The Mandarin Stakes

by Sam O'Brien

  “I’ve found a few nice types for pinhooks, all by fashionable sires, and they’re lovely individuals. There’ll be competition, but if you want to invest the same as last year, we should get seven or eight nice horses,” he said, in between bites.

  “Excellent,” said Charles. “Are any by Capital Flight?”

  Andrew swallowed and sucked air through his teeth. “I’m afraid not. Look, er, his foals are a dreadful bunch so far.”

  “Oh dear,” said Piers. “Of course, it’s early days yet.”

  “Yes, but if his first crop don’t look good, nobody’ll want to buy them and people will lose faith in the sire even before he has a runner, regardless of the large book of mares he covered. And in my experience, foals that look like that rarely turn out to be serious racehorses,” said Andrew. “Unless out of sheer luck.”

  Rupert and Charles exchanged looks. “So we make money covering as many mares as possible for the next couple of years, and unload the horse on the Koreans or Turks before he has a runner?” asked Rupert.

  “Or even the Chinese,” said Piers, absent-mindedly.

  “That would be one way to do it,” said Andrew. “But–”

  Rupert waved his hand dismissively. “But nothing. We’ll have made a fortune on him by then, and your commission keeps your pockets lined, doesn’t it? So who gives a damn?”

  “Yes, but–”

  Charles interrupted him; “I’m just bloody glad that we only sent two of our own mares to him last year.” The three ex-soldiers had twenty mares in partnerships of varying percentages: all of them boarded at Brockford.

  Piers smirked mischievously, “That’s not what your advertising says! Supporting our stallion and all that.”

  “You know that’s only bullshit for the punters, Piers. Like I’d ever risk ruining all our mares on unproven stallions. Andrew: pick the four best Capital Flight foals and we’ll pump up their prices with our own bids and make sure some mug ends up with them.”

  Andrew looked at Charles. “What? That’s… that’s… we’ve never done that before.”

  “Well, we’re going to do it now,” said Charles hastily. “I don’t want our stallion dead in the water before we’ve knocked the next couple of seasons out of him.”

  “Still, it’s a tricky line to cross. Are you sure about this?”

  “Do as you’re fucking told, Dixon,” snapped Rupert, his gaze eating into Andrew.

  “Well, there you have it,” said Charles. “Be a good chap and let me know your selections as soon as possible.”

  Andrew nodded. His appetite gone, he put down the remains of his roll. “Um, oh yes, Billy says he’s sold the horses on to his Georgian client.” He looked at Charles. “Are you sure about this? I’ve read about the Kharkov brothers. People say they’re gangsters, warlords. We don’t want to end up like that guy, what was his name?” he chewed his lip in thought. “You know, got into bed with the mob.”

  “Don’t worry, Andrew,” said Charles, brandishing a grin.

  “What happened to that chap anyway?” asked Piers.

  “Don’t know. Disappeared. Witness protection, I suppose,” said Andrew.

  “Into a bloody hole, more like,” said Rupert, nonchalantly fingering his smartphone. “Concrete wellies, I would imagine. Anyway, if I was Billy, I’d be more worried about Anatoly Rimovich.”

  “The thing is, Billy…” Andrew’s smartphone chimed. He checked the screen. “Lord Fowler. I’d better take this.”

  Charles nodded.

  “Lord Fowler, how are you? Yes, yes. Next week. Oh, he’s here, would you like to speak to him?” Andrew offered the phone to Charles, who reluctantly took it. He held it as if it was radioactive, exchanged a few words with Fowler and tossed it back to Andrew.

  Rupert burst out laughing. “I can’t believe you still refuse to have one of those things.”

  Charles grimaced. “You lot are welcome to walk around carrying tracking devices. Smartphones, my arse. Have you read the user agreements for those app things? Might as well put all your personal information on the internet. No, not for me, thanks.”

  “Not paranoid at all?” said Rupert, with a hint of a smirk.

  “Just enough,” said Charles, winking. “Just enough.”

  Andrew looked at his phone and wondered how he would survive without it.

  “Do you even use your e-mail? I don’t think you’ve ever sent me one, anyway,” said Piers chortling.

  “All the time, for work. I’m inundated with messages and stallion enquiries. Certainly don’t have time to send junk jokes around like you.”

  Andrew shot a sideways glance at Charles and wondered when was the last time he had personally replied to a business e-mail.

  “I’ll have to get you a secure phone, I know someone in America who makes top class units for the government and military. They’re not cheap, though,” said Rupert.

  “No thanks. I get along fine as I am.”

  Andrew cleared his throat. “Going back to Billy, he says he can’t get the prices you wanted.”

  Charles snapped his head around. “What?”

  Andrew shrugged. “That’s what he said.”

  “How much can he get?”

  “Didn’t mention figures.”

  Charles pursed his lips, then pulled them into a smile. His eyes remained thunderous. “Great. Thanks, Andrew. Well, I suppose you’d better check the rest of the Capital Flight foals and make up a shortlist for the pinhooks. Oh, and don’t forget we’re having dinner at The Scimitar with Gary Holdsworth this evening.”

  Andrew nodded and left.

  * * *

  Charles picked up the desk phone.

  “Well, boss!” said Billy, though he could not have known who was calling.

  “Hello, Billy. Did you get those nags sold?” Charles barked into the receiver.

  “Oh, er, I did of course, Charlie, but he won’t go higher than fifty-five a piece, so that’ll be forty-five for you.”

  “I told you I wanted fifty each, you greedy little fucker.”

  “Jaysus, Charlie, hold onto your hat. I know what you wanted, and I did my best for you. But these guys love to negotiate, makes them feel like hotshot businessmen, not spoiled little shites. I mean, I’m dragging the fucker out at fifty-five; there’s no way he’ll go higher, and I’m not about to piss him off over your yokes.”

  Charles was turning red. He clenched his jaw and roared. “Then you take the fucking cut at your end. I told you what I wanted.”

  “Look, it’s hardly worth my time for five grand each, but if you want to unload them somewhere else, off you go.”

  “Get them sold, Billy. And get my money. I’m not going to tell you again.”

  He slammed the phone down. “Rupe, is Goran with you?”

  A smile curled Rupert’s lips. “Goran always travels with me.” He cracked his knuckles.

  Charles rubbed his temples. “That reminds me, I’m going to give Eddie a shout tomorrow. I’ve been thinking; we should buy the Tote.”

  “Bloody good idea,” said Piers. “Better us than a bookmaker.”

  “What on earth would we do with it?” asked Rupert.

  “We would make it more attractive to punters, get the turnover up, and give more back to racing – directly into the prize money pool. Then everything’ll take off from there,” said Charles.

  “As I said, bloody good idea, but all that takes cash, and lots of it. Where’s it all going to come from? And what’s our return going to be?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too, but we’ll need Eddie’s help if we’re going to pull it off.”

  “He’s busy at Downing Street all week,” said Rupert. “But I’m having an informal dinner with him next Friday at Chequers. There’ll be nobody else there; he’s trying to have a quiet weekend. I’m sure you two would be welcome to join.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. I’ll call him,” said Charles. “What’re you meeting for?”

  “I’m angli
ng to get one of the Olympic security contracts.”

  Piers let out a loud guffaw. “Ha! Your thugs herding people around the stadium. God help us!”

  Charles smirked.

  “I suppose it would be a sight, wouldn’t it,” said Rupert in a dry tone. “But no, I think those kind of roles will be rent-a-johnnies or the Met. I was thinking more along the lines of protecting visiting dignitaries, or high-profile athletes. That sort of thing.”

  “That’ll be a bit tame compared to Iraq,” said Piers.

  “Maybe so, but it’ll be good PR. Smiley happy public service and all that. Anyway, what was your idea for the Tote?”

  Charles got up and locked the door.

  Chapter 2

  Beijing, China

  Ling Jiao sat in a plush armchair at the enormous bay window and gazed out at the setting sun. It cut a sideways dash through the smog and gave the whole city an orange-grey tint. Forty floors below, Beijing screeched and bustled. Traffic, people and bicycles dashed like ants. Another day was finishing, and the denizens of the metropolis were going home or heading for restaurants.

  Ling let out a breath and sipped a rare single-malt whisky. He enjoyed proper Scottish whisky. It helped him to relax and think things through. He took another happy swallow and remembered the first time he had tasted it: many years ago during his time at the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst. Ling used to sit up at night with another cadet, Piers Bartholomew, discussing ancient military tactics and using a delightful single-malt to lubricate their discussions. Ling and Piers always got on well. Perhaps it was because they both looked slightly goofy in their own ways, and as a result, people usually underestimated them. Since then, Ling had grown to love his own toothy grin. It was perfect camouflage.

  Behind him, Ling heard feet descend the stairs from the duplex apartment’s top level. His wife glided across the parquet floor and perched her slim, elegant form on a chair. She smoothed the back of her hair, adjusted her jade necklace, and lit a pencil-cigarette, smoking it delicately.

  She exhaled a thin plume of smoke. “Do you have anything to use against him?” she asked, in careful, slow Mandarin; not the rapid street dialect of the masses. “To ensure he will remain completely loyal to your future plans?”

  Ling threw a downward glance at his shoes and shook his head. “Sadly, no.”

  “And you are sure that you are quite safe and,” she paused, searching for a word. “Insulated?”

  “Oh yes. Very sure.” An ancient memory flickered across his mind. A long forgotten weekend break from Sandhurst, spent at Brockford Hall.

  Chapter 3

  Jess Flint stretched out on the window seat of her small north London flat with her bathrobe pulled tight around her. She sipped her freshly-blended smoothie and read the broadsheets. Her muscles tingled from the 100 miles she’d cycled that morning as training for her next road race.

  Draining the tall glass, she tossed the paper on the floor and moved on to a tabloid. On page two, opposite the regular topless girl, was a headline and photo that made her wince. She swore and ambled across the room to find her phone.

  She pressed the device to her ear and returned to the window, staring out at the grey skies.

  “Hello, darlin’,” she said.

  “Hi there, Jess. How’s my favourite copper?” said Andrew.

  “I’m alright. How ‘bout you?”

  “At the sales. Assessing a shitload of foals. They’re all starting to look alike. What’s up?”

  She ran a hand through her jet black hair, still wet from the shower, and chewed her lip. “Have you seen the papers?”

  “Saw the Racing Post headline: Tote for sale.”

  Jess rolled her eyes. “No, not racing news. The ordinary papers.”

  “Not this morning, been working since before dawn. Why?”

  “There’s a photo of your dad playing golf on page two of your favourite rag under the headline: FORE F*** SAKE. I have to say, it does look like he’s still living the high life.”

  There was silence on the line.

  “Andrew, you still there?”

  “What? Oh, yes. Shit. I told him not to play. It was only going to be a matter of time before somebody caught him.”

  “Sorry, I thought you’d want to know.”

  “No, no. Thanks for calling, Jess.”

  “Hey, it’s been a while since we’ve had a drink and a natter. I’m going up to Bucks the weekend after next. D’you want to meet up?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great. I’m taking that weekend off anyway. The sales circus is finally at an end, so I thought I’d take the car to Silverstone, then go proper racing at Towcester in the afternoon. Might stay the night with Mum and Dad. Where d’you want to meet?”

  “Proper racing? You mean steeplechasing, right?”

  “That’s right!”

  “God, it’s been ages since I went to the races. Tell you what, I’ll meet you there.”

  “You will? Great!”

  “See you later,” she smiled, and tossed away the paper.

  Jess and Andrew had grown up together. Her parents had worked for Andrew’s for 25 years; her mother Gillian was cook-come-housekeeper, her father Bob – a former policeman who lost an ear and two fingers whilst foiling an armed robbery – tended to the garden and had occasional driving duties. Jess and Andrew had been in the same class at the village school before Andrew went off to a private boarding establishment. Bob used to call them thick as thieves and during their teenage summer holidays, Andrew taught Jess how to ride. Then she joined the Metropolitan Police Service and Andrew went travelling when he didn’t make the officer corps. Life goes on through the changes, she thought, but do we ever escape who we are bred to be?

  * * *

  When the light faded into dusk and Andrew could no longer look at horses without squinting, he made his way to the bar behind the office complex. He surveyed the room, looking for a spare seat. The place was crowded, buzzing with the excited chatter of the sales. Hopes of big prices, shrewd buys, profit and loss, and which stallions’ foals “looked the part”.

  Andrew bought a beer and pushed his way to a free stool near the back corner. On the way, he smiled, nodded, and shook hands with clients. Several asked him about Capital Flight’s foals. Unsure what to say at first, he came up with, “Give them time and they’ll reward you.” He was initially pleased with his evasive reply, until he realised he was lying. But if he told everyone the truth, well…

  He sipped his beer and shut out the din as he went through his catalogue and scrawled a list on a blank page. There were ten possible pinhooks: he would bid on those for Charles. He selected four Capital Flight foals. He would give their lot numbers to Charles and make himself scarce when they went through the ring.

  Andrew pulled the tarot card out of his pocket and inspected it carefully. Was someone trying to send him a message? Why not have a chat instead of shouting under a toilet door? What a nutter. Charles a murderer? He shook his head, placed the card in his catalogue like a bookmark, and examined the crowd. Billy was in a corner on the phone, wearing a look of desperation. His face was crimson and he had a finger stuffed in his free ear. Andrew smiled as he watched Billy get more agitated. Eventually he put the phone away and turned to face the same Italian he had dragged off to look at foals earlier in the day.

  The place was full of Billys. Dozens of self-professed Bloodstock Agents of varying abilities, all enthusiastically bending the ears of rich men and women in the desperate hope they would get some of their money, or at least become a little richer and more powerful by association.

  Andrew grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose. We’re losing sight of what this sport is all about – the horses – as we engage in the interminable struggle to squeeze blood from stones. He drained his beer, feeling sober and upset. He went off to change and steel himself for a night of ego-pampering with Charles and the larger-than-life Gary Holdsworth.

  “Oh, I know, I know, I know,” boomed
Gary, making sure half the restaurant could hear him. When Charles entertained clients at The Scimitar, he usually requested the private dining room, but he knew Gary loved to be seen and heard.

  Four years ago, Rupert had bought the converted rectory on the outskirts of Cambridge. He renamed it, drafted in a Michelin-starred chef, upped prices to keep the riff-raff out, and used it as a discreet location to entertain friends, clients, associates and mistresses. Such was its reputation, people booked four months in advance to get a table. Charles could turn up unannounced and always be sure of a seat.

  “I think Capital Flight’ll be a top stallion,” continued Gary. “But I’m not interested in buying foals. I want yearlings that’ll win as two-year-olds at Royal Ascot. I like to win there and I’ve done well the last two years. I just knew Regal Delight would be an Ascot sort the first time I saw him. What class and quality!”

  Charles smiled and topped up Gary’s wine glass. “You’re absolutely right, Gary. And the six we bought for you this year are flying up the gallop at Brockford. Why don’t you come to see them after the sales?”

  “I’d love to, but I’m off to Antigua.”

  “That’s a pity, they’re going really well. The colts are Group winners, that’s for sure.” Andrew firmly believed it as he said it.

  Gary was the first of Charles’ clients that Andrew had bought horses for. That first year, he purchased six cheap yearlings for the notoriously mean Londoner, who owned a cruise ship company. Four had gone on to win minor races. One broke down, and the sixth, Regal Delight, narrowly got up to win the Coventry Stakes on the opening day of the Royal meeting at Ascot. Gary swelled with pride as he accepted the trophy from the Prince of Wales. After that, Andrew’s job was secure and Charles gave him full responsibility for the selection of horses. However, Andrew had a feeling that a bad year would see him cast out as quickly as he had been brought in.

  “Oh, I know, I know. Or, at least, they’d better be Group winners, the prices you’re charging me to break and board them,” he wagged a finger at Charles. “But seriously, if prize money doesn’t improve in the next few years, I’ll pull out of England and put all my stock in France. Over there I’d have a fair chance of getting my costs back and send runners to Ascot every year,” he laughed. Charles and Andrew forced themselves to join in.