Felix Francis - Triple Crown

My name was not included on the raid personnel list.

Local Kentucky law enforcement would be present on-site immediately after the raid was initiated in order to limit disruption for trainers in other barns. In addition, three veterinary surgeons from the US Department of Agriculture would travel on the transport with the agents to secure samples from each of the twenty-four horses known to be stabled in Ryder’s barn.

The papers went on to say that there would be a full-scale rehearsal on Wednesday morning using an unused barn on a local horse farm. Special agents should study and fully assimilate the map of the real Churchill Downs barns prior to the rehearsal. All personnel were to be fully kitted with their firearms readied, as if for the real thing, at 0600 hours on Wednesday. The Deputy Director would be attending the rehearsal and making an assessment of individual performances.

Tony had obviously followed my advice to the letter.

I put the papers back in the envelope and resealed it. Then I slipped it under my arm beneath my coat and went out into the corridor.

I could hear voices in the stairwell at the far end.

I quickly reinserted the key into the handle of Room 303 and went in, placed the envelope back where I’d found it, and made a hasty retreat.

I was only just back in my own room when I heard Bob Wade’s distinctive laugh coming down the corridor.

That was much too close for comfort, I thought, and my thumping heart agreed.

I took a couple of deep breaths and stepped back out into the corridor. Bob and Steffi were kissing and they jumped apart as if they’d had an electric shock. Silly people. Why not wait until they were inside?

‘Hello, Jeff,’ Steffi said with a nervous laugh. ‘I didn’t realise you were coming.’

‘It’d be a waste of my time to remain in Arlington with you all here,’ I said. ‘I’m off to explore.’

I walked past them and on towards the stairwell without looking back. I smiled to myself. Perhaps they would be so engrossed in each other for a while that they wouldn’t notice that the white envelope still had a slight dampness to it due to the steam.

Dinner was at six-thirty, served in what Frank Bannister called the chow hall, a large building close by the accommodation.

I personally thought it was a little early to eat but some of the others bemoaned the fact that it was so late, and they didn’t seem to worry that two of the agents who’d had to fly via Atlanta hadn’t yet arrived.

‘I’m sure they’ll get something on the flight,’ Frank said, helping himself to a second serving. ‘I would if I were them.’

‘It won’t be long ’til breakfast anyway,’ chipped in Trudi Harding, the second female special agent, sitting alongside Steffi Dean. ‘Why do we have to be up so damn early? Why can’t the rehearsal be at a more reasonable hour?’

‘That’s government service for you,’ Frank said, laughing. ‘They never take your comfort into consideration.’

He was so right. In the army, I’d regularly risen at five, ready to be at work by six or six-thirty. And that was in the UK. On operations in Afghanistan it was a matter of catching an hour’s sleep whenever and wherever you could. Only since joining the BHA had I grown fonder of my bed.

After eating, everyone drifted back to their rooms ‘to check kit, clean weapons and to memorise their individual action plan’ according to Frank. ‘It’s not often we get a Deputy Director’s assessment,’ he said. ‘Failing can result in loss of special-agent status.’

‘Does that happen often?’ I asked.

‘I’ve never known it at FACSA,’ he said, ‘but there are stories from other agencies. And no one here wants to be the first.’

He rushed off, no doubt to oil his Glock 22C and polish his expanding bullets. I, meanwhile, wandered over to a quiet open space to make a call to Tony.

‘Where are you?’ Tony asked.

‘In Louisville,’ I said. ‘How about you?’

‘I’ve just landed.’

I instinctively looked over to my left towards the airport runways. Crazy really. There was not a chance in hell I’d be able to see him.

‘Any luck with the staff bank statements?’ I asked.

‘The subpoenas have been issued and served on the various banks. We should have everything by tomorrow.’

I was impressed. The wheels of government agencies could spin fast after all.

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Now about tomorrow morning. I am not on the list of raid personnel.’

‘Have you seen it?’

‘Yes. I borrowed the briefing papers from one of your agents.’

‘Someone showed them to you?’ He sounded troubled.

‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘I borrowed them without their knowledge.’

‘But those papers are highly confidential.’

‘Then people shouldn’t leave them lying around for others to look at, even if they were in a sealed envelope in a locked room. It was plain careless to leave the key in the lock. I couldn’t help myself.’

Tony laughed. ‘You see, I do have the right man.’

‘But what can you do about it? I need to be there for the raid.’

‘Why don’t you ask me in the morning?’

‘I’m asking you now,’ I said, slightly irritated.

‘No. I mean ask me formally in the morning with the others listening. I’m sure Norman Gibson will introduce you to me if you ask him. I will just say — why not? — and you’ll be in.’

I supposed it was a better plan than him going directly to Norman to request it.

‘OK,’ I said, ‘I will.’

‘See you in the morning, then.’

‘Yes,’ I replied.

I was excited about the raid but also quite apprehensive.

Who wouldn’t be with eight special agents running around in an enclosed space with their firearms readied? A space that was also shared by two dozen highly strung Thoroughbred racehorses.

While not necessarily a recipe for disaster, there was ample scope for things to go wrong.

And they did go horribly wrong. At least, I thought so, although the others seemed to be remarkably happy with the outcome.

Everyone was ready well before the 6 a.m. call and it quickly became apparent why the agents’ baggage had been so heavy — body armour.

Each special agent was wearing a dark blue bullet-proof vest with FACSA in large yellow letters on the front and back. In addition they were all in matching uniform of dark blue trousers, a lighter blue shirt and black baseball cap, again with FACSA embroidered in yellow above the peak.

There was no attempt now to hide the weapons, their Glock 22Cs visible in full sight in gunslinger-style holsters attached to the agents’ belts and tied around their legs above the knee with black straps.

They were also wired with personal radios, with earpieces on curly wires, and microphones attached to their non-gun wrists.

The final touch was a shiny gold badge with ‘Department of Justice’ and ‘US Federal Anti-Corruption in Sports Agency’ embossed around the edge and a large ‘Special Agent’ stamped across the middle. Secured to the front of each agent’s bulletproof vest above the heart, they reminded me of the toy sheriff’s star I’d pinned to my cowboy outfit as a child.

The sky was still totally black as Norman ushered the eight special agents into a line on the dot of six o’clock.

‘Does everyone know their roles?’

He received eight thumbs-up.

‘Justin and Mason, are you sure you’re happy?’

Justin Pickering and Mason Rees were the two agents who had arrived late via Atlanta the previous evening.

They both nodded. ‘We’re ready, boss,’ one of them said.

At that point, a black Chevy Suburban pulled up in front of the line and Tony Andretti climbed out from the back seat. He was wearing a dark suit as if for a day at the office, save for the earpiece already in his ear.