Felix Francis - Triple Crown

‘OK,’ I said.

It wasn’t a surprise. Not after what I’d heard between trainer and assistant the previous afternoon, but it did present a considerable difficulty. How was I going to keep an eye on George Raworth all afternoon if I also had to look after Debenture?

Tony had decided that, whatever happened, this would be my last day as a groom.

I had called him again before I went to bed to discover the whereabouts and roster of his agents, and he had given me the news.

Whether we managed to catch the FACSA mole today or not, the local Nassau County Police would execute a search warrant at Raworth’s barn at seven o’clock on Wednesday evening, looking for the flask of frozen semen.

Tony had actually wanted to move in first thing this morning but I had managed to talk him into giving me until after the afternoon’s racing. I had wanted longer but he was adamant that the raid had to be today.

That was because he had learned that Amphibious, the colt from Santa Anita, would be arriving at New York by air from California early on Thursday and he wasn’t prepared to take the risk that he could purposely be infected with EVA.

I couldn’t really blame him. It would be indefensible to allow another horse, a hugely valuable potential stallion, to have a future stud career ruined when we already knew the mechanics of how it was done, and by whom.

Try explaining that to a congressional committee, or to the jury in the civil lawsuit.

‘I’m not feeling too good,’ I said to Keith.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘My stomach’s bad,’ I said, holding a hand to my abdomen and pulling a face. ‘It must be something I ate.’

‘Soldier on for the time being,’ Keith said, not displaying any sympathy whatsoever. ‘We’ll see if you’re better later.’

So I soldiered on, mucking out my four horses and getting them ready for morning exercise.

Twice I rushed off to the lavatory, both times when I knew Keith would see me, and did my absolute best to make myself appear sick.

I remembered reading the book Day of the Jackal , where the assassin chews on cordite to make his skin go grey and clammy, in order to fake illness. I had no cordite to hand but, after finishing my morning duties at nine, I ran on the spot very fast for five minutes, out of sight in one of the stalls, in order to make my face flush red and to produce some sweat.

Then I went to see Keith in the office.

‘I’m really not good,’ I said, again clutching my abdomen.

‘I can see that,’ he replied, standing up from his chair.

‘Feel my forehead,’ I said. ‘I think I’ve got a fever.’

From Keith’s reaction, you might think I’d asked him to put his hand into the open mouth of a starving lion. He shrank back against the far wall of the office, putting his arms up in front of his face.

‘But you might be infectious,’ he said nervously. ‘Stop by the track medical facility and get yourself checked out.’

‘What about Debenture?’ I said. ‘He runs later.’

‘I’ll tell Diego to deal with him.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll go see the medics right now.’

I walked out of the office and went back to the bunkhouse. I needed a few things from my locker.

By midday I was positioned close to the grandstand entrance nearest to the barns, waiting for George Raworth to arrive.

I had used the time since leaving Keith to perform a transformation in my appearance.

First I collected my disguise kit from my room.

My plastic wash bag may have been cheap but it contained some seriously expensive hair dye, hidden in one of the two shampoo bottles. I also selected a disposable razor, a can of shaving cream, some cotton balls, a comb and my dark sunglasses, along with my one collared shirt and the only pair of trousers I had with me that were not made of denim.

I stuffed the lot into a Walmart plastic grocery bag and walked down to the grandstand just as the turnstiles were opened for the early arrivals.

With my groom’s ID pass firmly in my pocket, I paid the clubhouse entrance fee and made a beeline for the nearest disabled toilet, locking myself in.

For most of the next half-hour I worked on my hair and beard.

By the time I emerged, my fair locks had turned jet black and my wispy yellow beard had been converted into a matching black goatee. The cotton balls had been lodged tight between my teeth and gums to change the shape of my face and the faded T-shirt and scruffy jeans had gone into the waste bin, replaced by more respectable wear. I even tried, mostly in vain, to bring some semblance of shine back to my faux leather black loafers.

To top it all, I added the dark glasses and looked at myself in the mirror.

Not perfect, I thought. My sister would have still known me but it was the best I could do under the circumstances. I hoped it would be enough.

Now I stood near the entrance, apparently studying the day’s racing programme but actually keeping my eyes fixed on the turnstiles.

The current structure was built half a century ago but, at almost a quarter of a mile long and nearly a hundred yards deep, it was still the world’s largest single grandstand for Thoroughbred racing with well over a million square feet of floor space, twelve bars, five restaurants, eighteen escalators, nine lifts, and enough capacity for up to a hundred thousand people. There was even a five-bed hospital tucked away in one corner.

The place would be full to bursting in ten days’ time for the Triple Crown showdown in the Belmont Stakes but, on the Wednesday after Memorial Day, a crowd of only a few thousand souls was expected. Consequently, two-thirds of the stand was closed off completely and even the rest felt cavernous and empty.

The first race of the afternoon was due off at twenty past one and, when the starting gates opened, I was still in the spacious grandstand lobby waiting for George Raworth.

Not that I hadn’t seen a familiar face. I had.

Frank Bannister, he who had looked after me when I’d first arrived at FACSA, came swanning through the turnstiles at half past twelve, using his metal special-agent badge to gain entry.

Tony had told me the previous evening that Frank might be here.

‘He has been detailed to be in New York by Norman Gibson,’ Tony had told me, ‘to make arrangements for other members of the racing section who will be attending the Belmont Stakes Racing Festival next week. There may be others too. It is largely up to them where they go when not actually scheduled.’

That hadn’t been particularly helpful.

When I’d first seen Frank arrive, I had lifted the race programme up to my face and peeped over the top. He went from the turnstiles to an information desk where he spoke to a woman, who made a brief phone call. After a few seconds, a man appeared from the office behind the desk and shook Frank’s hand. The two of them then disappeared into the office.

Nothing suspicious in that, I thought.

I went on waiting for George Raworth to arrive.

After about ten minutes, Frank emerged from the office and wandered off into the depths of the grandstand, in the opposite direction to where I was standing.

Much as I would have loved to follow him and find out what he was up to, my primary target still had to be George Raworth.

Only if he approached George would I be sure that Frank Bannister was our mole.

Not having heard the morning phone call, I wasn’t totally sure if a rendezvous was actually in the offing. Maybe George had told the man to take a hike, as Charlie Hern had suggested, and he wouldn’t appear at the track until it was time to saddle Debenture for the last race.

I went on waiting.

George arrived at five past two, but he wasn’t alone.