The Mandarin Stakes

by Sam O'Brien

  Guo sipped his beer and leaned close to his companion. “You seem to think this system is a good idea. That surprises me greatly.”

  “I am not necessarily for it, but having given the matter great thought on the way here, I can see the benefits. It would certainly be a blow to the illegal bookmakers.”

  Guo looked sceptical. “My friend, as you know, it will only inconvenience them slightly.” He cleared his throat and finished his noodles. “I am open to the concept of mainland horseracing, of course – otherwise Tianjin would never be permitted,” he chuckled. “They can even broadcast British racing in Hong Kong and Macau if they so wish, but never on the mainland. If we show British racing images in China, with all the prices and betting information on-screen as they do, then it will lead to massive gambling. It is a certainty. You do see that, don’t you?”

  Ling nodded. “Of course, of course… But, if the Tianjin facility is to be low key – hidden from the average citizen – then perhaps we could provide the service in the members’ lounges there, in addition to the Wuhan venue and the island territories. It would generate considerable revenue.”

  Guo nodded, pursing his lips. “It certainly would, but the people working in the facility and those serving food and drinks in the lounges would spread the word. Before long they would be placing bets for their families and friends. It would not remain a rich man’s secret privilege for long. Knowledge would spread and there would be an outcry, both on the streets and in the Party. Better we deny all betting on the mainland.”

  Ling nodded several times.

  “I’m glad we agree on that. I want you to convince these men to drop the matter. However, in a gesture of fairness, I will permit them to broadcast on the islands for the proposed percentage split. Let that be the end of it. I have to visit London in June to sign a trade agreement at Whitehall, I expect I will also be required to visit their Olympic constructions and extend them great compliments on public record. I do not want to have the betting matter mentioned to me when I am there. Is that clear?”

  Ling nodded. “They will be most pleased. Furthermore, I am sure their Prime Minister will show his gratitude to you.”

  Guo chuckled. “Perhaps.”

  * * *

  Andrew stepped gingerly around the congealing blood and into the hall. The tarot card on the step caught his eye. He froze for an instant, staring at it: the Death card. Then he switched his gaze to Jamie. “What happened? Is this your blood?”

  “No, no. At least I don’t think so. I’m not in any pain. Not physically, anyway.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I didn’t see the culprit. I opened the door as this was hurled at me.” Jamie picked up a fragment of a balloon. “I want the police involved,” said Jamie, shaking visibly. “I know Charlie would rather take care of it privately, but not me,” he said. “I will not have some lunatic driving in here and doing this to me or my house.” He pointed towards the door but could not bring himself to look at the mess. “I need to wash, change, and have a stiff drink. Would you mind calling them and staying to support me until they leave?”

  Andrew caught the scent of alcohol as Jamie made for the stairs: not gin like his mother, but whisky. He threw a sad glance at the Earl’s back and hit the numbers.

  The police sent a squad car from Thetford, arriving nearly an hour later, by which time Andrew had fished Lord Fowler’s matings out of the Range Rover, dashed to the office, typed comments beside each proposal and dropped it with Susan for faxing.

  The two bobbies took notes as Jamie described the car, but were visibly disappointed that he could neither recall the licence plate nor identify the driver. They looked at the Earl suspiciously, as if they knew he had been drinking. They seemed almost amused by the tarot card as they bagged it. One of them swabbed the blood on the door and said they would have it analysed, but the other assured Jamie it was animal blood – his brother was a butcher, he said. Definitely animal blood. This gave Jamie some relief, but the officers said that despite the expensive make of the car, without the licence number it would be difficult to track down the perpetrator.

  Andrew said he hadn’t even seen the car properly, let alone the driver. He considered telling them about the tarot card and the man at the sales, but an image of Billy Malone flashed through his mind. He decided to keep his mouth shut, for now.

  The policemen sighed and scribbled in their notepads. Despite promising to question Charles when he got back, Andrew couldn’t see it being a high priority for them. Jamie offered them tea or something stronger. They declined both and hastily departed.

  Andrew called Terry to send somebody over with the powerhose unit and a bucket of disinfectant.

  “In half an hour, it’ll be like it never happened,” said Andrew, cocking his head round the library door.

  “Thank you, Andrew. Tell me, do you think it was somebody that Charlie robbed?” said Jamie.

  “Er, no. Not that I’m aware.” Andrew frowned, his mind ticking; there was something about the car.

  Jamie interrupted his train of thought. “Thank you so much, dear boy. I don’t know what I’d have done without you. Please, stay for tea.” He knocked back another whisky.

  Andrew sighed, trying not to look at the glass. “No thanks, I’ve got to get back.” Though, having forgotten to eat lunch, he could feel his stomach rumbling.

  “Nonsense,” said Jamie. “I’ll have Annie make up a tray of goodies. You need to eat, young man, with all the running about you do.” Jamie made for the decanter. “And you deserve one of these, too.”

  “Definitely not. I’ve got too much on. Anyway, I don’t like spirits,” he glanced at the mantle clock. “But I will take you up on tea.” He wanted to tell the Earl not to drink like this, but then if he couldn’t get his own mother to listen, what hope was there?

  “Excellent,” Jamie drawled, with visible delight. He picked up the extension and informed his housekeeper.

  Andrew ambled towards the bookshelves. “Do you mind if I browse?”

  “Not at all.”

  Andrew selected Anatomy of the Horse by George Stubbs, opened it carefully on his knees, and marvelled at the ancient tome.

  Jamie sprawled himself on the sofa like a teenager. “That’s a first edition. Charlie professes to have read all the equine books in here, but I have my doubts,” he chuckled.

  Andrew ran his eye over the shelves. “Have you read many of them?”

  “The Dickens’ first editions are wonderful.” He switched his gaze from Andrew to the Gainsborough above the fireplace. “That was the fifth Earl,” he said.

  Andrew looked at the painting of the bewigged man brandishing a brace of dead pheasants and a shotgun. The fifth Earl was depicted with a haunting coldness that Andrew found familiar.

  “I know what he’d have done to somebody tossing blood on his front door,” said Jamie in a sad tone. He sighed. “Bloody lunatic.”

  Andrew didn’t know what to say.

  Jamie looked at him. “I suppose the blood thrower could be someone who still holds a grudge against my stance on the environment. However, since I lost the wind farm court case, the locals tend to see me as a harmless old dear – a sort of eccentric aunty. I try to get on with them nowadays. It’s nice to talk to people,” he took another sip of whisky. “But it’s a burden, you see. All this.” He swept his arm around the room. “I love the land around it and the things we have in it, but the place itself?” he shook his head.

  “But your family has lived here for hundreds of years. I thought you loved the place? Brockford’s historic. It’s… well, it’s worth saving, isn’t it?” There was a tinge of panic in Andrew’s voice. He and Charles worked so hard to keep the place running. He couldn’t believe his ears.

  Jamie shrugged. “It’s an anachronism. It consumes too many resources. Should we destroy ourselves trying to save it? Or should we move on to a more sustainable way of life? I tried to do it my way, but nobody’s ready to listen to an ageing poof
preaching to them about the environment. It seems that Charlie’s business – oohh, now there’s a dirty word,” he shuddered, “is the only way to save the place, but I find myself wondering if that’s a price I want to pay.”

  Andrew realised he was staring slack-jawed at the Earl.

  Jamie’s blue eyes bored into the younger man the way Charles’ sometimes did. “Charlie’s positively Cromwellian, you know. He’s obsessed. He’d do anything to keep Brockford private. He hates the idea that strangers would pay to look around, and frankly, so do I. I’d rather sell.” Another sip. “You know, my father used to say that businessmen were nothing but tatty rogues, but perhaps if he’d been a bit of a rogue, then Charlie wouldn’t need to be such a shit. That’s what he is really, underneath the smile and polish.” He drained the glass and refilled it. “We had a sort of relationship before he became a soldier, but the Army brought out the worst in him.” He wagged a finger at Andrew. “You should be careful. He’s accustomed to getting what he wants, by whatever means necessary.”

  Andrew closed the book. He was about to speak when a smiling Annie appeared with tea and sandwiches. Jamie put his finger to his lips. Andrew thanked the sprightly widow and tucked in. Jamie pecked at a sandwich like a small bird, but his eyes looked ravenous.

  “Does Charles know how you feel?” said Andrew.

  “We argue about it almost daily. I’d rather live in London with all the paintings and art around me. I want to sell the house and gardens. Charles could keep the forestry and stud, build himself a house on it and we’d have plenty of cash to go around, but he won’t hear of it.” He paused, giving Andrew a lopsided smile. “And you’re not helping much, Mr. Gung-ho stud manager.”

  “Me? I thought we were fighting the good fight. Keeping the wolf from the door sort-of-thing.”

  Jamie burst into a deep, guttural laugh. “Dear boy, do wake up!”

  Andrew was bewildered.

  “Stop drinking Charlie’s kool-aid. The wolf isn’t at the door; he lives in the east wing.”

  * * *

  Ling and his wife lay in bed. He pored over his laptop while she read.

  He snapped his device shut and rolled towards her. “Buckham has shown his hand.” He told her about Charles’ proposal.

  She arched her brow and dropped her book. “And how did Guo react when you discussed it with him?”

  “As expected.”

  She gave her husband a thin smile and a peck on the cheek. Then turned out the light.

  Chapter 16

  Beijing

  Charles, Ling and Rupert were on the battlement of Meridian Gate, the main entrance to the Forbidden City. An elaborate pavilion stood atop the structure and from their vantage point, they could see past Tiananmen Gate, with its massive picture of Chairman Mao, to the vast expanse of Tiananmen Square stretching into the smog. Below them, throngs of cyclists battled for space with cars on Chang’an Avenue. It was a symphony of chiming bells, punctuated by shrill voices and car horns, everything underscored by the simmering drone of engines. Beijing on its way to work.

  All three men wore heavy overcoats, and steamy breath rose from their mouths. Ling had instructed his guards to remain in the courtyard below. They blocked access to the stairway and prevented Palace Museum officials or visitors from disturbing him. High up on the battlement, he wanted complete privacy to deliver his message.

  “I have some very good news regarding your racing matter,” said Ling, without averting his eyes from the traffic.

  Charles stared at him impatiently, rubbing his hands together.

  Ling shot him a sideways glance. “Vice President Guo has agreed that you may broadcast your racing in Hong Kong and Macau, with wagering, and for the proposed percentage split.”

  Rupert looked at Ling with wide eyes.

  “What about the mainland?” said Charles.

  “He cannot agree to that. It will never happen in his lifetime. It is just too dangerous for the country.”

  Charles closed his fist around the USB stick in his pocket. He could possibly support Brockford with whatever they made from Hong Kong, but with Rupert and Piers to be paid, there would be little left over for racing’s coffers. Without a visible increase in prize money, the house of cards would soon collapse. That was unacceptable. He took a deep breath. “I’m afraid that won’t do at all, Ling. You see, we need more exposure than that. The major cities on the mainland have to be part of the deal.”

  Ling shook his head. “Gentlemen, you will make plenty of money with the proposed arrangement, and the ship will not deviate from its course. You simply must accept this, or take your offer to Japan or Korea.”

  Charles flicked a glance at Rupert. Calcott ambled nonchantly towards the stairway. Charles brought his fist out of his pocket, clasped it with his other hand, and spoke in a slow, thunderous murmur. “Now look here, Ling. If you think I’m going to waste my time setting all this up for bloody pocket change out of Hong Kong and Macau, you are seriously mistaken,” he said. “I haven’t bought the Tote as a fucking plaything. I need your gambling rights to make it all work, and by Christ, I’m going to get them. You must accept this.”

  Ling looked slightly amused by the sudden outburst.

  “You’ll get the deal done. Understand? I don’t care how many strings you have to pull, bribes you have to make, or dicks you have to suck. Just get it done. And don’t give me any more bullshit about revolutions. Money talks, and if you and your cronies are making enough of it, the plight of the peasants will be irrelevant. Ling, I know how rich your Congress members are. They love money as much as the next man. Don’t forget, there are billions at stake here.”

  Ling’s cheeks were glowing red, but his tone remained calm. “You come to my country, accept my hospitality, and talk to me like this? I understand your business needs and respect our history together, that is why I did you the courtesy of arranging the islands’ deal. But now you step over the line, Charles Buckham. As I suspected, you are just another greedy colonialist. This is not the nineteenth century, we Chinese do not have to play your games anymore. You must play ours. Go home, Charles. We have nothing further to discuss.” He turned to walk away.

  Rupert blocked the stairs, arms folded, teeth clenched. As Ling opened his mouth to shout, Charles darted a fist into his stomach, doubling him over. Charles quickly grabbed Ling by the collar, pulling him upright. Ling’s face was a crimson mask of horror. Charles opened his fist, revealing the small black USB chip. He pushed it into Ling’s mouth. “Go somewhere private and watch this. It’s you and my brother having sex by the pool at Brockford. Rather nostalgic, don’t you think?”

  Instantly, the colour drained from Ling’s face and his muscles relaxed. He spat the chip into his hand as if it was poison.

  “That’s much better, old chap. I can see I’ve finally got your attention.” Charles wore a sinister grin. Delight danced in his eyes, making them brighten to a cobalt shade. He saw something flash across Ling’s features. Could’ve been fear.

  Ling spoke calmly. “Charles Buckham, you have made a serious mistake. I will have you arrested, you will not leave this country until I give the word.”

  Charles kept grinning. “By all means arrest us. Throw us in jail if you feel you have to. But if I were you, I’d have a look at that chip before you do anything rash.” His steely eyes cut into Ling. “And remember,” he jabbed a finger at Ling’s chest, “that’s only a copy. I can have it all over the internet in an hour and the British newspapers within twelve. Oh, and I can assure you, the result will be the same if anything should happen to Rupe or I out here. So calm down, trot back to your office, and give the matter some thought. Rupe and I’ll go to Tianjin on the bullet train as planned. We only need one of your goons to tag along and interpret. Be a good chap and tell the others to piss off.”

  Ling opened his mouth. Hesitated. Snapped it shut. Straightened his coat.

  Rupert moved from the stairway. “It’s probably best if we leave as we arr
ived,” he said, with a sly grin.

  They made their way back to the cars in silence. Ling dispatched them to the train station with a guard before stepping into his own Mercedes.

  * * *

  They had first class seats on the bullet train. Charles relaxed, grinning broadly. He cast his mind back to 1985 and the day they discovered Ling and his brother locked together in passion. It was instinct that told him to keep the camera rolling, but it was Rupert’s inspired idea to retreat in silence and keep the evidence a secret. Until now. He wished he’d taken a photo of Ling’s face today: priceless. Ling hadn’t expected that.

  The suburban sprawl flashed past in a blur and before they knew it, Charles and Rupert were in a taxi headed for Tianjin Equine Culture City.

  They were dropped at a huge, tiled entrance gate. Their minder barked at a foreman and moments later, a double-cab jeep was produced. The minder ushered them inside, but the ex-soldiers hopped up on the flatbed. They pulled on gloves, flicked their collars up, grabbed the rail. “Drive on!” roared Charles with a haughty grin.

  They were driven about the 900 acre site. The oval racetrack looked nearly finished, Charles estimated it at 2,000 metres round. It was completely covered in plastic to protect the new grass shoots from the harsh Beijing winter. The foundations were being laid for a grandstand of gargantuan proportions.

  “Looks like they want to outdo Dubai,” said Rupert. “I read there’s going to be a seven star hotel here.”

  “And they think they can have all this without gambling? Either they’re desperately naive, or they plan to cut off a few heads as a deterrent.” Charles shook his head. “Even then, they’d never prevent it.”

  They passed a development of Western-style villas and into a newly completed polo club where Rupert thought he saw a foreigner leading a horse into a cathedral-like stable barn. The three grass pitches looked as smooth as a snooker table, and there were two indoor arenas for winter play. They drove on, through a new plantation of mature trees – a manufactured forest built around a maze of riding trails and cross-country fences. The trees gave way to the bones of what would become another luxurious stable complex and show jumping stadium. Four all-weather olympic dressage arenas were next. The jeep slowed to let them admire a series of proud billboards showing computer mock-ups of an equine science university, feed factory, veterinary hospital and a rehabilitation complex, complete with swimming pools, treadmills and hyperbaric chambers.