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.