It’s a secret.’
I suppose I shouldn’t really have minded. Back in London I’d given Tony rather a hard time for letting too many people know about FACSA operations so I could now hardly expect to be
one of them.
Mind you, to my sure knowledge, there were at least eleven at the meeting, which was still far too many for something so secret.
‘Where does most of your intelligence come from?’ I asked the analyst.
‘Information comes from a variety of sources. It is analysis that turns info into intelligence.’ He sounded rather full of his own importance.
‘What sort of sources?’ I asked, ignoring his second comment. ‘In England we have a network of covert informants from within the racing industry.’
He nodded. ‘Us too. But they’re mostly disgruntled grooms who have a score to settle with their employers either for being fired or being overlooked for promotion. Much of the stuff
is just malicious lies with no substance. It’s my job to apply contextual knowledge to sort the truth from the trash.’
Perhaps he was important after all.
The operational planning meeting went on and on, and there was a limit to the amount of time I could hang around doing nothing.
The hands on the clock moved slowly round to four-thirty.
‘Tell Frank I’ve gone, will you?’ I said. ‘I’ll see him in the morning.’
The analyst simply waved an acknowledgement and went on studying his computer screen.
After escaping the security cordon, with the photograph on my new shiny identity pass scrutinised at every door and gateway, I walked back to the hotel via a 7-Eleven store,
where I picked up a few essential supplies like coffee, milk, cereal and so on, as well as a ready-meal of cheese and pasta for my dinner.
Back in my room, I called Paul Maldini. It was ten in the evening in London but he picked up straight away.
‘You were right,’ he said. ‘There was a call to the office from the US asking about you.’
‘What time?’
‘At five, just as I was leaving.’
Midday in Washington.
‘Man or woman?’
‘Man.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He asked for you by name. I’d had Reception direct any calls for you to my phone.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told him that Jeff Hinkley was away and was not available and could I help him. Then he asked me where you were so I told him you were in the United States.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘He asked what you were doing in the US and how long you’d be away. I told him you were visiting another racing authority and I didn’t know for how long. Just as you told me
to. Was that right?’
‘Yes, Paul, it was. Thank you. Did you happen to ask the man for his name?’
‘I did but he said that didn’t matter, then he hung up.’
‘Any clues about his voice?’
‘He had an American accent,’ he said. ‘Other than that I can’t help you. I couldn’t tell you which part. All Yanks sound the same to me.’
Must be his Italian heritage, I thought. Tony Andretti would have been appalled.
I thought back to what I’d been doing at midday.
Even though Norman Gibson had told me to stick to Frank Bannister like glue, I’d been intent on meeting as many of the section staff as I could and, at midday, I had been moving from desk
to desk introducing myself as a member of the BHA Integrity Department.
I couldn’t be exactly sure when I’d rejoined Frank to go down to the cafeteria. Probably nearer 12.30. So any of the men in the section could have made the call. And why
shouldn’t they? Other than a letter from the US Embassy in London and my passport, I had no documents confirming my bona fides.
Had I called FACSA when Tony had turned up in London to check up on him?
No, I hadn’t. But these guys were attached to the US government and far more security-minded than the BHA.
Maybe the call had been merely an innocent check-up.
But why then had the caller not given his name when asked?
I used my new pay-as-you-go phone to call
I suppose I shouldn’t really have minded. Back in London I’d given Tony rather a hard time for letting too many people know about FACSA operations so I could now hardly expect to be
one of them.
Mind you, to my sure knowledge, there were at least eleven at the meeting, which was still far too many for something so secret.
‘Where does most of your intelligence come from?’ I asked the analyst.
‘Information comes from a variety of sources. It is analysis that turns info into intelligence.’ He sounded rather full of his own importance.
‘What sort of sources?’ I asked, ignoring his second comment. ‘In England we have a network of covert informants from within the racing industry.’
He nodded. ‘Us too. But they’re mostly disgruntled grooms who have a score to settle with their employers either for being fired or being overlooked for promotion. Much of the stuff
is just malicious lies with no substance. It’s my job to apply contextual knowledge to sort the truth from the trash.’
Perhaps he was important after all.
The operational planning meeting went on and on, and there was a limit to the amount of time I could hang around doing nothing.
The hands on the clock moved slowly round to four-thirty.
‘Tell Frank I’ve gone, will you?’ I said. ‘I’ll see him in the morning.’
The analyst simply waved an acknowledgement and went on studying his computer screen.
After escaping the security cordon, with the photograph on my new shiny identity pass scrutinised at every door and gateway, I walked back to the hotel via a 7-Eleven store,
where I picked up a few essential supplies like coffee, milk, cereal and so on, as well as a ready-meal of cheese and pasta for my dinner.
Back in my room, I called Paul Maldini. It was ten in the evening in London but he picked up straight away.
‘You were right,’ he said. ‘There was a call to the office from the US asking about you.’
‘What time?’
‘At five, just as I was leaving.’
Midday in Washington.
‘Man or woman?’
‘Man.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He asked for you by name. I’d had Reception direct any calls for you to my phone.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told him that Jeff Hinkley was away and was not available and could I help him. Then he asked me where you were so I told him you were in the United States.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘He asked what you were doing in the US and how long you’d be away. I told him you were visiting another racing authority and I didn’t know for how long. Just as you told me
to. Was that right?’
‘Yes, Paul, it was. Thank you. Did you happen to ask the man for his name?’
‘I did but he said that didn’t matter, then he hung up.’
‘Any clues about his voice?’
‘He had an American accent,’ he said. ‘Other than that I can’t help you. I couldn’t tell you which part. All Yanks sound the same to me.’
Must be his Italian heritage, I thought. Tony Andretti would have been appalled.
I thought back to what I’d been doing at midday.
Even though Norman Gibson had told me to stick to Frank Bannister like glue, I’d been intent on meeting as many of the section staff as I could and, at midday, I had been moving from desk
to desk introducing myself as a member of the BHA Integrity Department.
I couldn’t be exactly sure when I’d rejoined Frank to go down to the cafeteria. Probably nearer 12.30. So any of the men in the section could have made the call. And why
shouldn’t they? Other than a letter from the US Embassy in London and my passport, I had no documents confirming my bona fides.
Had I called FACSA when Tony had turned up in London to check up on him?
No, I hadn’t. But these guys were attached to the US government and far more security-minded than the BHA.
Maybe the call had been merely an innocent check-up.
But why then had the caller not given his name when asked?
I used my new pay-as-you-go phone to call
Similar Books
