  He had joined FACSA as a special agent direct from the NYPD when the agency had been first established. He had worked his way up through section chief to assistant director in charge of administration, and then finally to Deputy Director three years previously.

  He had reached the pinnacle of his career. Simple research on the Internet showed that the Director was a political appointee, determined by the US President and, as with the FBI, the position was invariably awarded to someone outside the organisation.

  Tony would not get to be Director.

  I opened the package. It contained details of an operation to raid a trainer’s barn at Churchill Downs to check for the improper use of medications in horses.

  Unlike in the United Kingdom, where horses were trained ‘at home’ and then only taken to a racecourse by horsebox on the day of their race, racehorses in the US were trained at the track, living in barns on what was known as the backside or backstretch. Each individual trainer had a barn and there were accommodation blocks for the grooms.

  The main reason for the difference lay in the way races were scheduled and that, in turn, was largely due to the differing surfaces on which the horses competed.

  In the UK, the vast majority of races were run on turf rather than on dirt whereas in the States it was the reverse. Dirt tracks could take far more use than turf as they didn’t cut up and were simply harrowed back into pristine condition after each race.

  Consider Santa Anita Park, one of the major tracks in California. During the first six months of each year, there were eight, nine or even ten races a day on four days of every week. That was nearly nine hundred races in only half a year.

  Compare that to Newbury racecourse, one of the busiest tracks in the UK, where twenty-nine days’ racing were spread evenly across all twelve months. With seven races each time, at Newbury there were far less than a quarter of the races of Santa Anita over twice the time.

  But the real difference was that the Santa Anita backside barns were also home to some two thousand racehorses that were also exercised on the dirt track every day. No turf racecourse could stand up to such punishment.

  I read through the paperwork for the proposed raid and the details were surprising to say the least – horrifying might be a better word.

  6

  I was familiar with the British regulatory structure
that had a simple but all-embracing rule in relation to drugs being present in a horse during a race – they aren’t allowed and, if detected, severe penalties would follow.

  In addition, certain substances were not permitted to be introduced into a horse’s system at any time. They included all anabolic steroids, hormones, and any metabolic moderators such as insulin.

  Reading one of the background briefing papers for the Churchill Downs raid, it became very clear to me that the situation in the United States was very different.

  Anyone connected with racing worldwide was well aware of the widespread use in America of the drug furosemide, sold under the trade names Lasix or Salix. It is a potent diuretic and is used in horses to prevent bleeding in the lungs under extreme exertion, a condition known as EIPH, exercise-induced pulmonary haemorrhage. Whether they actually need it or not, almost every horse that races in North America has 500mg of the drug injected intravenously four hours before they race.

  The diuretic effect is dramatic, with the horse producing ten to fifteen litres of urine in the first hour after administration of the drug. This in itself has a two-fold effect. First, it makes the horse ten to fifteen kilogrammes lighter, and second, it tends to flush out of the animal’s system any other drugs, which then become impossible to detect in a post-race dope test.

  And, boy, according to what I was reading, there were plenty of other drugs.

  American racing was seemingly rife with them, and most were allowed by the various state rules, even though there were attempts to reduce the dependence.

  In some states, the administration of any legal medication was permitted up to twenty-four hours before a race, while in others the period could vary from a few days to a few weeks before racing.

  A particularly worrying aspect of drugs in American racing was the widespread use of anti-inflammatory and painkilling medication such as phenylbutazone, known as ‘Bute’, which was often administered intravenously, allowing a horse to race when otherwise it would be unable to do so.