The Mandarin Stakes

by Sam O'Brien

  The youngest of the three jumped up. He led Jess along the street and past the Prime Minister’s residence, while desperately attempting small talk. She nodded and smiled mechanically, her thoughts miles away. They passed a group of reporters, chatting and waiting. There were three cameramen leaning against the wall, bored, smoking.

  “They’re all accredited and cleared,” said her escort, eagerly.

  She flicked her eyes all around her until they reached the railings at the end of the street. The heavy iron gate buzzed and clicked open as they approached. Jess hopped down the steps and walked past the checkpoint. She stood on Horseguards Road, hands on hips, fuming.

  Placard-brandishing demonstrators filed past, roaring and shouting. The police kept them moving. Nobody was allowed to loiter near Downing Street.

  She turned a full circle, examining the trees and the high wall that enclosed Downing Street gardens. She had to admit, it was virtually a fortress. Sighing, she set off towards Horseguards Parade and the National Police Memorial. The distinctive, hulking form of a Maybach prowled the road towards her. She eyed the silver vehicle and the number plate made her freeze. SST RM 1. It glided past her and turned left onto Birdcage Walk.

  Fuck, she thought. What now?

  She called Andrew and blurted it all out.

  “How am I supposed to get this done? That fucking Barlow. No doubt he told them to humour me and send me on my way. They’re staying at the Dorchester. Schedule says they’re going to the Olympic Park tomorrow, followed by a Tower of London visit.”

  “What’s your gut telling you, Jess?”

  “Forget about Buckingham Palace. No way anything goes down there, and I can’t see them trying anything at the hotel.” She sucked air between her teeth. “If I wanted to take him out, I’d do it somewhere public and blame it on a terrorist. Olympic Park fits the bill; it’s a big place. I’ll get there early and see what I can see.”

  “Is that guy still tailing you?”

  “Haven’t seen him. Maybe they’ve called him off.”

  “Jess, I feel so bloody useless.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Something.”

  “You just get the all-clear from the doctor tomorrow. That’s what you need to do.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Alright, see you.”

  “Wait! Um, Jess, look, whatever happens tomorrow. I mean, even if they kill Guo, I just want you to stay safe. I don’t want to lose you, OK?”

  She smiled, her face a deep crimson. For a second she forgot all about Charles and Guo. “Thanks, Andrew. Don’t worry about me. I know how to look after myself.”

  Indeed she did, but Charles and Rupert had a private army.

  * * *

  Guo’s car swept through the gates of Buckingham Palace. He admired the building as the car entered the courtyard.

  “Tell me again who we are dining with?” he said to his aide.

  “His Royal Highness, Prince Freddie, second son of The Queen. He is a business ambassador for Britain. Business Secretary Grounding will be there, along with a selection of cabinet ministers.”

  “I suppose we will have to eat their awful food.” Guo sighed and ran a hand over his smooth hair. He regretted not bringing Ling with him. Ling would be more at ease with the endless protocols of British Royalty. They ground to a halt, his door was opened, and he stepped out, hoping the evening would not be too painful.

  Chapter 30

  Tuesday morning, June 19th

  There was hardly a policeman in sight when Jess pulled off Loop Road and into the shadow of the massive stadium. She abandoned her car near a western entrance and waved her ID at a flustered security guard.

  “You expecting any visitors today?” she asked him.

  He shook his head, looking stunned. “Nah, not as far as I know.”

  Jess wondered how far that was.

  She returned to her car and used the radio, her stomach doing somersaults.

  * * *

  Andrew had packed his bag. His scan was booked for nine-thirty, but he checked his watch every minute. Where was Jess? He resisted the urge to call her, and settled for the TV news channel. The airwaves were buzzing with details of the trade agreement and what it would mean for Britain in a time of recession. Optimism abounded, underscored by a vague mention of growing human rights demonstrations. At least they hadn’t got to Guo yet.

  Andrew’s disposable buzzed. He dashed out to the corridor and pressed it to his ear.

  “What’s going on, Jess?”

  “Andrew, I fucked up. Big time.”

  He started to sweat. “What? Tell me.”

  “He’s not at the Olympic Park. The schedule’s changed. I had to get on the blower and call in a few favours, but I know where Guo Qingling’s going today.”

  Andrew remained silent.

  “He’s meeting the Queen at Windsor Castle and going to Ascot Races in a royal carriage.”

  Andrew went pale, then dropped the phone.

  When he picked it up, Jess was saying, “If they make it look like a terror attack, it’ll work.”

  He returned to the ward and looked at the screen, thinking back to Piers’ e-mail. Monk lovers. “Not a terror attack, Jess. They’ll blame it on the anti-China demonstrators.”

  “Oh God. I have to admit, it’s perfect.”

  “Yeah, and who’ll profit next year when the Ascot Authority wants to hire a private security force for the week? Probably Slipstream. We’ve got to get there, Jess. Both of us. You get on the road, warn your comrades, find Charles and Rupert. I’ll call Brookson. I’ve no choice now. I’ll meet you at the races. Keep your phone with you.”

  “And how d’you think you’re going to get to Ascot?”

  “I’ve got an idea. We’ll keep in touch.”

  He went to his room, shut the door, and stared out the window. How does one reach a Prime Minister? How did Charles usually do it? He decided the mobile number was a safer bet and would not pose the challenge of getting past an operator.

  He dialled. Three times. Turned off.

  Sweating now, he took a deep breath and called Downing Street.

  “Yes, hello. Good morning,” said Andrew. “This is Charles Buckham. I need to speak to the Prime Minister.”

  “I’ll just see, sir. What is it regarding?”

  Andrew winced, he hadn’t thought of that. “Oh, um, it’s urgent. You could say it’s a matter of life and death.” He could hear fingers strumming a keyboard. He’d probably gone too far. “Please hold, sir.”

  Several minutes later, he was informed that the Prime Minister would be on the line momentarily. He thanked the operator.

  A few seconds later, a crisp voice boomed, “Charlie! I was wondering when I’d hear from you. That Tote thing went smooth as silk.”

  Andrew cleared his throat loudly. “Good morning, Prime Minister. I’m calling with regard to Charles Buckham, Rupert Calcott, and Piers Bartholomew.”

  “Who is this?”

  He considered lying, but there seemed little point. “My name is Andrew Dixon. I work for Charles.”

  “Why didn’t he call me himself?”

  “He’s, er, indisposed.”

  “Look, you’ll have to be quick. I’ve got a very full day.”

  “Sir, is there any way you can stop the sale of the Tote?”

  “What do you mean? It’s signed and sealed. Oh bugger, don’t tell me there’s a problem with the money. Is that it?” he cursed. “And Charlie doesn’t have the guts to tell me himself. Put him on the line, please.”

  Andrew rubbed his temple. He hadn’t really thought this through. How do you tell the nation’s leader something like this? He cleared his throat again. “Sir, he’s not here, and it’s not about the money. It’s far more serious than that. Deadly serious.”

  A pause. “Go on.” The tone was cautious.

  “Charles, Rupert and Piers are planning something awful, which will cause a diplomatic cata
strophe and de-rail the trade agreement.”

  The line was silent.

  “Are you still there, Mr. Brookson?”

  “I’m listening. What are they planning?”

  He took a deep breath. Time to go for it. “They’re going to assassinate Guo Qingling. Today, at Royal Ascot. They want Ling Jiao to be the next President, so he’ll change the gambling laws to let them broadcast British racing on mainland China.”

  “Now, look here, I know Charlie’s a sly old dog, but what you’re saying is positively ridiculous.”

  “It’s not. They’ve got Ling Jiao in their pockets. They’re blackmailing him, I’ve seen the evidence. It’s of a sexual nature.” He told Eddie about the footage.

  “Oh come on,” he scoffed. Then a pause. “Wait a second, you said your name was Andrew Dixon?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you Jacko Dixon’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  “Huh, well according to the papers, you’re as bad as your father. Now look here, you’re never to call this number again, do you hear?”

  “But–”

  “Good morning.” The line went dead.

  That went well. Shit. He dashed to the main ward, found a paper, and checked the runners and riders for the afternoon.

  * * *

  Eddie sat back in his chair and stared at the telephone. He wondered if Charlie was telling him everything. He switched his gaze to the painting of Margaret Thatcher above the fireplace. “What do you think, old girl?” he muttered.

  * * *

  The silver Maybach stood alone in car park one at Ascot racecourse. It was a grassy, tree-dotted scantuary, which usually turned into a large picnic party before and after racing. Spaces here were coveted, and it was not unusual for families to pass them from generation to generation. That was how Piers had got his. Rupert had paid £200,000 to persuade an impoverished dowager to part with her berth. The gang of three parked here every year and used the discreet entrance by the Royal Enclosure garden. “Let the plebs and celebs use the main gate,” Piers loved to say.

  Rupert reclined in the back seat of his car, reading the paper until the others arrived. His phone rang.

  “Eddie! Well done yesterday. Your approval ratings are up since the announcement.”

  “Thanks, Rupe. I couldn’t be happier.” A pause. “As long as nothing upsets the apple cart before Guo leaves the country.”

  Rupert narrowed his cold eyes and raised the divider between him and Goran. “What are you getting at?”

  “Is Charlie with you?”

  Rupert glanced around the car park. “Not yet. Oh, wait.” He spied Piers’ car sliding to a halt under a tree. “He’s just arrived. I’ll put him on.”

  Rupert marched to the car as Charles and Piers got out. Rupert mouthed Eddie and proffered the device.

  “Morning, Eddie. Congratulations. A great coup for British business.”

  “Hmm. Yes, quite.”

  “You sound rather serious. What’s wrong?”

  “You’ve got the money for the Tote purchase, I take it? No problem there?”

  “Not in the slightest, Eddie. Why would you even ask?” A knowing smirk cracked his face. “If it’s a present you want…”

  “No, it isn’t,” he snapped. “Charlie, remember you promised me you’d never do anything to mess up the big picture?”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “Well, I just had a surprise phone call from one of your employees – Jacko Dixon’s son, to be precise – and he was spouting wild theories about you chaps and the Chinese.”

  “Oh dear. Sorry about that, Eddie. The poor chap hasn’t been right since he crashed his car. Hit his head rather hard, you know. And then there’s the drugs. Anyway, what sort of theories?”

  Eddie told him. Charles curled his hand into a fist, but forced himself to laugh. “Eddie, you’ve made my day! I’m most terribly sorry you had to listen to that. It’ll never happen again, I assure you.”

  “To be quite honest, Charlie, blackmail sounds very you, but if your leverage gets Britain the simulcast rights, then I’m inclined to not to give a damn. However, I don’t believe you’d have the gall to start knocking off future heads of state. At least, you’d better not.”

  “Eddie, I’m offended,” he replied, smiling. “Who do you think I am?”

  “Don’t get too big for your boots, Charlie.” He hung up.

  Charles tossed the device at Rupert. “Get on to your people. I want updates on Flint and Dixon.”

  A few other cars pulled in nearby. Charles sneered and checked his watch. “Ten-thirty. Let’s go before the whole world turns up.” He tapped the driver’s window of Piers’ car. Victor and Felix got out and stood erect, hulking frames filling their black tailcoats. Goran prowled over to join them.

  Charles eyed them up and down, checking their ties and waistcoats. “Well, you look the part.” He turned to Piers. “Call Draycott, tell him we’re coming in.”

  Piers nodded. Rupert led his soldiers to the Maybach, opened the boot, and gave them a case of wine each.

  “Oh, would you?” said Piers, into his phone. “That’s awfully kind of you. I’d hate to cause a scene and embarrass the gate stewards.” He ended the call. “Good to go, men!”

  The six men made their way to the small entrance gate. A few more vehicles arrived, and wives and servants began setting up elaborate luncheons out of car boots. The clouds parted and the summer sun shone down.

  Goran sniffed the air. “Not a breath of wind,” he muttered. “Excellent.”

  At the gate, Charles and Rupert strode through, showing their Royal Enclosure badges. Piers stepped up, brandished his, and told the gateman, “These three men are with me,” cocking a thumb towards the men with the cases of wine.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Not without tickets,” said the gate steward.

  Piers gave the man his jolliest smile. “I just spoke to your boss, he’s–” He noticed Alan Draycott, Ascot’s Chief Operating Officer, scuttling towards them, doffing his top hat.

  “Ah, there you are, Alan.”

  Charles eyed Draycott as if he were an insect, and found it highly amusing how the man fawned over Piers.

  “Good morning, Sir Piers,” he gushed. “How are you?”

  Piers shook his hand. “Actually, I’m in a bit of a pickle. Got a chap joining us for lunch today who’ll only drink ’82 Chateau Cheval Blanc, and the last time I looked, it wasn’t on the lunch menu here.”

  “Oh dear,” said Draycott, looking slightly panicked.

  “Not to worry,” said Piers, waving dismissively. “I brought a few cases with me. As you can see.”

  Draycott inspected the wooden boxes held by Goran, Felix and Victor.

  “These chaps are just going to drop them up to my box, decant a few, and be on their way. I hope that’s not a problem?”

  “For a Steward of the Jockey Club, nothing is a problem,” said Draycott, wringing his hands.

  “Wonderful,” said Piers, ushering the men inside.

  “But, I’m afraid Nigel here,” he gestured to the gateman, “and the policeman will, um, have to check the boxes. Standard practice these days; we even check women’s handbags. I’m sure you understand.”

  Charles cut Piers an impatient glare.

  Piers kept smiling. “Not at all, Alan. Check away.”

  The men placed the heavy boxes carefully on the inspection table and prised off the lids. Draycott ogled the expensive bottles longingly. Rupert and Piers exchanged knowing looks. Charles nodded his approval.

  “Alan,” said Piers, selecting a bottle. “Here’s a little something for being so understanding, and one for you – Nigel, was it? And you, Officer?”

  The policeman refused. Draycott’s eyes stood out on stalks. “I’m quite overcome. I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much.”

  Nigel looked at his bottle as if he didn’t understand all the fuss.

  “No. Thank you,” said Piers. “I won
’t forget this.”

  Draycott scurried off with his treasure, and the three ex-soldiers made for the grandstand, minions in tow.

  Policemen stood around in bored groups while caterers wheeled tall trolleys of food to and fro. The whole place was calm before the storm of 70,000 racegoers surged through the gates for six days of racing, eating and drinking. There were 247 private viewing boxes in the grandstand. They would be packed all week, and 170,000 bottles of champagne, 160,000 pints of beer, and 10,000 lobsters, would help everyone have a right royal time.

  Piers looked about as he walked. He felt nostalgic for the Royal Meeting. He remembered his childhood years when the old grandstand had a kind of dilapidated charm and his father had been Her Majesty’s Representative. Nowadays, it was overcrowded and corporate. Still, he thought, can’t stop progress. Of course, in a few hours, everything would change once again.

  “Bloody hell, Piers,” said Rupert. “I thought Draycott was going to offer you oral pleasure.”

  Piers laughed. “I daresay he would if I asked. He’s angling for Jockey Club membership.”

  “Will he get it?” asked Rupert.

  Piers shrugged. “Oh, you know how it is. These things can go either way!”

  They all laughed.

  Piers had a private box on level two of the grandstand. They entered, placed the wine crates behind the bar, and dismissed the waiting staff with a wad of notes. Goran told Felix and Victor to stand guard outside as he set to work removing the bottles.

  Charles and Piers leaned on the balcony. “What time will the demonstrators crank it up at the main entrance?” said Charles.

  “Should be starting already.”

  Charles grinned. “That’ll keep the police stressed.” He turned on the wall-mounted TV and channel-hopped until he saw the headline: Chinese VP to Ascot. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

  Rupert stood over Goran and watched him empty the cases and open their false bottoms. Goran threw a towel on the floor and pulled on thin silk gloves. He assembled the AS-Val, strapped the knife to his leg, and placed a small pistol and roll of tape in his pocket. Lastly, he secured the rifle under his arm and buttoned his coat.