Triple Crown (28 page)

‘So what
can
we do?’ Tony said in exasperation.

‘Nothing. Not yet. We watch and wait and hope he makes a mistake.’

There was silence from the far end, as if Tony was digesting that rather unpleasant pill.

‘In the meantime can you check on something for me,’ I said. ‘Debenture was selected for a random drug test after the Maryland Sprint Handicap at Pimlico on Saturday. Raworth
seemed quite concerned about it. Can you find out the result of the test from the Maryland Racing Commission and keep it from being publicised?’

‘Why?’ Tony asked. ‘Surely, if the test is positive, we can use that to ban Raworth.’

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But if it’s a positive for, say, steroids or clenbuterol then, even with his record, the Maryland Commission will ban him for only a month or two at
best, and only then after lengthy appeals. I want to nail him for something far more serious than a bit of doping and, in the meantime, I don’t want him put on the defensive.’

‘OK,’ Tony said. ‘I’ll have a quiet word with their commissioner, but if the test is positive he’ll want to do something about it.’

‘Convince him otherwise,’ I said. ‘After all, the horse didn’t win anything. It came seventh out of eight.’

‘OK,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll do my best. Anything else?’

‘How about the Texas ranch?’ I said. ‘Did you find out anything?’

‘I haven’t yet but I’ve asked the chief of our Colorado Springs office to do some digging for me. Don’t worry. I explained that it was to be confidential to him alone. He
normally deals with corruption in the pro rodeo circuit and they use Quarter Horses so it’s his area of expertise.’

‘Pro rodeo circuit?’ I said. ‘Is there such a thing?’

‘There certainly is. It’s big business. There are hundreds of events each year and even a national final each December to decide the World Champion All-Around Cowboy. There’s
millions of dollars at stake and it is broadcast live on CBS.’

I marvelled at the way Americans claim to be the champions of the world at something that no one else does – like the winners of the Super Bowl who are officially crowned as the World
Champions even though no other country is allowed to enter a team in the competition, not even Canada.

‘So when do you expect to hear back from your man?’ I asked.

‘He said it might take a few days. He’s been at a rodeo in Las Vegas and he won’t return to his office until Wednesday morning.’

‘Didn’t you tell him it was urgent?’ I implored.

‘The guy has worked for us all weekend,’ Tony said in his defence. ‘So he’s entitled to a couple of days off playing the slots and tables. He is still the best man for
the job, so be patient.’

I had never been very good at being patient.

Playing the slots and tables, indeed.

If I was busting my gut here seven days a week, why wasn’t everyone else?

Charlie Hern took morning exercise on Wednesday, standing on the platform by the training track with a stopwatch in his hand, while the horses were galloped in turn by Victor
Gomez.

‘Where’s Mr Raworth?’ I asked Victor as he came back to the barn to change horses.

‘He gone visit family,’ Victor said.

‘Where to?’ I asked.

‘El Paso,’ Victor replied. ‘He back Friday maybe, or Saturday maybe. Depends traffic.’

‘Has he driven all the way to El Paso?’

Victor nodded.

It was 2,000 miles by road from Baltimore to western Texas.

‘Perhaps he no like airplanes,’ Victor said, before disappearing back to the track on Paddleboat.

Perhaps he no like airplanes.

Oh yeah? Who was Victor kidding?

Raworth was a man who regularly spent a third of each year in Florida, another third in California, and the rest of the time in New York, with training barns in each place. He would be as
accustomed to getting on and off aircraft as most people were buses.

Was this the mistake we were hoping for?

I took a chance by going back to the bunkhouse to call Tony immediately. All the grooms were at work so the place was deserted.

‘Raworth is in El Paso,’ I said. ‘He went there by road from Pimlico.’

‘That’s a hell of a drive,’ Tony said. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘That he’s driven all the way to El Paso to refill the cryogenic flask with EVA-infected Quarter Horse semen from the family ranch? No commercial airline would allow him to fly with
liquid nitrogen in his baggage.’

‘No way,’ Tony said in agreement.

‘We can’t be sure about them having EVA at the ranch until your man in Colorado gets back to us.’

‘I’ll get him home from his gambling today,’ Tony said decisively. ‘Did you say Raworth has a Jeep Cherokee?’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘A white one.’

‘Registered in which state?’

I tried to conjure up a mental image of the vehicle registration plate.

‘New York, I think. The Empire State.’

‘I’ll get the licence plate from New York Department of Motor Vehicles and then Homeland Security can track him across the country using their automatic licence plate recognition
cameras.’

‘How many of those do they have?’

‘Lots, with hundreds more going up every month on every Interstate and in most cities across the country. Don’t tell anyone though. The majority of Americans complain bitterly about
their lack of privacy as it is but, if they really knew how much their government spied on them, they’d throw a fit. The cameras track people all over the country and match them to various
databases such as known criminal, wanted person, gang member, missing person, immigration violator, even tax avoiders and those on the sex offender registry, not to mention terrorist suspects. The
Los Angeles Police even want to use the camera data to send letters to the owners of all vehicles that enter areas of high prostitution to warn them to stay away.’

They ought to threaten to send letters to their wives, I thought.

‘Could they also find out if Raworth has driven to El Paso before?’

‘Probably. It depends on how long ago. They don’t keep the data indefinitely.’

‘It won’t be very long,’ I said. ‘There was still liquid nitrogen in the flask at Pimlico, so it had to be only a few weeks ago at most.’

‘I’ll get it checked right away,’ Tony said. ‘Call me later.’

We hung up and I walked slowly back to the barn, thinking.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Keith shouted at me, making me jump. ‘Paddleboat has been back in his stall for ages.’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve been to the jacks.’

‘Well don’t,’ Keith said. ‘The horses’ comfort comes before yours.’

I hurried off down the shedrow to deal with Paddleboat.

‘Raworth’s Jeep left the hotel parking lot at the Hyatt Regency in Baltimore Harbor at five after eight, Eastern Daylight Time, last Sunday morning, overnighted at
the Garden Tree Motel east of Memphis, Tennessee, and joined I-10 from I-20 fifty miles short of the family ranch at 8.52 p.m., Mountain Time, on Monday evening. That was the last camera he passed.
Raworth was the only person on board throughout. He stopped for gas five times. I have the names of the gas stations if you want them, and their closed-circuit footage showing him there along with
copies of his credit card receipts for both the gas and the motel.’

I was impressed.

‘How did you get this so fast?’ I asked, worried he might have used his own FACSA agents.

‘I was at detective school with the current Director of Homeland Security. I asked him for a favour and he ran it this afternoon as a training exercise for his staff. They are good –
very good. Even I think so. And, you were dead right. They also picked up that Raworth’s Jeep had recently taken that journey before. He started out from his home in New York April
twenty-fifth and arrived El Paso the twenty-seventh. On that occasion he left for Louisville April twenty-ninth, then drove back to New York May tenth, three days after the Kentucky
Derby.’

‘It all fits,’ I said.

‘So now can we arrest him?’

‘Only if he has the cryogenic flask with him when he turns up back here at Belmont and we’re absolutely sure it is full of frozen sperm containing the EVA virus. Then you can hang
him out to dry, but I really want to get your mole as well into the bargain.

‘And how are you going to do that?’ Tony said excitedly.

‘I’m working on it.’

George Raworth arrived back at Belmont Park shortly after nine o’clock on Saturday evening.

I knew he was coming.

I had spoken to Tony after my supper on Friday and he’d told me that the Jeep was again on the move.

‘It is amazing how it can be tracked in real time,’ Tony said. ‘If Raworth were a terrorist they could call in a drone strike to take him out.’

He’d been watching too many movies, I thought. A drone strike directed at a vehicle on home soil might have raised a few awkward questions in the US Congress.

Tony gave me two other important pieces of information as well.

The first was that Debenture had indeed failed the drug test after the Maryland Sprint Handicap.

‘He had excess cobalt in his system,’ Tony said.

‘Cobalt?’

‘Just so. Not a huge amount, mind. The test found seventy-two parts per billion of cobalt while the permitted threshold level in Maryland is only fifty.’

I’d heard of the use of excess cobalt before, in particular in Australia where a trainer had been disqualified from racing for fifteen years for giving it to his horses, and I’d done
some research on the subject in London.

Cobalt is a trace element needed by bacteria in the human digestive tract to produce the vitamin B12, which in turn is essential for the production of the hormone erythropoietin that stimulates
bone marrow to produce red blood cells.

Erythropoietin is known as EPO for short; it was regular injections of a synthetic form of EPO that allowed the cyclist Lance Armstrong to win seven consecutive Tours de France. Attempts to
cover up positive tests had been instrumental in triggering Armstrong’s dramatic fall from grace, an almost overnight transformation from sporting hero and cancer survivor into demonised
cheat.

The injecting of cobalt is assumed to increase the amount of vitamin B12 produced, and hence the quantity of natural EPO in the blood. That, in turn, should increase the number of red blood
cells created, and hence the amount of oxygen that could be delivered to the muscles, thus improving stamina and performance.

However, the jury was still out on whether it actually made any difference at all in horses.

Raworth had obviously been experimenting with a horse that he had not expected to win, and so he had not anticipated that it would be tested. The random selection had been his bad luck. And our
good.

‘Has the Maryland Racing Commissioner agreed to sit tight on the findings?’

‘Reluctantly, for the time being,’ Tony said, ‘and only because the level is low. Some tests in the past have shown concentrations of many hundred parts per billion, even
thousands.’

‘What’s the penalty for excess cobalt in Maryland?’

‘For a first offence, especially one this low, it is fifteen days’ suspension and a five-hundred-dollar fine, plus loss of purse money for the race.’

‘The horse finished second to last,’ I said, ‘so he didn’t win any purse money. And fifteen days hardly seems enough of a deterrent. That’s just a holiday, and five
hundred dollars is mere peanuts in this sport. I want to get Raworth for far more than that.’

‘But the fifteen-day suspension might mean that he couldn’t act as the trainer of Fire Point for the Belmont Stakes.’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ I said. ‘He would surely appeal and any suspension would be deferred until after it was heard.’

However, remarkable as all that was, it was Tony’s second piece of information that I found the more interesting.

His man in Colorado Springs had turned up a two-year-old insurance claim for a stallion infected during an outbreak of equine viral arteritis in American Quarter Horses at the Raworth family
ranch, the Crazy R.

‘Why is it called the Crazy R?’ I asked. ‘Strange name for a farm.’

‘That’s their brand,’ Tony replied. ‘Crazy R means an upside-down R. They brand an inverted capital R into the hides of their cattle with a red-hot branding
iron.’

‘Not these days, surely,’ I said.

‘Of course. It mattered more when stock ran free but, even now, it is still the best way of determining ownership – if an animal has your brand on it, then it’s yours, no more
questions asked. It continues to be the most important tool we have in the fight against cattle rustling.’

‘I thought cattle rustling disappeared with the demise of the Wild West,’ I said with a slight laugh.

‘The West is still wild, let me tell you,’ Tony replied, ‘and cattle rustling is very much alive and well.’

‘But branding the skin with a red-hot iron sounds so cruel,’ I said. ‘There must be better modern methods of proving ownership. How about microchips?’

‘They’re slowly making inroads and hot branding will probably disappear eventually, but it remains a legal requirement in many states.’

‘Do people still brand their horses as well?’

‘Less so these days,’ Tony said. ‘There’s a new technique called freeze branding that’s becoming more common for horses. Instead of using a red-hot iron, an
extremely cold one is held against the horse’s side. It is far less painful because instead of burning a vivid scar into the skin, the intense cold destroys the pigmentation cells, making the
hairs grow totally white. That’s what provides the unique mark.’ He laughed. ‘Not much good though, I suppose, if you have a white horse to begin with.’

‘How cold does the branding iron have to be?’ I asked.

‘About minus three hundred degrees.’

‘How do they get it that cold?’

There was a long pause from the other end of the line.

‘With liquid nitrogen,’ Tony said.

Raworth’s white Jeep Cherokee pulled up alongside his barn just as it was getting dark, at the same time as I was making my way back from the recreation hall to the
bunkhouse.