The Mandarin Stakes

by Sam O'Brien

  Ling chuckled. “It is not a simple matter of the length of one wall. There are many structures; layered, overlapping, circling; constructed over many dynasties. They total about 6,000 kilometres in length, but the main wall, which we now stand on, stretches for about 3,000 and was mostly constructed during the Ming dynasty. Of course, only certain sections have been restored to their former glory.”

  Rupert followed the wall to the horizon, squinting into the sun. He really was in awe. The discipline, foresight and patience it took to build this was almost beyond belief. Generations were involved and while the practical details might have changed, the grand plan remained the same. “My hat’s off to you lot, Ling. This is the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. During the same period in Europe, people were building walls around villages and towns, cities even. But you lot managed to fortify a country – and we’re not exactly talking Andorra or the Vatican here!”

  He glanced at Charles and could see he was, begrudgingly, thinking the same.

  Ling acknowledged with a courteous smile and a bow. He started walking away from the sun.

  “Please, enjoy the golden colours as the rays hit the stone,” he said, casting his arms out wide and taking a deep breath.

  Charles was biding his time, but desperate to get down to brass tacks. He was well aware that the British Empire had profited by flooding China with opium. Now he knew that their inherent compulsion for gambling would bring untold riches his way and into British racing. Different catalyst, same result.

  “Ling,” he started. “I really do want to discuss some business with you. I have an idea which will benefit China and Britain.”

  Ling smiled enigmatically. “Please, do go on.”

  He took a deep breath. “Right. Perhaps you already know, but British horseracing, though the envy of the world and the model for many emerging racing nations, is in financial trouble. We put on a great spectacle, but our prize money is pathetic.”

  Ling nodded, though Charles couldn’t tell if in agreement or thought.

  “The biggest problem is the bookmakers. They’re like leeches, and our governing bodies appear powerless to squeeze suitable taxes out of them.”

  Another nod.

  “So, my plan is to increase the influence and financial clout of the Tote.”

  Ling frowned. “Tote?”

  “Oh sorry, that’s our State-controlled betting pool. The profits get split between the government and racing itself. The thing is, it doesn’t have the kind of power it should. So I’m in the process of buying it to stop some grubby little bookmaker snapping it up.” He took a breath. “You see, I want to make it work for racing.”

  “And how do you plan to do that?”

  “Well, that’s where your amazing country would come in.”

  Ling looked momentarily startled, but pulled his smile back into position. Neither Charles nor Rupert missed the expression. Rupert flicked his eyes at the guards who were checking the barren ground below.

  Charles continued, “I propose to broadcast one British race meeting every day in China – free to air on whatever channel you like – and split the betting profits between the Tote, you lot, and the image provider: fifty/forty/ten. Naturally, we’d have a few consultants and administrators in place over here to ensure it all flows smoothly.”

  Ling cut in, putting up his hand. “I will have to stop you there, Charles. As you know, gambling is illegal in China.”

  Charles almost smirked. “You mean, apart from Hong Kong and Macau?”

  “Yes,” said Ling, without missing a beat.

  “Look, Ling. Let’s speak frankly.”

  “Oh but we are, Charles.”

  “Indeed.” He cleared his throat. “Look, we’ve all heard that racing is about to get into gear on the mainland. Right?”

  “That is correct: as a gentleman’s sport.”

  “And I know that a decade ago, people said State-controlled gambling was on the way under Jiang Zemin, but the current President put the brakes on.”

  A nod. “Not quite that simple, but go on.”

  “Anyway, a great deal has changed in the last ten years. It’s time to get the ball rolling. If racing is to become a popular sport, you’ll need organised gambling, as you’ll know from the contained success of Hong Kong. Even if you decide to race without gambling, you’ll have to waste enormous resources dealing with the black market bookies. You should treat my simulcast proposal as a first step. You can keep it relatively low-key at first. You can publish the racecards in the Metro papers and open the first Tote shops in the major cities before you spread it to the countryside. With the time difference, racing’ll be broadcast in the evenings so people can enjoy it after work. It’ll be a winner for everyone!” he finished with his warmest smile. “What about it, old chap?”

  Ling stared into the distance as he walked. An interminable minute later, he said, “You seem to have given the matter some thought.”

  “Indeed I have. I’ve even thought about the money your government’ll make out of it, and how we’ll be able to use our share to bolster our prize money and return British racing to the glory days.”

  Ling nodded again, with wide eyes. “As I said, you seem to have accounted for everything, but I cannot forsee the Politburo and Committee ever agreeing to such a plan. It is too radical a change of course for the country. We intend to develop horseracing here purely as a gentleman’s pastime.”

  “But it’s not a radical change of course at all. I mean you’ve already got gambling on the two islands. All you need to do is legalise it on the premises of the shops on the mainland: it’s foolproof. And don’t kid yourselves that your gentleman owners on the mainland won’t want to gamble on their horses! Wouldn’t you rather control the whole thing than tell yourselves that you can have racing without betting?” Charles was getting slightly agitated.

  Ling shook his head. “I cannot see it happening.” He clasped his hands behind his back as they walked.

  Charles looked at the guard tower up ahead. The wall had become steep, almost a climb. He wondered if riders really used to gallop along it, relaying messages. Taking a deep breath, he plugged on. “Look here, Ling. You’re well in with vice president Guo, can’t you at least talk to him about it? I know you’re a realist, surely you can see the good this deal would do? You chaps could use your cut for charitable purposes, just like the lottery money in Europe. Believe me, you’ll make a lot of money out of this – surely you know how your people love to bet!”

  Ling spread his arms out, palms up. “And this is the central problem, Charles.”

  “What do you mean?” Charles said curtly, almost at a bark. Rupert cleared his throat loudly.

  “Er, sorry. What I meant was, I don’t follow you. How is that a problem?”

  “In this country Charles, we have one-point-three billion people. Nearly a billion of those are poor. If we introduce nationwide gambling, the middle classes will enjoy a bet, the rich, too, but it is the poor who will sell the shirt, no, the skin off their backs to pursue their dream of hitting the jackpot.”

  “You don’t know that.” Charles spoke in a tone that was almost derisory.

  “Oh, but I can assure you I do. Furthermore, when they have done this and find themselves on the brink of starvation, they will turn their anger towards the government that permitted them to gamble.”

  “Well, nobody put a gun to their heads and forced them to do it.”

  “Maybe not, but that is entirely irrelevant.” Ling stopped and took a deep breath, savouring the clean fresh air. “You see, if they got organised and found a leader, they could start a revolution.”

  “Which I’m sure you could put down.”

  Ling gave Charles a puzzled look. “If we put the entire armed forces to war against even half a billion peasants, the Army would probably be defeated after a long and bloody conflict which the world would hate us for. Nobody wants a repeat of 1989. I am sure you can still do business selling horses, services
and knowledge to our rich men who wish to become racehorse owners here on the mainland.”

  Oh yes, a fucking pittance, thought Charles. He shot a glance at Rupert.

  “Can’t you help us in any way at all?” asked Rupert. “What about a sort of trial run in Beijing, Shanghai and Wuhan? Spend a year testing the waters, so to speak, before you let the masses in on it?”

  Charles clenched his fist in his pocket. He considered a change of tack.

  Ling nodded. “I cannot promise anything, Rupert, but it is something I will bring up tonight at dinner. Guo and I like to meet informally once a month, and that is why I will not be able to join you this evening.”

  Charles exhaled. He would wait till tomorrow. “That’s very good of you,” he said, forcing a smile. “Very good of you indeed.” He clapped a hand on Ling’s back, which startled him and made his guards flinch. “Gosh, sorry, didn’t mean to upset the apple cart.”

  Ling raised his hand to the guard. “We are not used to such gestures in China.” He said. “I remember your slaps on the back from Sandhurst,” he chuckled. Charles and Rupert joined in.

  They stopped at the tower and took in the view before returning to the cars and heading to the tombs of the Ming Emperors.

  It was early evening when the car dropped them back to the hotel.

  “Thanks very much, Ling,” said Rupert in the lobby. “So kind of you to show us about.”

  “Yes, thanks,”said Charles. “And for the other thing, too.”

  “It was my pleasure, gentlemen,” said Ling, shaking their hands warmly. “I will pick you up tomorrow morning at seven-thirty. We will enjoy the Forbidden City before the crowds arrive. After that, it is possible I will have time to escort you to Tianjin if the bullet train is running.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful. You’re certainly pulling out all the stops!” said Charles.

  Ling smiled his toothy grin, spun on his heel and left.

  Up in their hotel suite, Charles wondered if Ling would really try to bat for them with Guo. He wondered if Ling knew what was at stake and how far they would go to get it. He twirled a USB chip in his fingers. “I think Ling’s going to need a bit of incentive, to help him see the big picture,” he said, smiling.

  Staring at the chip, Rupert grinned and cracked his knuckles.

  Chapter 15

  Brockford

  Andrew ambled around the pregnant mares, checking their udders. Satisfied there would be no foals tonight, he climbed the fence and set off for the long field where the yearling colts resided. He marched through the crisp, sunny air and felt glad to be alive, doing what he loved.

  His reverie was disturbed by a familiar chiming.

  “Hi, Susan!”

  “Hello, Andrew, you sound chirpy.”

  “It’s a lovely afternoon and the horses are all healthy, what’s not to be chirpy about?”

  “Lord Fowler,” she said in a dull tone.

  “What about him?”

  “He called to complain about how he faxed his mating suggestions to Mr. Buckham a week ago and hasn’t heard a word. He wasn’t happy that I couldn’t put him through or tell him where he is.”

  “I did up his matings with the boss last month.”

  “He must’ve made changes. He said that if ‘we’ were looking for payment, we’d be all over him, but when he needs advice, he can’t get a reply. Time’s running out, he said. I remember putting a fax from Fowler on Mr. Buckham’s desk before he left. I’ve had a look, but I can’t see it there now.”

  “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  Andrew let himself into Charles’ office and installed himself behind the desk, glancing at the array of photos on the wall.

  He sifted through a pile of documents held down by a paperweight that used to be an ornate door handle in a Serbian castle. No sign of Fowler’s mating plans. There was a note scribbled on a torn-out page of an old sales catalogue that read: Ling-tape-Tote-simulcast = £££. Andrew studied it.

  Next he tried the drawers; he found plenty of financial reports, lists of clients and their accounts, dozens of faxes and pedigrees of horses for sale, but no matings.

  Cursing, he pulled open a bottom drawer and was confronted by stacks of junk. He flicked through old brochures, stallion books, newspaper cuttings and yet more photographs. Stuffing them all back as neatly as he could, he wondered where the list could be.

  It came to him. He called Terry.

  “Where are the keys to the boss’s Range Rover?”

  “I left ‘em with Susan, soon as I got back from the airport.”

  “Good. Is the car at the house?”

  “At the tradesmen’s entrance. What d’you need it for?”

  “I think he left some mating plans in it.”

  Terry paused. “Ooh, he did ‘n’ all! I saw ‘em there on the back seat.”

  Andrew smiled, picturing Terry going through the car the moment Charles vanished into the terminal. He got up, replaced the chair, and had another look at the photo wall.

  * * *

  The man pulled up at the entrance to Brockford. The main gate was open. He was pretty sure he could make it to the house unchallenged: there was no electric gate until one tried to get onto the stud. The Earl apparently hated the things and refused to have one at the entrance to his own home.

  Though it had been three years since he and his wife had attended a racing cocktail party here, he was sure that there was no security checkpoint either. Unusual that: a man like Charles not worried about security – except for his bloody stallions. There would be no getting near them without a pre-approved appointment. Anyway, it was wrong to take it out on the horses. The house would have to do. For the moment.

  He put the car in gear and slowly made his way up the avenue, one hand on the wheel, the other holding the fragile device.

  The 11th Earl of Royston stood at the library window. Jamie’s blue eyes were dull. Forlorn. The afternoons were always the hardest. Despite his longing, he still couldn’t bring himself to settle down with some old dear. It was difficult enough looking at his own complexion in the mirror, without having someone heading towards ruinous old age alongside him. He much preferred the company of the young, but found it tougher to keep up with them with each year that passed. He’d had to give up bringing casual friends back to Brockford when he noticed small items of silverware had gone missing. Thieving little buggers.

  He shifted a wistful glance from the Scotch decanter to the clock on the mantlepiece. Another peek at the decanter. “Must wait till teatime,” he muttered. He sat on the cushioned window ledge and stared at the bookshelves. If he lived in London, he wouldn’t be so lonely. Restless, he stood and made for the front door, catching his image in the hall mirror. Oh God, his roots were starting to show again. Letting out a long sigh, he returned to the library and succumbed to the decanter. He gulped down two shots in swift succession and took a third back to the window seat. The single malt hit his empty stomach like a bomb and made for his bloodstream. Jamie found himself able to smile again and let his head tip back against the pane.

  A shape coming up the avenue caught his eye. He was amused to see a Bentley roll towards the house. He downed his glass, made for the front door, and opened it. An object hit him in the face and exploded. Jamie screamed in horror. A sticky liquid covered him. The car sped away in a hail of gravel as Jamie howled and rubbed his eyes.

  * * *

  As he had done many times before, Andrew found himself picking out the gang of three in all the photos. It was like a story of their lives, from the starched white collars and black tailcoats of Eton to the uniforms of Sandhurst and the elaborate dress regalia of the Life Guards. He couldn’t quite make out the camouflaged faces in the desert, but he was sure it was them with their units. In the Sandhurst photo, his eye was drawn to the man standing beside Piers. He had noticed him before, but in light of Charles’ latest trip, the man suddenly seemed more interesting. He read the name Ling, J. Then spun back to Charl
es’ desk and read the note again. He stared at it, his mind whirring. No way. It couldn’t be. He made for his own office to Google a few things.

  His jaw hit the table when he read news reports and political opinion about Ling Jiao. If this was Charles’ Chinese contact, racing’s future appeared rosy indeed. He allowed himself a little smile, before he suddenly remembered Fowler’s matings. He darted out, grabbed the keys from Susan and made for the house.

  Andrew took the direct route out the back of the yard, through the trees, towards the avenue. His mind was still processing the potential effects of all that wonderful prize money from Charles’ scheme when he heard a large car roar down the driveway. Startled by its speed, he trotted past the trees to get a look, but just glimpsed it disappearing round the bend.

  Andrew tut-tutted. He hated people speeding on the avenue. Even if the stud was secure, he still had nightmares of a car colliding with a loose horse.

  As he neared the old mansion, he noticed the front door was ajar, with what appeared to be red paint spattered around the frame.

  Except it wasn’t red paint. It was blood. Flicking open his phone, he was about to dial 999 when he saw Jamie inside. The Earl was on his knees, covered in blood, sobbing and shaking.

  “Holy cow! What happened? Are you alright?”

  “Oh, there you are,” said Jamie.

  * * *

  The packed restaurant blared like a half-tuned radio. Hot and loud. That was the preferred ambience of the ordinary Chinese. The steam rising from the scalding hotpots on each table fogged the air in an imitation of the pollution outside. Diners flicked noodles from bowl to mouth and guzzled beer to soothe their palates from the spicy Szechuan food.

  Guo and Ling sat at a corner table, dressed in flannel shirts. The tables around them were occupied by plainclothes agents enjoying the cuisine as much as the regular diners.