The Mandarin Stakes

by Sam O'Brien

  “Good man, Billy,” said Charles, briefly shaking his hand. “Call me when you have confirmation. We’ll split the money and arrange shipping. Where will they go?”

  “I’ll bring ‘em to my yard for a month, tune ‘em up a bit, then it’ll be Dubai or Tblisi.”

  Charles nodded and walked away. His next meeting was in the car park with a Turkish bloodstock agent who would surely be willing to pay twenty a piece for Lord Fowler’s clapped-out old mares. Then he would meet Rupert and Piers.

  Billy grinned as he watched Charles walk away. “Cocksucker,” he muttered, devouring another cigarette. “Oh, but I’d love to get Anatoly to kick the fuck out of the arrogant shite.” Then he thought better of it and wondered what he would do with his cut of the deal. He opened his catalogue and sauntered round the corner.

  * * *

  Charles leaned on a bonnet in the lower car park and checked his watch. Mehmet Silah was always late, but this was ridiculous. He watched people come and go for another five minutes, muttered an obscenity, and walked towards the stables.

  Behind him, a heavily accented voice called, “Charles, my brother! Where are you going?”

  Charles whipped his head around. “Punctual as always, Mehmet.”

  Mehmet ignored the dig, grabbed Charles by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. Charles grimaced, feeling Mehmet’s stubble grate his face.

  Mehmet Silah was a teddy bear of a man, who wore a permanent grin under a bushy moustache with matching eyebrows. He had a four-day stubble and a thick head of jet black hair.

  “You wanted to see me?” he said, flicking worry beads through his fingers.

  Charles scanned the car park as he spoke. “I’ve got four old mares that would suit your clients nicely. Here are their pedigrees,” he thrust an envelope into Mehmet’s hand. “Get me twenty each for them, anything over that is yours.”

  Mehmet nodded, stuffing the envelope in his catalogue. “I’ll have to check they qualify for import.”

  “I’m sure they do.” Charles pulled an executive smile.

  Mehmet arched his brow. “Inshallah.”

  Charles narrowed his eyes.

  Mehmet put up a hand. “Charles, my friend. Relax. I’ll buy them, but I will have to tread carefully. Those stallions our Jockey Club purchased were overpriced, and the board of directors is being investigated for corruption.”

  “What are you trying to say, Silah?”

  “Oh, nothing, my brother. I just want you to know that I’m not like old Okan. I’m a reasonable man. You can always deal with me.”

  Charles shook his head slowly. “It was simply awful what happened to him, wasn’t it?”

  Mehmet shrugged. “I’m sure it was fate.” He flicked his beads and hustled his bulk towards the stables.

  Charles watched him disappear.

  Andrew Dixon observed the nine-month-old foal walk around him in a long sweeping oval. He watched the animal stride out. It moved with a grace and maturity beyond its age. It swung its hips with confidence, stretching its limbs and covering plenty of ground with each stride. More importantly, its hooves touched the ground lightly. Just like an athlete. The colt was well muscled and bright. It flicked its ears inquisitively at the people milling about, but remained calm. When it came to a halt in front of him, Andrew studied the foal’s head and eyes. You could tell a great deal about a horse from its eyes and ears. A bit like people really, only Andrew found that horses were rather more honest with their moods and emotions than humans.

  Andrew scribbled a few coded notes in his catalogue, snapped it shut, and stared at the foal as it stood in front of him. It lacked a little bit of size and needed all the bone it had in its legs. Still, he reckoned it was balanced enough to make a nice racehorse one day, and would do very well with the right feed and exercise programme. After a good preparation for the yearling sales next October, it would look like a complete athlete.

  Andrew marked the horse onto his shortlist as a potential purchase for his boss Charles and his friends Rupert and Piers. Charles loved pinhooking foals; he revelled in the quick turnover of the equine commodity and the profit involved. In private, Charles admitted to Andrew that he didn’t have the eye for a horse that he needed. Andrew knew that was the main reason he had been hired as manager of Brockford Hall Stud, but the one percent commission on all profit made was what mattered to Andrew – his wages alone weren’t enough to support him and his parents.

  Andrew thanked the groom and walked to the next row of stables, nodding and smiling at people he knew, working the crowd as Charles had taught him to do. While people were generally polite, Andrew could often sense the underlying coldness toward him. Noses wrinkled almost imperceptibly, greetings were slightly too formal. The sins of the father… Andrew sighed. Would it ever end?

  He approached the consignment of four colt foals offered by a small farm in Yorkshire, all from the first crop of Capital Flight – Charles’ stallion, which he owned in partnership with his close friends, Rupert Calcott and Sir Piers Bartholomew. Andrew’s heart sank as he inspected the four rabbit-like animals one by one. He hated having to skirt around the obvious; they were awful-looking horses and badly raised and prepared. He desperately wanted to tell the farm’s owner that he should stop dabbling in breeding racehorses and stick to growing cattle and silage. But if he did that, Charles would have a fit, fire him, and assure him that he would never find another job in the racing world again. So he bit his lip and offered encouraging remarks.

  Andrew made notes in his catalogue. So far today, he had seen twenty foals by Capital Flight, and they were all terrible. Not a racehorse among them; they were not even nice products for the sale ring. It was not going to be easy to break the news to the stallion’s owners.

  As he crossed the footbridge, he could not help but wonder if they were breeding too many mares to these new, unproven sires. Maybe it was time to cut numbers again, or this whole business would end up in the same state of overproduction that helped to cause the crash in 2008.

  Then again, he might find himself out of a job.

  Andrew stopped on the bridge and stared despondently at the flowing water. His eyes wandered to a groom leaning against a stable door reading the Racing Post. Its blaring headline declared: Government To Sell Tote. Offers now being accepted. Andrew screwed his face into a frown. The State-controlled Tote was the only betting outlet which put its profits back into racing, whereas the bookies had to be squeezed to grudgingly contribute a pittance in taxes. Prime Minister Edward Brookson had long been making noises about selling off the Tote. Andrew hoped it wouldn’t end up in the hands of a bookmaker. He could imagine what would happen to racing’s cut of the profits if that happened. Still, he knew the Tote needed freshening up. It needed to boost turnover. It needed to poach customers from the bookies. Andrew sighed. He wished people understood that the more they bet with the Tote, the richer racing would get through prize money. Trickle down economics: prize money fed everything else in racing.

  His reverie was broken by the sound of hurried footsteps. He felt a hand on his jacket and was about to move when he was shoved, hard, from behind. Caught off balance, Andrew pivoted over the handrail and toppled awkwardly into the ankle deep water, landing flat on his backside. Soaked from the waist down, he sprung up, looking for the culprit. Nobody there. To his horror, he realised his catalogue was wet. He jumped out of the water, sprinted to the nearest toilets and held the catalogue under the hand dryer. After fifteen frantic minutes, he had managed to prevent disaster. Some of his notes had smudged, but he could still read them. Water ran off his jeans, filling his boots and forming a puddle on the floor. Shivering with cold, he locked himself in a cubicle and wrung out his clothes.

  As he put the damp garments back on, he heard someone enter. Heavy footsteps stopped right outside the cubicle; Andrew could see polished shoes under the door.

  “Dixon, that’s you in there, isn’t it?”

  Jeans in hand, Andrew remained si
lent and stared at the door. What the hell?

  A tarot card was shoved under the door. Astonished, Andrew picked it up: The Fool.

  “Why don’t you fucking wake up, Dixon! You’re working for a cunt,” said the voice.

  “Excuse me? Who’s this?”

  “Figure it out, idiot. And get out of that stud, before it’s too late.” The shoes clicked on the tiles as their wearer made for the exit. Andrew opened the cubicle in time to see a tweed coat disappearing outside. He swore and hurriedly threw his jeans on.

  Outside, there were dozens of people milling about, the majority in some kind of tweed. It could be anyone, or none of them.

  He frowned, wishing he’d glimpsed the man’s face. Then his phone rang: Charles.

  “Are you finished yet?”

  “Yes, but I need a change of clothes. I’m soaked.”

  “It’s not even raining.”

  “No, but somebody shoved me into the brook and nearly ruined my catalogue. Then I was accosted in the loo when I was drying off.”

  “What?”

  “Seriously. Some looney called me a fool, you the c-word, and told me to get out of Brockford.”

  There was a pause on the line, then: “I don’t believe it.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Andrew, the world is full of jealous, small-minded people,” said Charles sharply. “Who was it? An Irish stallion master jealous of our success?”

  “Didn’t see him.”

  “Huh, you’re not much use, are you? You’d never have made it at Sandhurst.”

  “He was definitely English, though – from the accent.”

  “Alright, well hurry up then. We’re in the office.” The line went dead.

  Andrew squelched through the stable complex, out the lorry exit, up Newmarket High Street and bought some new clothes. A few minutes later, warm and dry, he threw his wet things in his car and walked under the archway to the stables. Billy Malone was approaching. Andrew mustered a smile, “Hi there, Billy, how are you?”

  “Spot on, lad. Spot on,” he said, shaking Andrew’s hand vigorously. He glanced over both shoulders and leaned in, conspiratorially. “Listen, boss, tell Charlie the deal’s on. The horses are sold to my Georgian lad, Dimitri Kharkov, but not at the price we discussed.” Billy stared into Andrew’s eyes, blasting cigarette and whiskey breath at him.

  Andrew grimaced, “Sure thing, Billy, I’ll tell him that.” He knew better than to ask the prices involved; if they weren’t mentioned, it meant Charles was asking much more than he promised the horses’ owner, Lord Fowler. Billy relaxed his grip on Andrew’s hand, whipped around and clamped it onto the shoulder of a young Italian playboy breeder who was walking past them. “Francesco! Come here to me…”

  Andrew watched the Irishman at work. He frowned and wondered what drove the man, who was a decent trainer, to behave like a magpie. Billy was a slave to the money, craving every piece of silver.

  Then again, am I so different? Andrew wondered. The thought filled him with dismay until he told himself that he was doing it for his parents and, well…

  His chiming phone told him Charles was looking for him.

  “Have you changed yet?”

  “On my way.”

  The line went dead.

  Charles cradled the receiver and returned the phone to the desk. He helped himself to a sandwich and sat on the sofa in the small private office that Sir Piers Bartholomew rented from the sales company.

  Piers’ rotund figure was thrown in an armchair. He was completely bald, with a crimson complexion from too much port, giving him a jovial appearance that camouflaged his ruthless character. As an only child, he had inherited a baronetcy with 50,000 acres of Scotland. He had a wife and four daughters, 30 horses in training, and the uncreased face of a man who never wanted for anything. Physically, he had let himself go after he left the SAS, but his brain remained sharp. Having grown up wealthy, his mission in life was turning his sizeable fortune into an immense one.

  Rupert Calcott sat bolt upright at the desk, swiping at his smartphone. His icy eyes matched his steely grey hair, which was cropped short and immaculately parted. He wore a £5,000 Savile Row suit and was chauffeured in a bulletproof Maybach. He was married, with two sons and several mistresses. When Rupert Calcott left the Army in 1998, he set up a private security company and spent a few years eking out a living in places like Yemen, Liberia and the Congo, before the 9/11 attacks changed everything. Rupert might as well have cracked open a bottle of champagne as he watched the footage of the twin towers crumbling into the Manhattan streets. A month later he took Charles and Piers to dinner at the Ivy to celebrate. Since then, his business had expanded so much that he now had 4,000 men under him, and he rented a large chunk of Piers’ Scottish estate as an operations centre and training ground.

  Piers was thrilled to be a part of it and delighted with the money he made from rent and shares in the company. Slipstream International had several lucrative contracts in Iraq, Afghanistan, and North Africa. Rupert loved the fact that he helped to control the so-called war on terror and ensure the mineral pillaging of the Middle East.

  Charles, Rupert and Piers had all met at Eton. They had played rugby and rowed for the school. Even as schoolboys, they possessed the inherent toughness of many of the British aristocracy. It was not so much a stiff upper lip as a stiff backbone and an iron resolve to do whatever it took to preserve one’s way of life.

  Piers yawned. “Pass me another sandwich, Charlie,” he said.

  “You’re fat enough, old boy,” said Rupert.

  “Yes, but my mouth is bored.”

  “Not the only part of you that’s bored,” said Charles, tossing him a ham roll.

  Piers sighed and took a bite. “I’m bloody tired of the Jockey Club. What a bunch of old farts. Had dinner in the Rooms last night, some of them were still harping on about the Derby being run on a Saturday. Christ almighty, they’re all living in the past, pining for the good old days when they were kings of the sport and things trundled on as they had for 250 years. I mean, how are we ever going to make progress?”

  “Get rid of the lot of them, I suppose – and the BHA clowns, and all the other suits,” said Rupert with a smirk.

  Charles wagged a finger. “Speaking of the BHA, the new chairman Richard Malcolm’s a good man. He’s our sort of chap.”

  All three men laughed.

  Rupert tapped his smartphone. Read an e-mail. Arched his brow. “According to my sources, Ling Jiao’s widely tipped to become the next Chinese vice-president. Apparently, he’ll be confirmed next March at their big party pow-wow.”

  Charles grinned. “Good for him!”

  “Hear, hear!” said Piers. “Ling’s a proper chap.

  Charles opened his mouth as if to speak, but stared blankly at his teacup for a moment.

  Rupert caught the look. “Do we still have that thing?” he asked.

  Charles blinked and flicked his eyes at Rupert. “It’s on a disc, Rupe.”

  Rupert nodded.

  “Keeping up with technology for once, Charlie,” said Piers in a dry tone.

  “Anyway,” said Rupert. “I thought your little dog Dixon was coming?”

  “He’ll be along in a minute,” said Charles, munching a sandwich. “That reminds me; I’ve slipped a new photo of his father playing golf to my tabloid connection. That should keep Andrew’s confidence in check.”

  Rupert narrowed his eyes. “Charlie, why don’t you stop feeding the press negative things about his father? I know it helps you keep him meek and mild, but we have to associate with him in public. It’s getting rather embarrassing.”

  “Look, Rupe, his father ruined everything all by himself. I’m just making sure people won’t forget in a hurry,” said Charles, grinning. “Besides, I – we – need Andrew. He’s an exceptional horseman and perhaps you’re forgetting that he made us two hundred grand at the yearling sales on the last batch of pinhooks. It’s not easy to find someone so talente
d with horses and so easily controllable.”

  “He’s right, Rupe,” said Piers. “And don’t tell me you approve of all the thugs who work for you. Some of those Serbians you’ve got are glorified terrorists.”

  Calcott smiled. “Not glorified at all. Just plain terrorists, but my terrorist thugs!”

  Piers shook with laughter, his bald head turning purple.

  * * *

  As he approached the door, Andrew braced himself to face the team of three. He heard the laughter as he put his hand on the doorknob. On entering, he saw a red-faced Piers. Rupert Calcott cut the rotund aristocrat a frosty stare and Piers composed himself. Charles smiled warmly.

  Andrew glanced at them all in turn and observed it, like he always did: an unspoken bond forged from years of boarding school and the Army.

  There was something about Rupert that sent a shiver up Andrew’s spine. The cold hard gaze, the taut skin and erect posture that oozed ruthless discipline. He was still agile and fit, he ran the London Marathon every year – ostensibly for charity, but really as PR for his company. Andrew remembered the first time he had looked up the Slipstream website and seen careful photographs of smiling soldiers helping old Iraqi ladies draw water from a well, under the slogan: Peacefully securing your investments, invested in your peace of mind.

  Andrew was glad he had never served: if that was what it turned you into. He shuddered when he thought of what Rupert might have been capable of in his army days.

  “Have a sandwich, sit down,” said Charles. “And tell me what you’ve got for us.”

  Andrew put a roll in his mouth, sat beside Charles, and flicked open his catalogue.