Triple Crown

by Felix Francis

  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.

  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 app
eared 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.

  Or, maybe, that was what he wanted everyone to think.

  So intent was I on watching Frank that I nearly missed it.

  But not quite.

  Something within my subconscious brain flashed a warning – a subliminal message sent from my eye to the cerebral cortex of my brain.

  Gun!

  It was hidden under a newspaper, which had slipped away only for a moment as the gun was thrust into George’s belly. It had only been visible for the shortest of split seconds, but that had been long enough for my mind to register the shape – a Glock 22C with silencer, loaded, no doubt, with fifteen .40-calibre expanding bullets in the magazine.

  All my concentration switched immediately back to George in time to glimpse a splash of white as an envelope was passed out of his hand and into another.

  The whole exchange had taken merely a second or two.

  No one else appeared to have seen it, certainly not Charlie Hern, who didn’t move a muscle, continuing to lean nonchalantly on the white metal rail as he had for the preceding two and a half hours, yawning expansively into the bargain.

  George himself, however, seemed totally shocked, standing there with his mouth hanging open in surprise, as his assailant turned and vanished into the crowd.

  I, too, had been caught slightly unawares because the holder of the gun, the collector of the cash, had not been Frank Bannister as I’d been half expecting, nor any other man for that matter.

  It had been a woman.

  32

  The woman with the gun was now my target and I set off in pursuit as she moved swiftly up the concrete steps towards the grandstand, both the gun and the envelope having been stuffed into the bag she was holding.

  I hadn’t seen her face, not even in profile, as she had a mass of long greying curls that hung down across both cheeks.

  Wig, I thought, as I struggled to keep up.

  The movement of her body was keen and athletic, not that of someone old enough to have grey hair.

  My plan had been simply to watch and identify the mole, and then to report back to Tony Andretti. But now I was chasing her shadow, hoping to catch a glimpse of her eyes to make a positive identification.

  She went through the doors into the grandstand and turned right towards the exit. I barged past the other spectators who were on their way from the paddock to watch the race.

  ‘Sorry,’ I shouted to one elderly man as I almost knocked him over, but I didn’t stop to help. Instead I rushed forward, trying to keep the grey curls in sight.

  The woman didn’t make directly for the exit but veered off to the left in the main lobby and disappeared into the Ladies’. I didn’t know whether she was aware that I had been following her. Quite possibly. It had certainly not been up to my usual high standard of covert tailing, more akin to a bull rampaging through a china shop. I didn’t really care, but now I had a dilemma. Did I follow her into the Ladies’?

  She was armed and might be waiting for me to appear. I had absolutely no intention of walking into a hail of .40 bullets, expanding or otherwise, but I was worried she might be escaping through a window.

  The men’s room was immediately alongside and I quickly went in there. Logic dictated that, if there were windows in the Ladies’, there would also be some in the Gents’.

  There were just solid walls and electric light, and not a pane of glass to be seen.

  I went back out into the lobby and waited, finding a concrete pillar to lean against so that it wasn’t too obvious that I was waiting for someone to emerge from the toilets.

  There were loudspeakers in the lobby and I listened to the racecourse commentator as he described the horses making their way to the starting gate for the eighth race. Soon this deserted lobby would be filling with those leaving before the last race, making an early dash for the exits in order to miss the traffic jams. Watching the Ladies’-room door might then prove more difficult and I didn’t want to lose our best lead yet to the mole.

  I needed backup.

  Tony had asked me earlier if I’d wanted some and I had foolishly said no, fearful that a cast of hovering hawks might have frightened away the prey.

  I pulled the non-smart phone from my pocket and began to dial Tony’s number.

  ‘Turn it off,’ said a man’s voice close into my right ear. At the same time something hard was pressed into the small of my back.

  I turned off the phone and the man reached forward over my shoulder to take it out of my hand.

  ‘Move,’ he ordered, pushing harder into my back.

  I moved, walking forwards.

  ‘Go left,’ he said. ‘Towards the elevator.’

  He nudged me in the back again so I went to my left, towards the elevator.

  I wondered how this could be happening.

  Maybe there wasn’t a crowd of nearly a hundred thousand as there would be in ten days’ time, but this was no dark alley in some run-down city centre. It was a busy racecourse in broad daylight with security personnel within view.

  Should I shout out to them?

  ‘Don’t even think about calling for help,’ the man said as if he was reading my mind. ‘You’ll never live to receive it.’

  I kept quiet and walked.

  We arrived at the elevator. It had a For Stewards’ Use Only notice stuck to the doors.

  ‘ “Up” button,’ the man said.

  I pushed it and I could hear the mechanism start whirring somewhere overhead.

  ‘What’s going on?’ It was a female voice. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘He followed you,’ the man replied. ‘He was waiting for you outside the restrooms.’

  Now I was in deeper trouble. I didn’t like the odds. Two against one was bad enough but they also had guns while I had nothing more than my bare hands.

  I dared not turn round but didn’t actually need to. I could see them both reflected in the brushed-metal doors of the elevator. It was not a clear image but it was good enough.

  Bob Wade and Steffi Dean.

  The FACSA lovers.

  Not one mole but two.

  The elevator doors opened and a prod from behind implied I was to enter.

  ‘Keep your face to the wall,’ the man instructed.

  If he thought it would stop me identifying them, then he was wrong. But maybe he didn’t know that. Perhaps it was safer for me if he thought I didn’t know them, so I went right in, almost pressing my nose up against the back wall.

  It could also be that they hadn’t recognised me. If so, I’d like it to stay that way.

  The two of them followed me into the lift and the doors closed behind them. We started to go up.

  ‘Did you get the cash?’ Bob asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Steffi replied. ‘Did you deal with the groom?’

  ‘All done.’

  ‘So what shall we do with this one?’

  It was a question that I was quite interested to know the answer to as well.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Bob said.

  ‘Waste him,’ Steffi replied.

  That was not the answer I’d been hoping for.

  ‘Not here,’ Bob said.

  The lift continued on its effortless way to the top of the grandstand.

  I knew exactly where it was going.

  I’d been up here before on Monday night when I’d been searching for food and avoiding the attentions of Diego and his chums. This was the lift used by the race stewards to make their way up to their exclusive viewing eyrie, which was attached precariously to the very front edge of the grandstand roof.

  The lift stopped and the doors opened.

  ‘Back out,’ Bob said.

  I did as I was told.

  Where were the damn stewards when you needed them?

  They were watching
the last race, of course, looking for wrongdoing on the track when it was all taking place behind them.

  What were my chances?

  There was a little good news and plenty of bad news.

  The good was what Tony had said about the accuracy of law-enforcement officers with their guns. He’d told me that the New York City Police hit barely a quarter of their human targets at distances up to six feet. However, the bad news was that he had also said that his special agents were trained to shoot multiple rounds to make up for that. And, at present, the distance between Bob’s gun and my back was a lot less than six feet, more like six inches. He was hardly likely to miss from there.

  How could I make the distance greater?

  Running away might help, but not if he shot me before I had taken enough steps.

  ‘Turn round,’ Bob said, holding my shoulder so that I turned with both he and Steffi always behind me. That was a good sign, I thought. They were still trying to make sure I didn’t see their faces.

  ‘Walk.’

  We were in a corridor that ran the full width of the grandstand from the lift at the back to the stewards’ room at the very front. It had been built into the depth of the roof.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Steffi asked, a slight nervous timbre in her voice giving away her anxiety.

  ‘There’s a door into the roof space down here,’ Bob said. ‘We’ll put him in there.’

  Dead or alive?

  I could hear the commentator trying to engender some excitement as the last race of the day drew to a close and I wondered how Debenture was doing. The stewards would soon be coming along this corridor on their way down to ground level.

  I walked a little slower but Bob wasn’t having it.

  He prodded me in the back with his gun. ‘Faster.’

  I speeded up fractionally. If the stewards did come the other way, he could hardly shoot them all.

  Sadly, we arrived at a door on the left before there was any sign of departing officials.

  ‘Open it,’ Bob said from behind me.

  I did as he instructed.

  Through the door was a world that the racegoer usually never sees – the void between the upper and lower skins of the grandstand’s vast cantilevered roof.