by Sam O'Brien
Ling wore a pensive frown. Guo’s visits to the London Olympic venue and Royal Ascot should provide ample exposure and publicity.
* * *
Charles was fed up. He knew the big Chinese pow-wow had ended five days ago, and he was not inclined to believe that no news was good news. Ling had not bothered to call, and his e-mails had gone unanswered. To top it all off, nobody had informed him whether Guo Qing-fucking-Chong had replied to the Ascot invitation.
He screwed up a sheet of paper and hurled it at the bin. Then he dialled Eddie’s mobile. Turned off. What was the point of having a mobile phone if it was hardly ever on? He yanked open the top drawer and found the Downing Street numbers.
“Good afternoon, the Prime Minister’s office,” said the secretary in clipped BBC English.
“Good afternoon. This is the Honourable Charles Buckham speaking. I wonder if it’s possible to have a quick word with the Prime Minister.”
“I’ll just see, sir. What is it regarding?”
“It’s a personal matter,” he snapped. “Just tell Eddie who’s on the line, please.”
A pause. “Certainly, sir.”
He tapped his pen off the blotter as he was kept on hold. Eventually, the secretary came back on the line. “I’m sorry for the wait, sir, the Prime Minister will be with you momentarily.”
“Thank you.” He kept tapping for another five minutes, until a familiar voice addressed him.
“Charlie! How are you? Sorry about the wait. It’s all go around here, as you can imagine.”
“Oh, I can, I can, and I won’t keep you. I just wondered if you’d heard anything from the Chinese about the Ascot thing.”
“Oh yes, that’s all good to go. The Queen’s private secretary contacted my office yesterday. VP Guo has accepted. He’ll attend the first day of the meeting and he’ll have a seat in a carriage for the royal procession.”
Charles smiled into the receiver. “That’s wonderful news, Eddie.”
“I think it’s a great coup, too. He was already scheduled to have a discreet lunch at the Palace with Prince Freddie and a few ministers, but Ascot’s the icing on the cake. Bloody good idea of yours, Charlie.”
“My pleasure, Eddie.”
“Of course, Her Majesty isn’t too sure what to make of it, but she’s putting duty first, bless her. The only drawback is we’ll have to rush him through the Olympic Village that morning, but I suppose that’s not the end of the world.”
“No. Anyway, I take it our Tote thing is on target for the summer?”
“As a matter of fact, it’s slated for the week before Ascot, so you’ll have something to celebrate when you welcome Guo to the races. I have to say, Charlie, your plan is audacious, but if you pull it off, you’ll be quite the white knight of racing.”
Charles grinned and punched the air. “Oh, you know me, Eddie, just trying to do my bit.”
“Yes, quite. As long as that’s all it is, Charlie.”
“Of course, old boy. Of course.”
“Charlie, there’s a lot riding on the trade agreement. You wouldn’t do anything to muck up the big picture, would you?”
“Eddie, I’m shocked you’d even ask. I’m a big picture sort of chap. Always have been. As I said, I just want to show Guo how dignified and classy a race meeting – with gambling – can be, and make him understand the benefits of doing business with us.”
“Good. Right, got to run. Chat later.”
The line went dead.
Charles sat back and rubbed his hands together as he pondered the next step. It was time. Dickie Phipps was coming to lunch tomorrow; that would provide the perfect excuse. He unlocked the filing cabinet.
The next day, while the staff were on their lunch break, Andrew was helping the vet administer plasma to a newborn foal. Halfway through the procedure, his pocked vibrated: Charles.
“I’m having lunch with Dickie Phipps in the house, could you pop into my office and get me his matings list?”
“The one we did last night?”
“That’s the one. I thought I had it with me. Bring it here. If you hurry, you’ll be in time for pudding.”
“I’m stuck with this foal till everyone gets back from lunch.”
“Oh, alright. You’ll miss the apple crumble though.” He hung up.
Andrew looked at his watch and called Colin. “Can you get to the foaling unit in five mins? I’ve to do something for the boss.”
Colin said he was on his way.
After nearly a month of nervous waiting, this would be Andrew’s first, and perhaps only, chance to look through Charles’ desk again.
Andrew hustled past Susan, muttering something about Dickie Phipps, and shut the door behind him. He sat at the desk, found the matings list and left it ready to snatch if anyone disturbed him.
Then he tapped the mouse and brought the screen out of sleep mode. He accessed the inbox, read Piers’ horse flied lice e-mail several times and decided to print it off. There was a sent message to Ling Jiao politely asking for a progress report. He printed that, too. What next? He opened the top drawer and flicked open Charles’ address book. He scanned through it hastily, but there were no details or numbers for anyone in China. There was nothing under F for Fellowes, but there was a number for Yildiz, Okan. It had been crossed out.
Andrew was about to close the drawer, when he flipped to the Bs and looked at the array of numbers under Brookson, Eddie. Many had been crossed out as new ones were added. Only three appeared to be current. He jotted them down.
Next, he opened the bottom drawer and saw the DVD sitting on top of the pile, a red L the only identifying mark. He removed it from the cover and opened the disc tray on the computer. Then he thought better of it, closed the drawer, grabbed his illicit bundle and dashed across the hall. To his relief, Susan had stepped out for her post-sandwich walk.
His own computer seemed to take an age to boot up. When it was ready, he inserted the disc. There was only one file on it. His finger hit play and his jaw hit the desk.
It was the swimming pool he recognised first. Though Charles had made Jamie close it down two years ago, citing expense and lack of use, Andrew recalled enjoying it during his first summer at Brockford.
The image was slightly grainy and obviously re-formatted from VHS, but the two men were clearly visible as the camera zoomed in. Jamie. It was definitely a young Jamie and… And… Holy shit!
He opened a web browser and compared the photos he found of Ling Jiao to the image on-screen. The man had hardly changed in thirty years.
So that was how you got the Chinese to open up mainland gambling. It all began to make sense.
Still unsure exactly what he should do, he rifled his desk, found an old USB chip and plugged it in. He hit send to on the disc menu and the file began to copy. He drummed his fingers on the desk as he watched the progress line stutter through the small percentages.
His phone chimed, making him jump.
“Coming, coming. I have the list,” he blurted.
“Don’t bother. Stay at the office. I’m on my way down with Dickie,” said Charles.
Sweat poured off Andrew. “Come on, for fuck’s sake, come on,” he muttered at the screen.
Then he heard the outside door open. Panic gripped him. He stood, popped the tray, stuffed the disc into his windcheater, and burst into reception.
He found himself staring stupidly at Susan.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, taking off her coat.
“Me? Er, no. Just doing matings. The boss is on his way here with Dickie Phipps.”
“Oh, I see.”
He dashed into Charles’ office, replaced the disc, and had another look at the Sandhurst photo. No doubt about it. He glanced out the window at the empty courtyard, took the image off the wall, and opened the scanner. He hit the button and watched the intense light pass under the frame.
Andrew’s ear twitched as the outside door opened; more sweat formed on his brow. He hung t
he photo, checked it was straight and grabbed the printout.
Charles opened the door and ushered Dickie Phipps inside.
“I just stuck it back here for you. I was on my way when you called,” Andrew babbled.
“Good, good. Thank you, Andrew,” said Charles.
On his way out, Andrew exchanged pleasantries with Dickie and asked after his horses-in-training. He hopped on the quad and returned to his cottage for lunch, but he was not at all hungry. Andrew swore; the scan of the photo was spoiled from the glare of the glass. He would need to de-frame it and run off another copy. This would have to do for now. He found an envelope, scribbled a note on it and placed the e-mail and chip inside. Next, he placed everything into a larger padded bag, which he addressed. He’d post it tomorrow.
* * *
At five-thirty that evening, Andrew was leaning over Susan’s desk checking a bill which Gary Holdsworth had returned unpaid.
Susan looked cross, she wanted to get home. “As you can see from his charming words, he claims that he doesn’t recall giving approval for this.” She scowled. “He’s an awful little man. It’d give me the greatest pleasure to inform him that the bill stands.”
Andrew exhaled despondently. “Me, too, but I’ve a feeling–” The desk phone rang, cutting him off.
“Good evening, Brockford Stud,” chirped Susan. “Yes, sir. I’ll just see if he’s available.”
Andrew’s eyes wandered to the phone as Susan put the caller on hold. The screen displayed a long number; he had done enough research over the last month to recognise the Chinese dialling code.
Susan put the call through. Andrew desperately wanted to eavesdrop using her handset.
“There’s a Mr. Ling on the line for you.”
Charles sat bolt upright. “Put him straight through. Thank you, Susan.”
“Ling, old chap! Good to hear from you! I take it your big conference was interesting and fruitful?”
“Good afternoon, Charles Buckham. It was, as you say, most interesting. Overall, I bring you good news, though you may have to adjust your timeframe.”
Charles grimaced. “Go on.”
“I conducted exploratory meetings with some individuals who may be sympathetic to your vision. My suggestions were met with interest. Some even indicated their willingness to fully expand the betting service if the deal were, shall we say, structured correctly… But they all agree on one thing: Guo will never permit it. So we wait. He is not a young man and he has health problems. It is unlikely he will see out the full ten years of his Presidency. Patience, Charles, it will all happen in time.”
“That’s not at all what we discussed, Ling,” he said, curling his hand into a fist.
“It is exactly what we discussed. It is the most prudent path to take and will ultimately result in success. Patience, Charles Buckham. Discuss it with Sir Piers, he will understand what I mean.”
“I don’t have time, you fucking little faggot. Make it happen this year or kiss goodbye to your career.” Charles slammed the phone down, smashing the handset.
“Oh bollocks!” He flung the broken device at the filing cabinet. “Fuck! Fuck!” he said, as the phone clattered off the metal drawers.
He ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. Piers was right. Time to stop messing around. He wanted to call Rupert, and regretted his outburst with the telephone. He made for the door.
* * *
Andrew and Susan exchanged startled glances and looked at Charles’ door. When the noise died down and he burst out, they stared, slack-jawed.
“What the hell are you two looking at?” he snapped.
Susan blinked and grabbed her bag. She never replied when Charles lost his temper. Andrew feebly asked, “Is everything OK?”
Charles fixed his cold beam on him. “What’s it to you? Don’t be so bloody nosey.”
Andrew froze. Charles brushed past and slammed the door behind him.
“Charming,” said Susan, putting on her coat. “I’m off home. Lock up, will you?”
Andrew was still a bit stunned as he found himself alone in the office. He stared at Charles’ door and wondered.
* * *
The three ex-soldiers were discussing tactics in the private dining room of The Scimitar. When the waiter brought a fresh bottle of wine, they sat in silence until he left.
“So,” began Charles. “Your little camera did the trick, Rupe. Andrew’s not giving up. He took the disc and no doubt saw the footage – probably copied it. He also scanned our Sandhurst photo and printed off a couple of pages from my computer, but I’m not sure what exactly.”
Piers cleared his throat. “Charlie, that’s getting a bit close for comfort. Time for action, I’d say.”
Charles had a pained expression. “I agree, except I don’t want to lose him just yet.”
“Oh come on, Charlie,” said Rupert. “Stop dithering.”
“Well, would you get rid of Goran on a whim?”
Rupert glanced at the door. The swarthy Serb was loitering outside, under orders. “If I had to, yes,” he muttered. “But I see your point.” He took a sip of wine and mulled things over.
“Anyway,” said Charles. “On to the main order of business. Despite all our efforts, it seems that Ling’s hit the political wall.” He slammed a hand onto the table, making the cutlery rattle.
“Sounds like he needs a little incentive,” said Rupert, grinning.
Piers folded his arms on the table and leaned closer. Rupert and Charles exchanged looks, their eyes sparkling as they felt a surge of adrenaline. They felt euphoric and nostalgic as they discussed the next phase.
Charles topped up the glasses. “Oh, by the way, Rupe, can you check out Andrew’s friend, Jess Flint? She’s a detective in the Met. I need to have something over him, something more than his job security and a fat bonus.”
“Hmm, that’s a tricky one. I’ll go at it from another angle. I’m not about to have my people noticed sniffing around in police records.”
“Don’t tell me you can’t get a minion to ask a few questions?”
“Not that simple, old boy. Unsurprisingly, the police don’t much care for chaps like me. They’re against the idea of firms like mine. They see us as a threat, afraid that the right kind of government might hand over more powers to us. Especially with this wonderful war on terror ticking away.”
“Fuck the police, Rupe! If our plan comes together, chaps like you’ll have carte bloody blanche to get what you want from the government.”
Rupert grinned. “You’re probably right, Charlie. I’ll see what I can dig up. Oh, and don’t worry, I know exactly what to do about your little dog.” He told them what he had in mind.
Charles liked the idea, but suggested several refinements. Over dessert, they finalised the details.
Piers took it all in and gave it a seal of approval. If the grand plan worked and Slipstream expanded domestically, his shares would increase in value and he’d rent another 2,000 acres to Rupert for new training grounds. His red face shone with delight.
Chapter 22
Andrew’s cottage, Brockford - One week later
Andrew flopped onto his sofa, showered and exhausted after another long shift on the stud.
Terry was out of action with a stomach bug, so Andrew had spent most of the previous night assisting a panicked Colin with a difficult foaling. After frantic manual adjustments, the foal was delivered and put on oxygen. A few hours later it rose and suckled as normal, much to everyone’s relief. Before Andrew knew it, it was time for the morning coverings, and from then on, the day had been a blur of activity.
Too tired to read the Racing Post, he channel-surfed until he found a current affairs show debating the future of Chinese politics. He made himself a coffee and sat glued to the screen, tiredness suddenly banished to the back of his mind.
The consensus of the panel was that Guo Qingling would certainly take over the reins of power when the President stepped down. However, it was ass
umed that the conservative Guo would make little progress on human rights during his tenure.
Or gambling, thought Andrew, recalling Charles’ rage the other evening.
There was speculation that if Guo’s ally, Ling Jiao, was to step into the Vice President’s office in October and eventually succeed Guo at the top, it could mark a sea-change in Chinese policy.
For Andrew, the documentary was a revelation. He realised that he could not keep burying his head in the sand of the breeding season. It was time for action.
If Charles bought the Tote this year and had a means of blackmailing the next Vice President, then… Andrew sat bolt upright. Charles was not a patient man.
A far-fetched idea crept into Andrew’s head, but he dismissed it as ridiculous and the result of his exhaustion.
He yawned. Hopefully Terry would be back in action soon; it would be good to zip down to London and see Jess. There was so much to tell her.
His head was just hitting the pillow when the phone rang. To his relief, it was not another emergency. However, a conversation with Charles was hardly a better prospect.
“Don’t tell me you’re tired, Dixon. Bloody hell, I went weeks without a wink on the battlefield. No wonder you failed RCB.”
Andrew rolled his eyes. He was sick of this shit. “Was that all you wanted to say?”
“Actually no, so you could perk up a bit. You’re having dinner with us at The Scimitar tomorrow evening. Be there at eight. It’s a celebration. Just us, Rupert and Piers.”
“Celebrating what?”
“Our deal with the Tote and China! It’ll be announced Ascot week. Everything’s going ahead as planned and I haven’t forgotten that I promised you a bonus.”
“Oh, er, that’s great. Brilliant. Thanks, but I don’t know if I should come. Terry’s sick. If there’s a foaling, Colin’ll need me. He’s a bit panicked after the dystocia last night.”
