Triple Crown (4 page)

‘Yes. I also need details of all the operations that you have launched, including those that you feel were compromised. There has to be a common link. And I need direct access to you at
any time.’

‘I’ll give you my private cell number,’ Tony said. ‘Never ever contact me at the agency, either in person or by using agency comms.’

‘I thought I was here as your guest, as you were mine at the BHA.’

‘My trip to the BHA was made without the knowledge of anyone at FACSA other than the Director. As far as anyone else at the agency is concerned, I was away on annual leave travelling in
Europe with my wife, Harriet. Your cover is that you are here under our international exchange scheme for law-enforcement agencies simply to observe our methods of operation.’

‘But the British Horseracing Authority is not a law-enforcement agency.’

‘I know but it is as good as. The exchange scheme was the best excuse the Director and I could think of. All federal agencies have observers from other national police forces, mostly from
those where the US is helping to set up law enforcement such as in Afghanistan and Iraq. So our staff are used to visitors but, as such, you would not have direct access to the Deputy Director.
Therefore you must never contact me except through my private cell. And never refer to anyone about my time in London. That’s essential. I do not want to give our mole friend any cause for
alarm.’

There was something about the way he said it that made the hairs on my neck stand up.

‘What are you not telling me?’ I looked him directly in the eye.

He turned away.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘It might not be connected.’

‘What might not be connected?’

He looked back at me.

‘You are not the first person we have approached to assist us.’

He paused.

‘Who is the other person?’ I asked.

‘Was,’ Tony said. ‘He’s dead. He was killed last December in an auto wreck on I-95 south of Baltimore.’

‘Accident? Or deliberate?’

‘There was a thorough investigation by the Maryland State Police. Their conclusion was that he went to sleep while driving home late at night. His vehicle left the road, hit a tree and
caught fire. Toxicology tests showed he’d been drinking.’

‘Didn’t your agency initiate its own investigation?’ I asked.

‘How could we?’ Tony said. ‘It was outside our jurisdiction.’

‘Who was he exactly?’

‘His name was Jason Connor. He was a journalist who wrote about horseracing for a magazine called
Sports Illustrated
.’

I nodded. I’d heard of it.

‘How did you come to use him?’

‘Initially, Connor went to NYRA last October because he was concerned about blood doping in racehorses at Belmont during their fall meet. He had seen some transfusion apparatus at a
training barn at the track that he felt was suspicious.’

‘NYRA?’ I pronounced it as a word in the same way as Tony had.

‘New York Racing Association. They control horseracing at the three tracks in New York State. It was NYRA who contacted us. We initiated a raid on the barn and we found absolutely nothing.
The whole place had obviously been steam-cleaned. I have never seen a barn so spotless and disinfected. You could have eaten your dinner off the stall floors. And the horses had been sent away to
Kentucky for what was described as a
vacation
. I ask you. Some of them had been due to race at the track that week. The whole thing was a farce.’

Tony shook his head.

‘Jason Connor was furious. What he was really after, of course, was an exclusive for his magazine and now he wouldn’t get one. He blamed both the agency and NYRA for leaking the
information. At first we dismissed his notions as just the ranting of an angry man, but then I started looking at how often our operations were being compromised. That’s when I went back to
him to ask him for help.’

‘And you now think his death was to do with that?’

‘The Chief Medical Examiner for Maryland declared his death was accidental but I’ve never liked coincidences. On the very day Jason Connor died, he’d been to Laurel Park
racetrack to question a groom who had previously been working at the barn at Belmont.’

‘What did the groom say?’

‘I don’t know. Connor never got to report back and the groom has since vanished. Not that that’s particularly unusual. It happens all the time. He was probably an illegal alien
who was frightened away by the attention.’

‘Didn’t you try to find him?’ I asked.

‘Of course. But trainers’ record-keeping is not always great at the tracks. Turns out the groom had a work permit issued on forged paperwork in the name of a 26-year-old Mexican
called Juan Martinez. That may or may not be his real name. Martinez is by far the most common surname in Mexico, much more so than Smith is here. And they didn’t even have a
photo.’

‘Who did the looking?’ I asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Was it someone from your agency?’

‘I did it myself,’ Tony said. ‘I was once a detective in the Bronx. I reckon I still know the moves but this one was a dead end.’

‘So who at the agency knew about Jason Connor?’

‘Everyone in the racing section knew he’d been to NYRA with the original concerns. That was common knowledge. It was with the help of his information that we set up the
operation.’

‘Who knew he’d also been approached to help find your leak?’

‘Supposedly only the Director, the chief of the horseracing team, and me.’

‘Who is the chief of the horseracing team?’

‘Norman Gibson. He’s an ex-cop from Chicago.’

‘Do you trust him?’

‘I would say so, yes.’

‘Does he know about the real reason I’m here?’ I asked.

‘No. He does not.’

‘So you don’t trust him that much,’ I said. ‘How about the Director of FACSA? Do you trust him more?’

‘I’d trust him with my life,’ Tony said.

‘How about with mine?’

It felt like the stakes had suddenly been raised dramatically.

It was clear to me that, whatever the Maryland Medical Examiner might say, Tony believed that the death of Jason Connor and the investigation into the agency leak were connected. And I
didn’t like coincidences either.

‘Why didn’t you tell me all this in London?’ I asked.

Tony looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I was afraid you wouldn’t come.’

He clearly didn’t know me very well.

‘OK,’ I said, clapping my hands together. ‘In the light of all that, we need to beef up our security. First, you shouldn’t be here now, it is a risk we ought not be
taking.’

‘I told no one I was coming here, not even Harriet.’

‘No matter,’ I said. ‘You are Deputy Director of an agency that employs over two thousand people. Your offices are up the road from here. Even on a Saturday, one of those
employees might have seen you arrive as they walked their dog. Then they might mention it to a colleague, just in passing, and so on. You never know who is watching or listening.’

Tony nodded.

‘Also,’ I said, ‘it was a mistake to give your name when you made the hotel reservation. The front desk staff told me it was made by a Mr Andretti.’

‘I had to use a credit card to confirm.’

‘Your private card?’

‘The agency’s.’

‘Who has access to the statements?’

‘I have to sign them off for the finance team.’

‘Won’t someone question a charge for a hotel so close to the offices?’

‘I’ll say we were entertaining a guest,’ Tony said.

‘And the next question would be who and why. What are you going to do? Lie? Lies get you into trouble if only because someone in the finance team will think you’re having an affair
– getting a little bit more than only a ham sandwich during your lunch break. I will pay for the hotel with my own credit card. You can reimburse me at a later stage.’

Tony nodded. ‘I’ll give you my cell number.’ He reached for the notepad and pen next to the hotel phone.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not secure enough. I will buy two pay-as-you-go phones. One will be delivered by courier to your office marked for your attention only. We will only use those to
talk to each other. You must not use that phone for any other reason.’

Tony looked rather sceptical that such a thing was needed.

‘Tony,’ I said firmly, ‘this is important. We must take no unnecessary risks. Get the personnel files and have them delivered to me here, preferably by tomorrow. Pay cash for
the delivery and arrange it yourself well away from Arlington. And don’t use the agency address on the paperwork.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll get on it.’

‘Now, who do I report to and what have they been told?’

‘Norman Gibson is expecting you on Monday morning. He’s been told you are from England and are part of the international observer scheme.’

‘Does he know I work for the British Horseracing Authority?’

‘All he’s been told is that you are from England and you are to be shown the workings of our horseracing section.’

‘I think that I’ll say I am from the BHA. It’s too dangerous otherwise. Am I supposed to be sponsored by the British Government?’

‘Yes,’ Tony said, ‘through the Embassy. That’s how exchanges have been organised in the past.’

‘Let’s hope your mole doesn’t have a friend who works at the British Embassy.’

‘Do you think he will check?’

‘I would if I were him,’ I said. ‘I’d be hugely suspicious of anyone turning up unexpectedly. I expect him to verify my story down to the very last detail. That’s
why it is essential he can find me at the BHA.’

I was reminded of the advice I’d been given in the army by an MI6 operative – a spook. ‘Lie only when it is absolutely necessary,’ he had said. ‘Make your cover
story as true as it can be. Otherwise it will be the little things that catch you out while you are concentrating only on the big ones.’

‘I’ll get on to Paul Maldini in London to warn him,’ I said.

‘What about the Embassy?’

‘If Norman Gibson has already been told that it has been arranged through the Embassy then we’ll have to take the chance. Changing things now will draw more attention.’

‘Norman may not have told anyone else,’ Tony said.

‘No matter. Leave it.’

I did not want anyone else knowing the truth.

My life might depend upon it.

On Sunday morning I walked down the street to the Fashion Centre at Pentagon City, a vast shopping mall over four floors with everything from major international department
stores to a shop dedicated only to the finer art of men’s shaving.

I was searching for a mobile-phone store. There were two and, in one of them, I found what I was looking for.

‘This one won’t go on the Internet.’ The young sales assistant was doing his best to direct me towards one of his more expensive models.

‘I know,’ I replied patiently. ‘It’s for my mother and she doesn’t really understand technology.’ In fact, my mother had died when mobile phones were still
the size of a brick, but the young man wasn’t to know that. ‘This is the model I have been recommended by her care home. I’ll take two of them.’

‘Two?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know if we have two. No one ever wants phones like this any more.’

He went off into the back still shaking his head but triumphantly returned holding two boxes from which he blew off the dust.

‘You’re lucky,’ he said. ‘These are the last ones. The company is discontinuing this item when they’ve all gone.’

‘It will still work though, won’t it?’ I asked with mild concern.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘It’ll work fine for calls and texts, but it is not 4G. It’s not even 3G and doesn’t have Bluetooth, GPS or even a camera. Are you sure you
still want it? The iPhone 6 does far more. That’s like a full-blown computer in your pocket and very good value. We have it on special offer.’

His enthusiasm was almost infectious.

‘These are just perfect,’ I said, touching the two boxes in front of me on the counter. Perfect, I thought, if you wanted phones that weren’t ‘smart’. Smartphones
might be great for accessing the Internet and for using the thousands of apps available for download, but they could also be tracked and hacked.

‘Right,’ said the young man, slightly deflated. ‘Do you want them on a contract?’

‘No. Pay-as-you-go.’

‘It is cheaper on a contract,’ he said, ‘in the long run.’

‘But I’m not sure my mother has a long run,’ I said, smiling at him. ‘Pay-as-you-go will be fine.’

‘For both?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘For both. My mother has a habit of mislaying things so I’m buying her two.’

He clearly thought I was mad but he inserted SIM cards into the phones before topping them up with a hundred dollars each of credit. More than enough, I thought, for calls and texts between Tony
and myself over the next few weeks.

I paid for it all with cash and gave a made-up name and address to the young man for the guarantee – just to be on the safe side.

Next I went into a computer store and bought a desktop colour printer, spare ink cartridges, a USB connecting lead and some paper.

Finally, I went to the FedEx Office Print-and-Ship store on Crystal Drive, conveniently open on a Sunday, and arranged for one of the phones to be delivered early the following morning to Tony
Andretti at FACSA.

‘Any message?’ asked the young woman behind the counter.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Only the box, thank you.’

I again paid in cash and gave a false return address. The transaction might have been anonymous but I had noticed the CCTV camera in the corner of the store, silently recording the faces of
everyone who entered. I wondered whether I should have used one of my disguises, but perhaps I was being paranoid about secrecy.

But it was better to be paranoid, I thought, than dead.

I spent some of Sunday afternoon sightseeing.

To be precise, I took a taxi from my hotel across the Potomac to the Thomas Jefferson Memorial.

My first disappointment was that the cherry blossom was well past its prime, with much of it now decaying on the ground beneath the trees that surrounded the memorial. But there was enough
remaining to give me some idea of how magnificent it must have been only a week or so earlier.