Triple Crown (9 page)

‘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.

Norman Gibson stepped forward to greet him and the two men shook hands.

I, meanwhile, was hovering at the far end of the line, having previously asked Norman to introduce me to the Deputy Director.

Tony walked briefly along, stopping once or twice to talk to the agents. Then he came straight towards where I was standing.

‘Deputy Director,’ Norman said, ‘can I introduce Jeff Hinkley? He’s an international observer from England.’

‘Delighted to meet you,’ I said, shaking Tony’s offered hand.

‘What organisation in England?’ he asked.

‘The British Horseracing Authority.’

‘Then this operation should be up your alley.’

‘So can I come with you?’ I asked.

‘I don’t see why not,’ Tony said. He turned to Norman. ‘What do you think?’

‘Sure. It is only a rehearsal,’ Norman said. ‘No problem.’ He looked down at his watch. ‘OK, everyone, let’s load up.’

Even though there was a fleet of half a dozen black vans available, identical to the one in which Tony had arrived, the transport on this occasion was a military vehicle, identical to the
ubiquitous American school bus, but painted dark blue rather than the regular bright yellow.

The three USDA veterinarians were already on board and no one had told them it was a rehearsal – because it wasn’t.

I had recommended to Tony that he should wait as late as possible before informing his special agents about the switch from rehearsal to real thing, so that no one would have the opportunity to
make a call or send a warning text. But I hadn’t expected him to leave it as late as he did.

The journey from the Kentucky Air National Guard facility to the backside barns of Churchill Downs was only four miles.

We had turned off I-264, with the iconic twin spires of the grandstand almost visible in the pre-dawn twilight, before Tony stood up at the front of the bus.

‘Listen up, please, ladies and gentlemen.’ He spoke loudly and had the instant attention of all. ‘The operation has been brought forward. This is
not
a rehearsal. I
repeat. This is
not
a rehearsal. We will arrive at Hayden Ryder’s barn at Churchill Downs in precisely two minutes. I trust you will perform your duties with the usual FACSA expertise
and proficiency. Good luck.’

I was trying to watch their faces to see if I could detect any emotion, perhaps a touch of panic that information given to Hayden Ryder in good faith had now been rendered inaccurate.

From the look of his eyes, Norman Gibson was not at all happy. I couldn’t blame him. He was meant to be in charge of this operation but he, too, had been unaware of the switch. There was
also some surprise among the others and a couple of murmurs of disapproval, but nothing particularly obvious in the way of panic.

Cliff Connell, sitting right opposite me, simply shrugged his shoulders and removed his Glock 22C from its holster. He checked once again that the magazine was full, and then cocked the weapon
by pulling the slide back sharply and releasing it.

He saw me watching him and smiled. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘The safety’s still on.’

But I did worry, and I was beginning to wish I had a bulletproof vest like the rest of them.

To say that the Churchill Downs raid was different from similar operations I had conducted in the UK would be an understatement.

Only the previous September, I had led a team of three BHA integrity officers to a training stables in Newmarket after an anonymous tip-off that certain horses were being given a concoction of
bicarbonate of soda by tube into their stomachs before racing. The process, known as ‘milkshaking’, has the effect of making the blood and muscle less acidic, and hence reducing
fatigue.

Milkshaking was a serious breach of the Rules of Racing.

The three of us plus a veterinary technician had appeared unannounced at the stables to carry out a search and to take blood samples for analysis. The trainer in question had been understandably
concerned by our arrival but he had assisted us in identifying the correct horses and, all in all, he had cooperated in every way without the need for coercion or threats.

There had been no question of us turning up then in the same manner employed here today by the FACSA agents – before dawn like a posse in a Wild West movie with their guns drawn.

The bus swung in silently through the backside gates, helpfully opened by a Kentucky police deputy, and came to a gentle stop at the designated spot at the end of a line of barns. If I
remembered correctly from Steffi’s map, Hayden Ryder’s was the third one down.

‘All set?’ Norman said it in a whisper but each of the agents heard it clearly through their earpieces. ‘Final radio check.’

Again there were eight raised thumbs.

‘OK,’ Norman said, checking his watch. ‘The op is on.’ He withdrew his own weapon from its holster and cocked the mechanism. ‘Get into your positions and wait for
my call before going in. Good luck, everyone.’

He started to go down the steps but turned to look straight at me. ‘Jeff, you can use this.’ He tossed me a spare radio. ‘But you wait on the bus with the Deputy Director and
the veterinarians. You do not come forward until I tell you to do so. Do you understand?’

I nodded.

The raid team followed Norman off the bus with a mixture of enthusiasm and apprehension showing in their faces. Trudi Harding smiled down at me wanly but her eyes betrayed her anxiety. She was
the most nervous. Cliff Connell, meanwhile, was clearly excited and raring to go.

The seven men and two women each knew their starting positions and moved silently towards them. Although it was still before sunrise, there was plenty of light both from the brightening sky in
the east and from numerous security lights set high on poles, and I watched through the bus window as the team spread out.

Even though the track wouldn’t be open for another fifteen minutes, there was already much activity in the barns with horses being readied for their morning exercise.

‘I’m going closer,’ I said to Tony.

‘But Norman said you were to wait on the bus.’

I looked at him with my head cocked to one side as if to say, ‘So what?’

I went down the steps and moved slowly past the first barn in the line, stopping close to the second one. Hayden Ryder’s barn was the next one down and appeared quite normal, with several
internal lights visible through the open sides.

All was still quiet.

‘Listen up,’ Norman’s whispered voice said in my earpiece. ‘Anyone not in position?’

There was no responding call from the agents.

‘Good. Count down – three, two, one – go!’

The stillness of the dawn was suddenly broken by seemingly all nine armed agents shouting at the same time.

‘Armed federal officer! Stand still with your hands up.’

I watched as Steffi Dean made her way towards the northeastern corner of the barn, her two arms stretched firmly out in front of her, her right hand locked around the grip of her Glock 22C, with
her left hand holding her right wrist for added stability.

No silencer, I noted. This was not a covert operation.

Back in the offices in Arlington, she had told me that she’d never fired her gun other than on a range, but now she looked more than ready, moving her whole torso from side to side with
her head so that the barrel always pointed directly where she was looking.

As I crept closer, there was more shouting from within the barn and then, quite suddenly, a series of shots rang out – at least ten in rapid succession.

‘Man down! Man down!’ was shouted loudly through my earpiece by a high-pitched female voice.

Oh shit!

Even I knew that ‘Man down’ meant that one of the special agents had been injured, or worse.

I inched forward and peered around the side of one of the huge steel skips that were dotted around the site for the collection of manure.

I could see Steffi Dean standing in the exit at the corner of the barn, her gun held out straight in front like a natural extension of her arm.

‘Who’s down?’ Norman asked in my ear.

‘Bob Wade,’ came the reply. It was Trudi Harding who spoke.

I watched as Steffi buckled at the knees and almost went down to the dirt floor.

Her gun dropped to her side and, even from my hiding place some ten yards away, I could clearly hear her gasp with despair.

‘I think Bob’s fine,’ Trudi went on. ‘I shot the assailant. He’s down too.’

From somewhere over my right shoulder I could hear the rhythmic raising and falling siren of an approaching ambulance.

‘Are we secure?’ Norman asked. ‘Anyone else need assistance?’

There was no reply.

‘Suspects?’ Norman said.

‘Only the one down here,’ Trudi replied.

‘All others lying face down in the dirt and cooperating,’ a male voice added. ‘Secure on the south side.’

‘And on the north,’ chipped in another agent.

‘All clear,’ called Norman. ‘But stay vigilant, everybody. Conduct a full search.’