Felix Francis - Triple Crown

I watched through the glass doors as he strode confidently across the open forecourt towards the clubhouse entrance, appearing for all the world as the self-assured trainer of a horse that had won the first two legs of the Triple Crown. However, fifteen yards behind him, and keeping slightly to one side, was a nervous-looking Charlie Hern.

That complicated the situation somewhat, I thought. So there would be two of us following George. I would have to be extra careful not to trip over his other tail.

But at least it meant that the handover of cash was probably ‘on’.

George walked by without giving me a second glance and I stood waiting until his shadow was also well past me before joining the snake.

I tried to imagine myself as the mole.

If I were in his position, I would not simply walk up to George Raworth and demand the cash. First and foremost, I would want to ensure that I wasn’t walking into a trap. I would be wary that George might have called in the police so I would check things out, gauge the lie of the land, and bide my time.

In fact, if I were the mole, I would follow George around for quite a while before making any contact, keeping my eyes peeled for others doing the same thing. So there might be four of us playing ‘follow the leader’, with George taking us on a merry dance for much of the afternoon.

The secret to being a successful tail was not to get so close to your target that you were spotted, but also not to be so far away that either you couldn’t see what the target was doing or, worse still, you lost him altogether.

Clearly the best place was to be behind not only your target but also any others who were following him — to be at the back of the line, keeping an eye on all of them at once. It was easier said than done, especially if you didn’t know what the other tails looked like, assuming they existed at all.

In this case, I did know what Charlie Hern looked like and, if the other tail turned out to be Frank Bannister, I also knew him. My advantage might lie in the fact that I was counting on neither of them recognising me.

And also I was good at my job. I’d been trained in the British Army Intelligence Corps by an instructor who had previously been a surveillance specialist with the elite UK police Special Branch. ‘I know it sounds simple,’ he had said, ‘but the trick is always to be natural. If the target stops and turns round to check, don’t you stop as well. That would not be natural and will instantly give you away. Keep walking, go past him and, if necessary, double-back behind later.’

Of course, when the Special Branch tailed a suspect, it was always done by a team. Here I was on my own so I couldn’t afford to be seen at all, even if the target didn’t realise I was on his tail. Being seen twice would surely give me away, even if he didn’t identify me specifically as his former groom.

George walked briskly along the wide concourse and then back out into the open air towards the paddock, with Charlie never more than twenty paces behind him.

Charlie was being a fool, I thought. He was tailing George far too openly. Even if the mole didn’t know what Charlie looked like, he couldn’t fail to spot that he was following George, and hence know that George must also be aware of Charlie. My only hope was that the mole surely couldn’t mistakenly believe that Charlie was the police, he simply wasn’t good enough.

I stood on the concrete steps surrounding the paddock and leaned on the white metal railings. To anyone watching, I appeared to be studying the horses parading for the third race, occasionally consulting the race programme booklet in my hand. But, behind my dark sunglasses, I only had eyes for the people, in particular for anyone who was paying George undue attention as he stood on the grass close to a bronze statue of the great Secretariat.

Not that it was an easy task. As the trainer approaching a possible Triple Crown triumph, George Raworth was something of a racing celebrity and there were lots who wanted either to speak with him or get close enough to take a selfie with him in the background.

I scanned the faces of the other racegoers.

There was no sign of Frank Bannister, or anyone else I recognised.

The horses were led through the walkway under the grandstand to the track for the race and the meagre crowd followed, but George didn’t budge an inch, almost as if he was making himself as conspicuous as possible. Charlie Hern didn’t move either, continuing to lean on the white railings some distance to my right, all the while watching his boss.

I decided that, with everyone else moving through to watch the race, I would be too exposed if I stayed on the paddock steps, so I went back inside and continued to keep a lookout through one of the huge arched windows that ran down the rear of the grandstand.

George remained where he was for the next two hours, moving only slightly to his left to stand in the shade of the ancient Japanese white pine that dominated the Belmont Park paddock. He puffed out his chest and stood tall with his feet apart, facing the public enclosures.

His body language was broadcasting a very clear message. ‘Here I am,’ it said. ‘You will have to come to me.’

As far as I could tell, nobody suspicious did, not that keeping close to him was easy for me. Both George and Charlie endlessly scrutinised the faces of all those around them, watching for some indication of understanding at what was going on.

Twice I became aware that Charlie was looking in my direction. I was standing again by the metal rail, seemingly watching the horses for the fourth race. I didn’t look back at him. Instead I lowered my head as if studying my programme.

There was no shout of awareness, no movement from him whatsoever.

Charlie may have seen me but he hadn’t recognised me as one of the Raworth stable staff.

Without fail, for every waking moment since the day of my first arrival here, I had worn the blue LA Dodgers baseball cap with the peak curved down at the sides. It was the cap more than anything that had come to define me. Charlie had never seen me without it, not even at our first interview, and the fact that I was now bareheaded was thus an advantage in remaining unknown to him in the crowd. The variation in hair colour, the change in face shape and the dark glasses also helped.

Nevertheless, I decided that I shouldn’t push my luck, so I again retreated inside the grandstand away from his gaze.

But watching George through the ground-floor windows was far from ideal. It was just about all right when there was no one else standing on the paddock steps, such as during the actual running of the races, but when the people returned they tended to obscure my view. That’s why I had gone back outside in the first place.

So, after the next race, I moved my position again, working my way round to a hot-dog stand on the right-hand side of the paddock so that I was almost behind Charlie but still able to keep George in clear vision, albeit now with a profile view.

The afternoon wore on, becoming more and more overcast, and still there was no sign of anything close to being a handover of ten thousand dollars.

The horses for races five, six and seven appeared as if by magic through the horse tunnel from the barns, were saddled, mounted and then departed through the grandstand to the track, but George remained steadfastly in the centre of the paddock throughout, only occasionally glancing at the large TV screen to his left as the races unfolded.

He would have to move soon, I thought, in order to get Debenture ready to run in the ninth, and last, race of the day.

Frank Bannister appeared and I suddenly became very interested in his movements. But he wandered over to the left of the paddock area and never once went close to George Raworth. Indeed, he seemed more intent on watching the horses than keeping his eye on any of the people.