by Sam O'Brien
He feasted his eyes on the Constable landscapes and glanced at the Louis XIV commode by the wall. At least he and Jamie agreed that the furniture and art would never be sold; that was something.
Lefleur’s talk of China snapped Charles out of his reverie. “I was at Sandhurst with a Chinaman, I think he’s a bigwig in the Party now.” Charles smirked as he remembered that fateful weekend when Ling visited Brockford.
“Really?” said Fowler. “A communist Chinaman at the academy in the 1980s? How on earth did that happen?”
“Oh, his father was a friend of their leader, Deng Xiaoping. Apparently, Deng told Thatcher to get this chap a place at Sandhurst as part of the negotiations for the Hong Kong handover agreement.”
“I don’t believe it!” said Fowler, astonished.
“I can assure you it’s true. He even came to stay at Brockford a couple of times. Anyway, Thierry, when were you in China?” said Charles.
“Two weeks ago, for a five day tour. Racing’s beginning to get going again after that setback in 2006,” said Lefleur.
“What was that?” asked Fowler.
“A major investor shut down his operation. He had built a track and breeding farm near Beijing, sank millions into it, then out of the blue he pulled the plug. I suspect his political connections got cold feet.”
“You say it’s changing?” said Charles. “Does that mean they’re in the market for horses?”
“I hope so! I think they’re going to start racing on the mainland. And build a huge ‘equestrian city’ near the resort town of Tianjin,” said Lefleur, with a wink. “My contact told me they’re sending a trade delegation on a kind of world tour in January. They want to drum up business for all sorts of things. We’ve been trying to do a deal with them to provide French expertise to train their people – they say it might happen eventually. But with regard to horses, I believe – just between us – they want to do a deal with the Irish for all things equine.” He shrugged resignedly. “The luck of the Irish.”
Charles nearly choked on his wine. Coughing, he put down his glass. “I don’t bloody believe it! The canny Irish are everywhere. First, they put enormous pressure on the British breeding industry by dominating the stallion market, then they have the gall to win most of our good races, and now this!”
Lord Fowler cut in, looking at Lefleur. “At least you have the PMU betting monopoly in France to generate prize money and breeders’ bonuses. What the hell have we got? Another ineffective bunch of corporate accountants who wouldn’t know a horse if one bit them, trying to tell us how to run the show. Racing For Change: well they’re bloody right about that. Racing for pocket change, they should call it! I love my horses as much as the next man, but I have bills to pay. I was hopeful that Catherine Fellowes could’ve cracked the whip and made some changes in the BHA – she was quite a loss.”
Charles smiled pleasantly.
Lefleur sipped his wine and nodded sagely. “You’re absolutely right.” He turned to Charles. “I hear your version of the PMU: the Tote, is up for sale.”
“That’s right.”
“Whatever happens, you can’t let the government sell it to a bookmaker,” said Lefleur. “Governments can make stupid decisions when they need money.”
Charles grinned and shot a lightning glance at Andrew that said: not a word. He took a long sip of wine, savoured the taste and realised that everybody was staring at him. “Oh, er, yes,” he struggled to find the words. “We won’t let the government muck it up, Thierry. I’ll have a chat with Eddie about it.”
“Eddie?” said Lefleur.
“Edward Brookson, our Prime Minister. We were in the same house at Eton. Bloody good man. I’ll discuss it with him.”
“Good luck, Charlie. While you’re at it, try to get the bookmakers’ powers curbed, too. More taxes and restrictions on business – that’s the ticket.” said Fowler. “I tried getting the House of Lords active on it, but they don’t want to know. Don’t have the strength for it.”
Or the power, thought Charles.
“I blame the betting exchanges,” said Andrew. He paused for a moment and chuckled. “It’d be nice to see the bookies chastised with tax and restricted to their dingy high street shops.”
“Hear, hear,” said Fowler.
“In the old-fashioned French way, we would cut their heads off,” said Lefleur, sending Fowler into fits of laughter.
Andrew didn’t find that funny at all. His stomach flipped as another image of Billy flashed through his mind.
Charles drained his glass. It was time to pull a few more strings.
Chapter 9
Chequers, Buckinghamshire - The following week
Rupert stood transfixed by Admiral Nelson’s diary in its glass case in the Long Gallery of Chequers, the imposing Tudor mansion which had served as the country retreat of British Prime Ministers since 1921. Piers was admiring the sixteenth century tapestries and Charles was looking at some of the Cromwellian antiquities rather distastefully. They sipped brandy and waited for Eddie to finish an urgent after-dinner phone call.
Rupert took a contented swallow of the golden liquid. “Oh, that’s wonderful.”
“The brandy or the diary?” asked Piers.
“Both.”
Charles sat by the enormous fireplace. He looked at his watch. “What the fuck is he doing?”
“On the phone with the Yanks,” said Rupert. “You know how they love to talk shit.”
With that, the door opened and in walked Edward Brookson, Britain’s first Conservative Prime Minister in over a decade. He looked tired and pale despite his casual open-necked shirt and khaki trousers. “Sorry, chaps,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Call of duty and all that. Maybe you’ve heard? The Chinese are sending a trade delegation on a world tour in January. Sending out their current VP, his advisors, and a team of movers and shakers. It’ll be a big deal. I’ll throw a reception for them here. I’ve just been chatting with the Americans about various arrangements.”
The three ex-soldiers exchanged glances.
“We were at Sandhurst with a chap called Ling Jiao,” said Piers. “I believe he’s odds-on to become the next VP. Do you know if he’s in the delegation?”
Eddie thought for a moment, then he cocked a finger at Piers. “There’s someone by that name on the list alright, assuming it’s the same guy.”
“Has to be,” said Piers. “They’ve been grooming him for this since Maggie was in power. Gosh, it would be amusing to see him again. How long will they be in town for?”
“A couple of days tops, then on to Ireland,” continued Eddie, pouring himself a brandy. “OK, back to the Tote. The Chancellor has two serious offers on his desk, and I don’t mind telling you that we’ll probably go with Bettabet. It’ll be a 200 million deal – give or take – with a cap on job losses and the guts of ninety mil going back to the taxpayer and a similar figure to racing.” He sat beside Charles. “If you want me to bat for you in Downing Street, you’re going to have to do better than that.”
“Look here, Eddie, old boy,” said Charles with a warm smile. “I will, that is, we will do better than that, because we must. I know you’re not a real racing person, so I’ll put it in language you can understand. We’ll match their financial offer, but we won’t cut a single job. We’ll work on increasing turnover and put everything back into racing, so prize money gets a serious bump, and long-term, the Exchequer will have to contribute nothing to racing while still receiving a slice for the taxpayer. How’s that?”
Eddie looked astounded. “Charlie, I didn’t think you had that kind of liquidity. Selling off the family silver, are we?”
“That’s where these two come in,” said Charles, without any humour.
“And you are aware that the Tote licence goes up for grabs in seven years? That’s not much time to pull off the kind of changes you’re talking about.”
Rupert smirked. “Well, you’re only elected for five at a time, and you promise a great deal
more than that.”
Eddie cut him a sideways glance, which broke into a smile. All four men laughed.
“Seriously though, Eddie,” said Charles. “We want to run the Tote for racing, with the express aim of funnelling off as much cash as we can into prize money. The whole shooting match depends on prize money.”
“You’re right, but how on earth can you do that without cutting jobs?”
“You let us worry about that,” said Charles. “But I promise you, we will not shed a single job.”
Eddie took a swallow of brandy and stared at a tapestry. “OK, chaps. If you get the proposal to my private secretary by Tuesday morning, I promise I’ll fight your corner with the Chancellor. Anyway, it’ll be an easy sell if you’re not going to make anyone redundant. I’ll even come out of it smelling of roses.”
“That’s worth a toast,” said Rupert. They all clinked glasses.
“Oh and, Rupe,” said Eddie. “At the moment, I don’t think we have a role for your guys at the Olympics, but if something crops up, it’ll head your way.”
“Thanks, Eddie. I knew I could count on you.”
“Not at all, Rupe. Slipstream’s quite the white knight of security these days. People are wary of the Americans – too many scandals – but your guys keep their noses clean and you do so much for charity. Keeping the British end up. Good man.” He raised his glass again.
Charles looked at his watch. “Well, troops, we’d better let our Prime Minister get some much needed rest.”
“Oh, do stay for another,” said Eddie. “It is good to catch up with all of you. Hardly ever happens any more.”
“I’m sure we could manage one for the road,” said Piers. “On one condition!”
“What’s that?” said Eddie.
“Wangle us invites to the Chinese reception. None of us have seen Ling since Sandhurst. We really mustn’t miss out on meeting him. It might be the only chance on their flying visit.”
“You don’t ask for much, do you, Piers!”
“Oh come on, Eddie. Surely you can pull that string for us.”
Eddie looked into his brandy glass. “I can do it for you and Charles, but I’m not sure I can risk having Rupe there – sorry. Don’t get me wrong; it could be great for business, but if the press found out… And I don’t want to have to stand on the steps of Number Ten explaining that the Slipstream boss was invited here with the Chinese VP because he was at Sandhurst with one of his aides. I’m sure you understand. You need to keep yourself low-key, Rupe.”
Rupert nodded slowly. He understood alright and he did not want to make a fuss, as long as Charles and Piers got invited.
The three ex-soldiers wore satisfied grins. Phase one underway.
Chapter 10
Ling and his wife sat in the back seat of the Mercedes as it zipped out of Beijing. They were headed for their private retreat, north of the metropolis where the Kangxi grasslands stretched right up to the clear blue sky.
“I will be accompanying Guo when we make our world tour in January. We will be spending a few days in London,” said Ling, a toothy grin plastered onto his face.
His wife cut him a sideways glance and a lopsided smile. “Do you think you will meet your old friends?”
Ling chuckled. “If they are still as I remember them, they will make sure that we meet during my visit.”
“Then it is assured. Leopards do not change their spots.”
Ling nodded.
Chapter 11
That weekend, Andrew sat behind the wheel of his treasured green Lotus Elise on a dry track at Silverstone. The tinted visor of his helmet shielded his eyes from the low winter sun as he gunned the engine. When the light turned green, he released the clutch and sped off down the straight, careful not to spin the wheels.
Andrew loved his sports car. It was his one self-indulgence, although it was spartan and budget-priced compared to most fast machines on the market. The speed and closeness to the ground was his substitute for riding a racehorse flat-out over cut birch jumps. He liked to race with the windows down and feel the air rush by. He was sensible enough not to drive like a lunatic on public roads, so he took the light, zippy machine to track days once a month and let his racing demon loose.
The faster he went, the more concentrated he became. After two laps he usually reached a zen-like state of total harmony with the car. He guided it through chicanes and round turns as if it was half a ton of rippling thoroughbred. His mind emptied of everything except the car, the track, and the drivers he overtook.
He might have achieved the same thing if he rode out for a trainer in the early mornings on the Newmarket heath, but now he could no longer race a horse, he didn’t even want to sit on one.
Two hours later, he was by the parade ring at Towcester racecourse looking dapper in a dark trilby and long tweed overcoat. He loved Towcester and had won a few hunter chases here over the years. Although the stands had been renovated, they held onto their pre-war charm and gave the right-handed rectangular track a nostalgic feel, like a scene from a Snaffles painting.
Andrew sported a broad grin even as the drizzle started. Flat racing had become a corporate business, but steeplechasing was pure sport. It reminded him of the days before he spent a large amount of his time cajoling people to use Brockford stallions. The runners in the first, a novice chase, were circling in the ring, and he watched the jockeys get legged up on their muscular steeds. If flat horses were the sprinters of the equine world, these guys were the rugby players. This group of horses were still young and inexperienced by steeplechasing standards, but they had the hulking frames they needed to ply their trade in harsh winter weather. Heavy steps taken by thick limbs belied the athletic grace necessary to cover three miles and fifteen jumps at speeds nearing forty-five kilometres per hour.
The twelve runners left the paddock and cantered down to the start. Andrew marked his racecard and wandered over to the nearest Tote window. At times like this he liked to test his assessment of the runners by placing ten pounds on his pick of the paddock. He offered his note to the cashier and collected the ticket. As he turned, he bumped into a ruddy-cheeked man in a battered cap and old-fashioned raincoat.
“Oh, sorry,” said Andrew, tipping the brow of his hat.
“Here, you’re that Dixon lad, aren’t you?” said the man.
“Er, yes,” said Andrew, mustering a startled smile.
“You could ride a pointer in your day! Trained a few good ’uns, too, if I remember right.”
“Guilty as charged,” he replied, relieved. No mention of his father or the bank.
“Here, what’s going to win this? What should I stick my two ‘undred on?”
“Well,” Andrew hesitated. He wanted to tell the man not to waste two hundred pounds on the outcome of a horse race, and he probably would have if the man had been headed for a bookmaker. But he was in the queue for the Tote, so at least his losses would go into racing’s coffers, instead of the bookmakers’ satchels. “I’ve put a tenner on number seven, King Cookie. He looks a picture. Trained by a good man, too.”
The man looked puzzled. “That’s not what the TV pundits say. Anyway, you were some man over fences in your day, so I’ll take your word for it. Thanking you.” He advanced to the window.
Andrew found a place on the rails, just beside a fence. He watched them approach his fence and his heart raced as they hurled themselves at it. He heard the jockeys’ voices and the crackle of the fence as the horses brushed through the top few inches. He remembered how some races were like shouted conversations between the riders, punctuated with expletives as the race heated up and everybody jostled for position.
As they rounded the final bend, jockeys were silent, squeezing and flailing, driving their mounts into the last fence and up the long incline to the winning post. King Cookie was challenging the favourite for the lead. The two horses had pulled four lengths clear of the pack and were locked together as their riders urged them into the final obstacle. Andrew found hi
mself roaring the horses up the hill, bashing his racecard off his thigh as the gallant animals plugged on to the line.
He couldn’t tell which had won, so he ran all the way to the winner’s enclosure behind the stands. The first three were led about in small circles by grooms as everybody waited for the photo-finish result. Steam rose into the winter air as the horses sucked in massive lungfuls of oxygen. Breaking the hushed anticipation, the judge announced King Cookie as the winner. Andrew clapped politely and was joined by many others admiring the victor.
Andrew felt his hat being whipped off his head. He turned abruptly to see Jess, her athletic frame clad in a tailored coat, pencil skirt, and knee-high boots. Her hair was scraped back into a pony tail, emphasising her cheekbones. She had a twinkle in her hazel eyes and his trilby in her hand.
“I should’ve known you’d stand me up for a horse. Charming,” she said.
“You said after the first race. I thought I’d get my fix of jumping out of the way,” he said with a warm smile. “Wow, you look great!”
She winked and flashed him a smile. “Thanks. I’m undercover today!”
He put his hand on her shoulder and wheeled her around. “Come on, we’ll collect my winnings. Drinks are on me.”
Andrew ordered in the members’ bar while Jess found two high stools near the window.
They clinked glasses. “Here’s to old friends,” said Andrew.
“Yeah, cheers, darlin’.”
Andrew smirked, raising his eyebrows. “So, what’s with the mockney accent?”
“Wha..?” She broke into a half-smile. “Well, we all have to camouflage, don’t we? Do you tell your boss or those OK-Ya girls that your best mate’s a DS in the Met?”
“D’you tell your mates you can ride and’ve been out fox hunting?”