Felix Francis - Triple Crown

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The richest prize in racing. The perfect motive to commit a crime…
Jeff Hinkley, a British Horseracing Authority investigator, has been seconded to the US Federal Anti-Corruption in Sports Agency (FACSA) where he has been asked to find a mole in their organisation, an informant who is passing on confidential information to fix races.
Jeff goes in search of answers, taking on an undercover role as a groom on the backstretch at Belmont Park racetrack in New York. But he discovers far more than he was bargaining for, finding himself as the meat in the sandwich between FACSA and corrupt individuals who will stop at nothing, including murder, to capture the most elusive and lucrative prize in the world — the Triple Crown.

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‘Yeah, that’s the one. The NFL thought they had a watertight case but, even so, the ban was overturned by a US federal judge due to a lack of convincing evidence that Brady himself knew anything about it.

‘Everyone appeals to law these days, and Raworth would be no exception because there’s so much at stake. Never mind the individual race purses and the kudos of being a Triple Crown winner, there’s also the small matter of the ten-million-dollar Triple Crown bonus, half of which goes to the winning trainer. Trust me, Raworth would fight to the death through the courts and, without that sample being admissible as evidence, you would surely lose, and look foolish.’

‘So what can we do?’ Tony said in exasperation.

‘Nothing. Not yet. We watch and wait and hope he makes a mistake.’

There was silence from the far end, as if Tony was digesting that rather unpleasant pill.

‘In the meantime can you check on something for me,’ I said. ‘Debenture was selected for a random drug test after the Maryland Sprint Handicap at Pimlico on Saturday. Raworth seemed quite concerned about it. Can you find out the result of the test from the Maryland Racing Commission and keep it from being publicised?’

‘Why?’ Tony asked. ‘Surely, if the test is positive, we can use that to ban Raworth.’

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But if it’s a positive for, say, steroids or clenbuterol then, even with his record, the Maryland Commission will ban him for only a month or two at best, and only then after lengthy appeals. I want to nail him for something far more serious than a bit of doping and, in the meantime, I don’t want him put on the defensive.’

‘OK,’ Tony said. ‘I’ll have a quiet word with their commissioner, but if the test is positive he’ll want to do something about it.’

‘Convince him otherwise,’ I said. ‘After all, the horse didn’t win anything. It came seventh out of eight.’

‘OK,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll do my best. Anything else?’

‘How about the Texas ranch?’ I said. ‘Did you find out anything?’

‘I haven’t yet but I’ve asked the chief of our Colorado Springs office to do some digging for me. Don’t worry. I explained that it was to be confidential to him alone. He normally deals with corruption in the pro rodeo circuit and they use Quarter Horses so it’s his area of expertise.’

‘Pro rodeo circuit?’ I said. ‘Is there such a thing?’

‘There certainly is. It’s big business. There are hundreds of events each year and even a national final each December to decide the World Champion All-Around Cowboy. There’s millions of dollars at stake and it is broadcast live on CBS.’

I marvelled at the way Americans claim to be the champions of the world at something that no one else does — like the winners of the Super Bowl who are officially crowned as the World Champions even though no other country is allowed to enter a team in the competition, not even Canada.

‘So when do you expect to hear back from your man?’ I asked.

‘He said it might take a few days. He’s been at a rodeo in Las Vegas and he won’t return to his office until Wednesday morning.’

‘Didn’t you tell him it was urgent?’ I implored.

‘The guy has worked for us all weekend,’ Tony said in his defence. ‘So he’s entitled to a couple of days off playing the slots and tables. He is still the best man for the job, so be patient.’

I had never been very good at being patient.

Playing the slots and tables, indeed.

If I was busting my gut here seven days a week, why wasn’t everyone else?

Charlie Hern took morning exercise on Wednesday, standing on the platform by the training track with a stopwatch in his hand, while the horses were galloped in turn by Victor Gomez.

‘Where’s Mr Raworth?’ I asked Victor as he came back to the barn to change horses.

‘He gone visit family,’ Victor said.

‘Where to?’ I asked.

‘El Paso,’ Victor replied. ‘He back Friday maybe, or Saturday maybe. Depends traffic.’

‘Has he driven all the way to El Paso?’

Victor nodded.

It was 2,000 miles by road from Baltimore to western Texas.

‘Perhaps he no like airplanes,’ Victor said, before disappearing back to the track on Paddleboat.

Perhaps he no like airplanes.

Oh yeah? Who was Victor kidding?

Raworth was a man who regularly spent a third of each year in Florida, another third in California, and the rest of the time in New York, with training barns in each place. He would be as accustomed to getting on and off aircraft as most people were buses.

Was this the mistake we were hoping for?

I took a chance by going back to the bunkhouse to call Tony immediately. All the grooms were at work so the place was deserted.

‘Raworth is in El Paso,’ I said. ‘He went there by road from Pimlico.’

‘That’s a hell of a drive,’ Tony said. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘That he’s driven all the way to El Paso to refill the cryogenic flask with EVA-infected Quarter Horse semen from the family ranch? No commercial airline would allow him to fly with liquid nitrogen in his baggage.’

‘No way,’ Tony said in agreement.

‘We can’t be sure about them having EVA at the ranch until your man in Colorado gets back to us.’

‘I’ll get him home from his gambling today,’ Tony said decisively. ‘Did you say Raworth has a Jeep Cherokee?’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘A white one.’

‘Registered in which state?’

I tried to conjure up a mental image of the vehicle registration plate.

‘New York, I think. The Empire State.’

‘I’ll get the licence plate from New York Department of Motor Vehicles and then Homeland Security can track him across the country using their automatic licence plate recognition cameras.’

‘How many of those do they have?’

‘Lots, with hundreds more going up every month on every Interstate and in most cities across the country. Don’t tell anyone though. The majority of Americans complain bitterly about their lack of privacy as it is but, if they really knew how much their government spied on them, they’d throw a fit. The cameras track people all over the country and match them to various databases such as known criminal, wanted person, gang member, missing person, immigration violator, even tax avoiders and those on the sex offender registry, not to mention terrorist suspects. The Los Angeles Police even want to use the camera data to send letters to the owners of all vehicles that enter areas of high prostitution to warn them to stay away.’

They ought to threaten to send letters to their wives, I thought.

‘Could they also find out if Raworth has driven to El Paso before?’

‘Probably. It depends on how long ago. They don’t keep the data indefinitely.’

‘It won’t be very long,’ I said. ‘There was still liquid nitrogen in the flask at Pimlico, so it had to be only a few weeks ago at most.’

‘I’ll get it checked right away,’ Tony said. ‘Call me later.’

We hung up and I walked slowly back to the barn, thinking.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Keith shouted at me, making me jump. ‘Paddleboat has been back in his stall for ages.’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve been to the jacks.’

‘Well don’t,’ Keith said. ‘The horses’ comfort comes before yours.’

I hurried off down the shedrow to deal with Paddleboat.

‘Raworth’s Jeep left the hotel parking lot at the Hyatt Regency in Baltimore Harbor at five after eight, Eastern Daylight Time, last Sunday morning, overnighted at the Garden Tree Motel east of Memphis, Tennessee, and joined I-10 from I-20 fifty miles short of the family ranch at 8.52 p.m., Mountain Time, on Monday evening. That was the last camera he passed. Raworth was the only person on board throughout. He stopped for gas five times. I have the names of the gas stations if you want them, and their closed-circuit footage showing him there along with copies of his credit card receipts for both the gas and the motel.’

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