Felix Francis - Triple Crown

He was so furious that I seriously thought he might hit me, and I was considerably relieved to see that he didn’t still have his Glock 22C holstered on his hip. But, no doubt, it would be hiding somewhere beneath his jacket.

I’d had to deal with this sort of confrontation before, in Afghanistan, when boiling-over tempers of local village elders could easily end up messily with bullets flying around. I had been trained to keep control of my emotions and to maintain my composure, but I knew from experience that nothing provoked an angry response more than belittling or ignoring someone’s grievance.

I had found that an apology usually helped to defuse difficult situations, even if there was nothing for me to actually be sorry for. Consequently, I was a serial apologiser and had, over time, expressed my personal remorse and sorrow for everything from Adam’s consumption of the forbidden fruit to the Nazi Holocaust.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said to Norman, doing my best to sound sincere. ‘You should have been made aware of the true purpose of my visit.’

I didn’t mention that it had been my idea not to tell him.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ I said, indicating towards one of the armchairs.

Norman hesitated. Sitting down clearly had not been on his agenda, but he slowly lowered himself into the seat. I relaxed a little. It was far more difficult, if not impossible, to hit someone from a seated position in a deep armchair.

I then sat down opposite him, making sure I was well out of reach.

How much did I really trust him?

Enough, perhaps, to talk about being invited by Tony Andretti to try to find the section mole — he already knew that by now — but maybe not enough to apprise him of my future plans.

‘Tony Andretti approached my boss in London and requested some help in finding a mole in your organisation. It clearly was a mistake not to involve you and, for that, I am very sorry.’

My apology tactic seemed to be working. Norman’s ire was placated and the high-pressure steam in his head slowly abated.

‘So what have you discovered?’ he asked, his voice full of sarcasm.

‘Precisely nothing,’ I said.

I wasn’t able to read in his face whether he was pleased or disappointed. Either way would not have been incriminating. In his place, I wouldn’t have been particularly happy if the new kid on the block had found out something in just three days when he’d been trying without success for months.

He simply nodded knowingly. He hadn’t expected anything else and I wondered if Norman actually believed there was a mole in the first place.

‘Mr Andretti asked me to give you these.’ He tossed the envelope he had been carrying into my lap. ‘What do you want them for anyway?’

‘To see if anyone in FACSA’s racing section is receiving money from someone they shouldn’t. Payment in exchange for a tip-off.’

‘Do you really think one of us is selling confidential information?’

‘Why else would someone be forewarning your targets?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe out of cussedness.’

I thought that most unlikely. Especially if Tony was correct and Jason Connor had been killed because of it. It was my belief that sane people didn’t kill just out of cussedness; they did it for one of four other reasons — money, revenge, jealousy, or a political cause.

Which one was it here? Surely it had to be for money.

‘So what are you going to do now?’ Norman asked.

‘Keep my eyes and ears open, and enjoy the Derby.’

I’d also be watching my back.

The rest of my time in Louisville was considerably less stressful, although equally exciting, but for different reasons.

The Kentucky Derby was the most hyped sporting event I think I had ever attended and easily outshone the Epsom version for glamour and glitz.

While the Derby at Churchill Downs could not match the pomp and circumstance and the genuine royalty of the original, it attracted the Hollywood ‘royalty’ in abundance, complete with red-carpet entrance where the public was encouraged to stand and idolise the screen superstars as they made their way to Millionaires Row, as the upper level of the grandstand is officially known.

I reflected on the differing attitudes to money that existed on either side of the Atlantic. In the UK, serious wealth is mostly played down by those who have it. To do otherwise is considered rather vulgar. In the United States huge riches are to be applauded, and flaunted at every opportunity.

And Kentucky Derby Week was certainly one of those.

Accompanying the two minutes of the race itself were several days of celebrations with a succession of parties and dinners to satisfy every taste and wallet. Those in the inner circle, and those with the greatest wealth, could secure an invitation to the exclusive black-tie eve-of-Derby gala, an event that regularly creates a lengthy traffic jam of stretch limousines throughout downtown Louisville.

For my part, I spent most of my time shadowing Frank Bannister and, fortunately for me, he enjoyed the good things in life and was not averse to using his federal-special-agent status to gain entry to occasions and activities where his presence was hardly warranted.

Early on Friday morning, Frank drove the two of us in one of the Chevy Suburbans from the National Guard facility to the backside of Churchill Downs, to see the Derby hopefuls in their morning exercise.

Hayden Ryder’s barn was still cordoned off with yellow tape but the local police no longer guarded the perimeter. The horses had gone too, quickly snaffled by other trainers eager to fill their own barns. The police did, however, guard the Derby runners, with a sheriff’s deputy standing watch outside each stall.

‘To stop them getting nobbled,’ Frank said.

I considered it was more of a token presence than true security. Any determined nobbler would have found it dead easy to get past the deputy’s laissez-faire attitude, chatting and joking with the stable staff with only half an eye at best on the actual horse. But it was good for the cameras, as TV crews from all the local stations were invited from barn to barn to observe the stars ‘at home’.

Frank and I joined the racing press on a small bleacher-seat viewing stand as the twenty Derby contenders made their way out onto the track. By this stage, with less than thirty-six hours to the race, the hard training work was done and now it was only a matter of maintaining peak condition and not overtiring the young equine athletes.

‘Come on,’ said Frank after fifteen less-than-exciting minutes of watching the horses gallop. ‘I’ve seen enough. Let’s go to Wagner’s before the rush starts.’

‘Wagner’s?’

‘Wagner’s Pharmacy.’

‘What do we need a pharmacy for?’ I asked.

‘You’ll see,’ he said with a laugh, leading me back to the Suburban.

Wagner’s Pharmacy was on South 4th Street, across from the entrance to the Churchill Downs infield. And it was not a pharmacy as I knew it.

True, it sold its own proprietary racehorse liniment in gallon containers for the treatment of bumps, bruises and strains, but it was most famously known as the place to have breakfast during Derby week.

Frank and I sat down on the only two free stools at the long counter.

‘Two orders of bacon, eggs over easy, toast and grits,’ Frank said to the waitress behind the counter. ‘Plus coffee and orange juice.’

‘Grits?’ I asked.

‘Boiled ground corn,’ Frank said. ‘I was raised on the stuff in Alabama.’

The waitress poured our juice and coffee and, shortly after, delivered two enormous plates of food — two fried eggs each, four or five rashers of crisp bacon, two rounds of toast, a mini-mountain of fried potatoes, plus a side bowl of grits — a white sloppy concoction akin to lumpy wallpaper paste, complete with a dollop of melting butter on the top.