In the UK, the racing authority warned trainers that such painkillers should be discontinued a minimum of eight days prior to a race. In practice, most trainers stopped any course of treatment at least two weeks beforehand so that no trace remained. Otherwise they would be liable to large fines and lengthy suspensions. However, in the US, use of such drugs right up to race day was common, and a ‘positive’ post-race test for Bute was not against the rules.
According to the briefing paper, the disturbing effect of this was that the drugs allowed horses to compete when really unfit to do so, masking injuries such as sprains and even slight cracks. This could result in catastrophic collapse, an all-too-frequent occurrence on American tracks, where the rate of horses fatally injured in flat races was twice that of the UK.
However, the purpose of the proposed raid at Churchill Downs was not to look for Lasix or Bute. Finding those would be expected. It was to test recent runners for anabolic steroids, in particular stanozolol, a drug that promotes growth of muscle and hence improves performance.
I knew all about that drug.
Back in 2013, the BHA had expelled trainer Mahmood Al Zarooni from all racing for eight years for giving it to horses in his care. And the discovery of stanozolol in his urine had been the reason Ben Johnson was stripped of the hundred-metre Olympic gold medal in Seoul, bringing disgrace on him and his sport.
In UK racing the rule was crystal clear. Anabolic steroids were banned in horses at any time. But in the United States things were not so straightforward. Their use had not been regulated at all until 2010 and, even since then, several anabolic steroids were permitted for therapeutic treatment up to thirty days before racing.
But, it seems, some old trainers found it difficult to learn new tricks.
FACSA had received intelligence that one such trainer, Hayden Ryder, based at Churchill Downs, was still using the methods of the past and injecting his horses much closer to race time than was permitted, relying on a hefty dose of Lasix on race day to wash traces of the illegals out of their system.
And who could really blame him. The potential gains were huge and typical penalties for getting caught very modest – a fifteen-day ban and a maximum fine of one thousand dollars.
The date of the raid was set for very early on the coming Saturday morning, the day of the Kentucky Derby, the aim being not so much to remove a miscreant trainer from the sport as to get maximum media coverage to demonstrate that horseracing will not tolerate cheating.
It was to be a major media moment.
Today was Monday. The raid was due in five days. That would give Ryder plenty of time to get rid of the evidence if he was made aware of what was going to happen. It might even give him the opportunity to arrange transportation of horses elsewhere to prevent them from being tested.
I read through everything in the package twice, including Tony’s handwritten list of those present at the planning meeting.
I recognised most of the names. Section chief Norman Gibson was on the list, as was Frank Bannister, together with the other seven FACSA special agents I had met earlier in the day. In addition there were two others from the section: one of the intelligence analysts plus an admin assistant.
Tony had told me he had been present at the meeting but there had been two other senior agency staff there as well – the head of the resource planning office, and the assistant director in charge of security.
Would one of these fourteen people really pass on information to Hayden Ryder?
And, if so, why? For what gain?
‘Bring the op forward,’ I said. ‘Do it tonight or first thing tomorrow morning.’
It was late, well gone eleven, and I was speaking to Tony using our non-smart phones. I think I had woken him.
‘That’s logistically impossible,’ he said, suppressing a yawn.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Our raid team is still here in Virginia.’
‘Have you no one in Louisville?’
‘The nearest FACSA regional office would be Cincinnati, but that’s concerned only with baseball and football. We also have one in Indianapolis but they deal with the NCAA.’
‘NCAA?’ I asked.
‘College sports – sadly, no horseracing.’
‘You surely don’t get much corruption in college sports?’
‘You must be joking,’ Tony said. ‘It’s huge business. College football has three times as many spectators per annum as the NFL.’
‘There must be someone else in Louisville who could act for you,’ I said. ‘How about the FBI?’
I could almost hear the cogs turning in his brain.
‘Difficult, if not impossible,’ he said. ‘Use of anabolic steroids in horses close to a race may be a corrupt practice, as we see it, but does it actually break any federal law? The FBI would be unable to act unless they also suspected racketeering, such as making or taking illegal bets as a result of the steroid injections. And they would be most unlikely to mount a raid so quickly just on our say-so anyway.’
‘Then get the FACSA team from here to Louisville tonight. Do the raid in the morning. If details of this operation are leaked to Hayden Ryder then you can expect to turn up at his barn on Saturday morning to find the place cleaner than a priest on Sunday. You’ll find nothing. Even the drugged-up horses will have been moved out. Rather than being a media coup for FACSA, it will be a media disaster. You will be a laughing stock.’
There was a lengthy silence as if he had never considered the possibility.
‘Tell me what to do,’ he said finally.
In the end, Tony convinced me that he couldn’t rouse the troops from their beds and arrange for them to be transported more than 450 miles in the dead of night.
‘The raid is simply not important enough,’ Tony said. ‘I’d never get the authority for the cost. It is not as if the President’s life is at stake or anything. It’s only a few drugs.’
Yes, I thought, and drugs that weren’t even illegal. Maybe if it had been a stash of cocaine or heroin, I’d have had more chance, but anabolic steroids occurred naturally in the human body and were regularly prescribed to thousands of citizens for the treatment of cancer and AIDS.
‘I’ll try to bring forward the move to Louisville from Wednesday to tomorrow,’ Tony said. ‘I’ll also arrange to do the raid on Thursday morning.’
‘Do it on Wednesday morning,’ I said. ‘The sooner the better. And don’t tell anyone.’
‘I’ll have to tell them something. Everyone is expecting to be travelling on Wednesday.’
‘Make up a reason,’ I said. ‘Say that flights are full on Wednesday so they have to go earlier.’
‘We’re due to travel on a government-owned aircraft out of Andrews.’
‘Air Force One?’
‘I wish,’ Tony said with a laugh. ‘Just a regular jet. I’ll have to check if it’s available tomorrow.’
‘If not, get them onto commercial flights. Say the government plane has broken or something, but don’t say anything about moving the raid forward. Say you need to gather them together for a rehearsal or something on Wednesday morning then, at the last minute, switch it for the real thing when it’s too late for the information to be leaked.’
‘I ought to discuss this with someone. For a start I would have to inform the US Department of Agriculture.’
‘What on earth for? Don’t you have the authority yourself?’
‘It is not that,’ Tony said. ‘USDA provides the accredited veterinarians we need to take the blood samples. Also I have to liaise with the local Kentucky law enforcement. They’re expecting us to go in on Saturday, not Wednesday. I don’t want to start a shooting match between our agents and the Louisville Police Department.’
‘Then do what you have to do,’ I said wearily, ‘but stress the need for confidentiality. Ask them not to even tell their wives and husbands. Secrecy is essential if we are not to waste our time, and far too many people know about this raid already.’
Add the vets from USDA and the local police force to those from the agency who knew and I was quite surprised it wasn’t already on the Kentucky tourist information website as an upcoming attraction.
‘I’ll also have to talk it through with the Director,’ Tony said. ‘And I ought to consult Norman Gibson. He is the section chief.’
‘But what if he’s also the mole?’
The calm of Monday morning in the FACSA racing section had been replaced by a hive of activity twenty-four hours later.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘Ask the damn government,’ Frank said crossly, as he collected papers from his desk and stuffed them angrily into a briefcase. ‘I’ve been informed that our delightful private jet trip to Louisville is off. Some member of Congress has requisitioned the aircraft – probably to take his mistress on a vacation to Hawaii. So we’ve got to go commercial – and we’re flying coach.’ He threw his hands up in disgust. ‘My flight leaves from National in two and a half hours and I’ve got to get home first to pack.’
‘I thought we were going tomorrow.’
‘We were but, apparently, there are no seats left tomorrow due to everyone else going to the Derby.’
‘Is everyone going today?’ I asked, all innocently.
‘As far as I know,’ Frank said. ‘But not on the same flight. We’re on all sorts. Some are having to go through Atlanta or Chicago, for God’s sake. Atlanta is completely the wrong direction.’
‘How about me?’ I asked.
‘Go see the boss,’ Frank said. ‘Maybe he can help you. I can’t.’
With that he rushed off towards the exit.
I walked over and knocked on Norman Gibson’s door.
He looked up and waved me in.
‘Frank tells me he’s off to Louisville,’ I said.
‘So am I. The whole section goes to the Derby.’
‘How about me?’ I asked.
The look on his face told me that he hadn’t thought about me.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Er . . . I don’t know.’
‘There’s no point in me staying here if you are all in Kentucky.’
‘No, I suppose not. I’d assumed you were coming with us on the jet but that’s all changed.’
‘Is there somewhere for me to stay in Louisville if I make my own way there?’
‘Sure. No problem. We have use of a dorm block and mess hall at the Kentucky Air National Guard. It’s not quite the Brown or the Seelbach but it’s good enough. We always stay there for the Derby.’
‘Where is it?’ I asked.
‘At Louisville Airport. On the eastern edge, away from the civilian side. It’s real close to Churchill Downs.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you there.’
‘If you can get a flight,’ Norman said. He spread his hands wide. ‘I’m sorry there’s nothing I can do.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll get there somehow.’
He seemed relieved.
Not as relieved as me, I thought.
I had been afraid he would say that I couldn’t go at all.
And what Norman didn’t know was that I was already booked on a flight from Washington to Louisville that afternoon. I had made the reservation the previous evening, after I had spoken to Tony and before the FACSA logistics team had filled up all the available seats.
I was due to leave National Airport somewhat later than Frank, at 3 p.m. local time, and I was packed, with my suitcase ready for collection on my way to Check-in.
7
National Airport, or Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport to give it its full title, was only a couple of miles from the FACSA offices and I was there in good time for my flight.
As I waited at the gate for boarding to commence, I discovered that I was not alone among strangers. Three of the FACSA special agents were there too.
‘Hi, Jeff,’ Bob Wade said, walking over to where I was waiting. ‘How did you get on this flight? I thought all seats were taken. Steffi is having to go through Chicago.’
Oops!
I thrust my boarding pass for seat 8C into my trouser pocket.
‘I’m a standby,’ I said. ‘I get on only if there’s a no-show.’
Bob seemed to accept my hastily made-up explanation.
He came and sat down next to me while the other two took the seats opposite.
‘You’ve met Cliff Connell and Larry Spiegal?’
‘Sure,’ I said, leaning forward and shaking their hands. ‘We met yesterday.’
‘What is it yer do?’ Larry asked in a deep Southern drawl.
‘Much the same as you,’ I said, ‘but in England.’
‘I went to England once,’ he said slowly. ‘With a friend when I was in college. Absolutely loved it. The best thing was y’all being able to drink booze at eighteen without a fake ID.’ He laughed. ‘I remember we made the most of that. Sadly, now, I reckon I can’t remember much else.’ He laughed again and Bob joined him, producing his rapid-fire guffaws.
The flight was called and Bob, Cliff and Larry went to board. I remained seated.
‘Good luck,’ Bob said. ‘See you in Louisville.’
I watched them go through the gate and down the jetway to the plane.
I waited until the very last minute to board and then made my way down to 8C only to find that I was seated right next to Cliff Connell.
‘Made it then?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I replied sitting down. ‘Must be my lucky day. Where are Bob and Larry?’
‘Farther down the back.’
I strapped myself in and we taxied out to the runway for take-off.
The flight was scheduled to take two hours, not enough for a full meal service, but about half an hour in the flight attendant came through the cabin with a trolley offering drinks for purchase.
‘Fancy a beer?’ I said to Cliff.
‘I can’t,’ he said.
‘On duty?’
‘Armed,’ he said quietly in my ear while lightly touching his jacket beneath the left armpit.
‘Really? Don’t you get stopped at security?’
‘I have authorisation to carry a concealed weapon at all times. All federal special agents do.’
‘I thought guns and planes didn’t mix.’
‘I wouldn’t really want to use it while airborne,’ Cliff said with a smile. ‘But I always have it with me, just in case.’
The flight landed at Louisville on time at five o’clock and I was quite surprised to find that, in spite of being so far west, we were still on Eastern Time.
‘The time zone changes west of Louisville,’ Cliff informed me. ‘About half of Kentucky is on Eastern, the rest on Central.’
‘Doesn’t that make things rather complicated for the state government?’
‘Time zones are decisions for individual counties not states, although they have to be approved by the US Congress,’ he said. ‘But there are still a few crazy anomalies in some places – towns on Eastern Time that are farther west than neighbouring towns on Central.’
Tempus fugit, I thought, whatever the time zone.
Cliff and I joined up with Bob and Larry at baggage reclaim. Each of the agents had checked two large bags compared to my one, and theirs appeared to be much heavier than the fifty-pound airline allowance. But I suspected that they hadn’t had to pay any excess charges.
I hitched a lift in their pre-arranged transport from the civilian terminal round to the Kentucky Air National Guard facility.
Getting in was easy for the others but less so for me.
My new security pass, it seemed, was only valid for FACSA headquarters in Arlington. Fortunately I had three special agents with me to vouch for my integrity and soon all four of us were drawing up outside the dorm.
There was a list pinned to a noticeboard near the entrance showing names and the allocation of rooms. At least someone was expecting me, even if my name had been written in by hand on an otherwise typed sheet. I had been a
ssigned Room 304 on the top floor, next door to Steffi Dean who was in 303.
Alongside the rooming list was another sheet of paper with NOTICE TO ALL FACSA SPECIAL AGENTS printed large and boldly across the top. Beneath, it stated that all agents must immediately read the briefing papers placed in their rooms.
I went up the concrete stairs to the third floor. The key was in the door.
I had imagined the dorm would be a large room with iron bedsteads arranged down each side, as in Tom Brown’s School Days, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth.
The dorm was, in fact, a block of twenty-four identical self-contained apartments, eight on each of the three floors. Each apartment consisted of a bedroom, an en-suite bathroom and a kitchen-cum-living room, that came fully equipped with furniture, large refrigerator and a microwave oven. There was even a wide-screen TV bolted to the wall with a bracket.
And these were enlisted men’s barracks, not those for officers.
I thought back to some of the accommodation I had been required to live in during my time in the British Army. I don’t think I’d ever had an en-suite bathroom, let alone a government-issue television.
I went back out into the corridor.
The key was also in the door of Room 303.
Steffi is having to go through Chicago.
That’s what Bob Wade had said to me at Washington National.
Surely she wouldn’t be here yet.
I looked up and down to check there was no one else in the corridor, then I opened the door to 303 and went in, removing the key while I did so.
There was a large white envelope on the bed with ‘Steffi Dean’ written on the front. The envelope was sealed shut.
Damn it.
I picked up the envelope and took it back to my own room. Then I searched the kitchen area and found what I was looking for in a cupboard – an electric kettle.
I hadn’t steamed open an envelope since I was thirteen, when I’d opened my school report before my father could see it. I had been particularly worried about what my history teacher had written concerning my poor behaviour in his class, and with good reason. I had removed the offending piece of paper before resealing the doctored report back into its envelope. My father had never known and I, of course, had never told him.
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