‘Liquid nitrogen is just like the nitrogen in the air,’ I said, ‘but it has been made so cold that it liquefies.’
‘But how do you get it?’
‘It’s created as a by-product when air is liquefied to produce oxygen, you know, for medical use and such. Anyone can buy liquid nitrogen from an industrial gas producer. It’s storing it that’s the problem. You need what is called a Dewar — a bit like a big thermos. That’s what a cryogenic flask is.’
‘But what’s the liquid nitrogen for?’ Tony asked.
‘To keep the material inside deep frozen.’
‘But what is this “material”?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said, ‘but I have acquired some. It is in a test tube in my pocket. It’s no longer frozen but we could still get it analysed.’
‘How did you acquire it?’ Tony asked somewhat sarcastically, as if he could already guess.
‘You don’t want to know.’
He laughed down the line. ‘Do you want me to arrange a pickup?’
‘Yes, please,’ I said.
‘We have a FACSA office in New York. They deal mostly with boxing. I’ll get the station chief to collect it himself. His name is Jim Bradley. No one at the racing section will know anything about it.’
I still didn’t like it. It would mean someone else would then know that I was not who I said I was.
Tony seemed to sense my hesitation.
‘I’ve known Jim Bradley since we joined the NYPD together as cadets some forty years ago. I’d trust him to hell and back. If I tell him it is hush-hush, he’ll not tell anyone, I promise.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Where and when?’
‘It’s Saturday. I’ll try Jim at home. Call me back in half an hour.’
I used the time to have my supper at the track kitchen, exchanging a plastic token with Bert Squab for a plate of highly spiced chilli con carne with rice.
Fortunately, there was no sign of Diego or his chums as I sat down to eat. I could do without that distraction at the moment.
I called Tony on the stroke of the half-hour.
‘Jim says pass it through the chain-link fence on Plainfield Avenue, which runs up the east side of the barn area. Jim drives a black Ford Bronco SUV and he knows the area well. He’ll park up exactly opposite the high-school sports field at eight-thirty sharp. It will be dark by then.’
I looked at my cheap watch. It read 6.46 p.m. I had an hour and three-quarters to wait.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there.’
‘Do you need him to get anything for you?’
How about a cricket box?
I was next to the chain-link fence opposite the high school sports field at least fifteen minutes before the allotted time, mostly obscured from the barns by a line of trees and some bushes.
The streetlights out on Plainfield Avenue, and the other lights on poles around the barns, did nothing more than throw deep shadows beneath the trees within which it was easy for me to remain hidden.
I crouched, stock still, facing inwards towards the barns, searching for any telltale movement that might indicate the presence of other eyes, there to watch me.
There was nothing. Not even a rabbit or a squirrel.
I waited.
Jim Bradley arrived in the black Ford Bronco right on cue at eight-thirty exactly, and the handover of the Vacutainer test tube through the fence took only a few seconds.
I was already well on my way back to the bunkhouse before the Bronco had even turned the corner at the end of the street.
21
‘It’s semen.’
‘What?’
‘Semen. Probably equine semen but more tests are needed to confirm it.’
‘But that’s ridiculous,’ I said.
‘Quite so,’ Tony agreed. ‘But that’s what it is, nevertheless. I dug a biochemistry professor at Columbia University out of bed early on Sunday morning to test it. He swears to me that the stuff you gave to Jim Bradley was semen. Some of the sperm in it were still swimming.’
It didn’t make any sense.
‘Why would a training stable need frozen semen?’ I said. ‘Artificial insemination is not even permissible in Thoroughbreds. All mating has to be done by live cover — the stallion has to physically mount the mare.’
‘Maybe George Raworth is collecting semen from his colts and freezing it to breed from later, even if it’s not permitted by the rules.’
‘I very much doubt that,’ I said. ‘It’s not all that easy to get semen in the first place, not unless you have a mare on heat to get the colt excited. You would also need specialist collecting equipment, and I saw none of that during my search. And what would be the point? He couldn’t use the semen for breeding, anyway. Nowadays, every Thoroughbred foal has to be DNA-tested to confirm its parentage before it can be registered into the stud book.’
‘Then your guess is as good as mine,’ Tony said.
It was Sunday afternoon and I was behind the track kitchen, talking on the telephone. I had purposefully chosen a wide-open space so that no one could creep up to listen to my conversation without being seen. It also had the added advantage that I would be able to see any potential attacker from afar.
I spun through 360 degrees.
No eavesdroppers. And no Diego.
‘So what do we do now?’ Tony asked. ‘Don’t you think we have enough for a raid?’
‘I think we should wait a while longer,’ I said.
‘What for?’
‘Two reasons. First, I am interested in finding out what the semen is used for, and second, I am off to Pimlico tomorrow. I’ll be down there until after the Preakness. There would be no point in planning a raid here at Belmont if I’m not around to see any reaction if Raworth is forewarned.’
‘Is his whole operation moving down to Pimlico?’ Tony asked. ‘We could mount the raid there.’
‘He’s sending only five horses down in a truck — three run in the Preakness itself, and the other two in different races. The rest of them stay here.’
‘How did you manage to get yourself included?’ Tony asked.
‘I was lucky. In the right place at the right time. Four of the staff are going, including me, plus George Raworth himself.’
‘Well, it’s your call,’ Tony said. ‘Can the British do without you for another week?’
‘Paul Maldini was not expecting me back for at least two weeks.’
‘But it has already been two weeks since I met you at Dulles.’
So it had. Somehow, it didn’t seem that long.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I need a bit longer.’
‘Shall you tell Paul or shall I?’ Tony asked.
‘It might be better if it came from you,’ I said. ‘Tell him that I’m not coming back just yet.’
‘How long shall I say you’ll be?’ Tony asked.
‘You said to me in London that you needed me to work for you for as long as it takes. Paul Maldini was at that meeting. He didn’t object.’
I reckoned Paul hadn’t objected because he knew I was contemplating leaving the BHA. He was aware of my unhappiness that I no longer had the opportunity to work undercover. Perhaps he thought it was better to lend me to Tony for as long as it took, and then have me back, than to lose me altogether.
‘Tell Paul that it might take a little longer, that’s all,’ I said. ‘When is the Belmont Stakes?’
‘Not for another four weeks,’ Tony said. ‘You’re surely not thinking of working as a groom until then?’
‘For as long as it takes,’ I said.
On Monday morning, after normal stables and exercise, Keith, Diego, Maria and I loaded the special horse-transport that would take us the 200 miles southwest to Pimlico.
I was more used to British-style horseboxes than the huge eighteen-wheel articulated lorry with its massive cab that arrived for us at nine o’clock. It was similar to the one I had seen arrive at Churchill Downs to collect Hayden Ryder’s horses on the morning he’d been shot.