The Mandarin Stakes

by Sam O'Brien

  Rupert pinned a press badge to his lapel and gave him two more for the others. “Right, you know what to do,” he said, looking the Serb in the eye. “Keep in radio contact. Wait for my order. Three shots, quick and clean. Leave the gun, flush the gloves in a loo, and get yourself back to the car.”

  Goran nodded and turned to the door.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” said Rupert.

  Goran stopped.

  “If you pull this off, you’ll vanish like the man on the grassy knoll. But if you fuck it up, or God forbid, shoot a Royal,” Rupert jabbed a finger at his soldier, “I’ll turn you into Lee Harvey fucking Oswald. Understand?”

  Goran nodded again and disappeared.

  “You sure about leaving the weapon on show?” asked Piers.

  “The beauty of using such an old piece, is its ubiquity on the black market. Easy for an extremist lunatic to get hold of,” said Rupert, winking.

  Piers chuckled loudly.

  * * *

  Andrew left his new phone in his bedside locker and jumped in the taxi. His final scan would have to wait.

  On the way to Brockford, he called Susan on the disposable. He thanked her for her concern and said he would be back to work next week. “Oh, and Susan? Did my Ascot tickets arrive?”

  “All your post is piled on your desk.”

  “Good. I’ll be with you in forty-five minutes.”

  “Good Lord!”

  The nurse informed Dr. Wilson that his patient was missing. “He took his things, but forgot his phone,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”

  Wilson tut-tutted, shaking his head. “Idiot. He needs that scan to get the all-clear. Call Thetford police station, ask for Sergeant Hardy, and let him know. That’s all we can do.”

  Traffic was already at a crawl eleven miles from Ascot, on the leafy suburban road. Jess swore and slammed her palm off the steering wheel. She called Andrew; line busy. What was he doing? She inched her car forward and checked her watch: ten past twelve. The royal procession would enter the racecourse at precisely two.

  She checked her mirrors: no sign of a man on a Ducati. For now.

  She advanced another six feet. Cars ahead started beeping. Frustrated, she ran her eyes over a sprawling house set in a canopy of mature oaks. There was a mountain bike leaning against a tree. She pulled onto the footpath, locked the car, and made for the bike. She rolled up her trouser suit and swung her leg over. A pang of guilt attacked her. She pulled a crumpled fifty out of her wallet and left it under a stone. As she cycled up the road, she chucked her phone in the back of a pick-up coming against her. That should confuse the fuckers. She gritted her teeth, clicked the gears, and flashed past the carloads of expensively dressed racegoers.

  * * *

  Rupert’s phone buzzed. He listened intently and hung up. When he joined Charles and Piers on the balcony, his face was dark with malice.

  “They’ve ditched their phones, but it’s safe to assume Flint’s on her way here. Andrew left his at the hospital.”

  “What do you mean, left his at the hospital?” said Charles.

  “He’s done a runner. I knew we should’ve done her in,” snapped Rupert.

  Charles thought for a moment. “Right, send their photos to your men and tell Felix to grab her when she arrives. Where the fuck is Dixon?”

  * * *

  The helicopter touched down on the front lawn at Brockford. Andrew rushed through the rotorwash and climbed aboard.

  Thierry greeted him with a firm handshake. As the chopper took off, Andrew thought he saw a police car pull up outside the mansion.

  “My friend!” said Thierry. “So how are you?” He inspected Andrew. “You’re looking a bit pale. You’ll have to come to Deauville for some sun. Oh, forgive me. Do you know each other?” Thierry gestured to the couple sitting opposite.

  Andrew smiled and shook hands. “Hi Paulie, you’re odds-on for the Queen Anne Stakes today.”

  “Yeah, mate, should be a steerin’ job,” said Paulie, with a mischievious grin.

  “Honor, good to see you again.”

  Lady Honor Fowler cracked a stiff smile.

  Champion jockey Paulie Rockford was about to ride at his first Ascot as retained jockey to Sheik Marwan Al Wahal. Paulie was the poster boy for British racing, his bubbly personality and penchant for dating fashion models had earned him the nickname Paulie Rock’n’Roll. Arriving by chopper was standard fare for Paulie and only added to his image. Honor Fowler was his latest conquest, much to her father’s disgust.

  “What’s goin’ on, Andrew?” asked Paulie.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “You’ve had a rough go of it lately.”

  “Tell me about it.” Andrew looked directly at Thierry. “You don’t believe what the papers say, do you?”

  Thierry looked offended. “Of course not, Andrew. We are friends. I know you too well to believe gossip,” he shrugged. “Even if I did, who cares what a man smokes or puts up his nose in his own time? This business is tough on all of us. A man has to have his release.”

  Andrew was astonished.

  Paulie burst out laughing. Thierry cut him a sideways glance. “As long as he doesn’t fail a test, eh Paulie?” The jockey went quiet. Paulie’s rock and roll lifestyle had once earned him a lengthy ban and almost ruined his career.

  Andrew put on his tie and waistcoat as they thumped through the clear sky. “What time’ll we arrive?” he asked.

  “One fifty-five touchdown, mate,” said Paulie.

  Andrew winced. It was going to be tight. His head was throbbing again. He called Jess on the disposable.

  Felix loitered by the entrance. He could hear the demonstrators outside, chanting Free Tibet, and the cries of police moving them away from the busy turnstiles. People were arriving in droves. Streams of brightly-coloured ladies broke up the monotony of black morning suits and top hats. He hoped an on-duty detective would stick out in this crowd. And she did. He saw her show her ID to the gate steward and march in. She looked a sweaty mess, like a waitress late for work. The copper at the gates nodded and shrugged when she spoke to him.

  She made for the grandstand, dodging through the smiling, chattering crowd.

  Felix fell in behind her.

  Her disposable rang.

  To Andrew’s relief, Jess answered immediately.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Bloody hell, Andrew, talk about a needle in a haystack.”

  “You need to check the private boxes,” he bellowed above the noise of the chopper. “Try level two, that’s where Piers has his. It’s very close to the Royal Box. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Yeah, I’m in the elevator now.” A crackle and a muffled shriek.

  “Jess?”

  “You stay the fuck away from Ascot if you want to see her again,” said a whispered voice.

  The colour drained from Andrew. He stared at his phone, feeling utterly helpless.

  “What are you looking for?” said Thierry.

  “Me? Oh, er, nothing. It’s just, you heard the Chinese VP’s in the Royal procession?”

  “It was on the morning news. Why?”

  “I have to meet him, that’s all.”

  Thierry arched his brow quizzically. “Brockford expanding into China?”

  Andrew exhaled. “Something like that.”

  He prayed Jess wasn’t collateral damage.

  Chapter 31

  1.50pm

  Up on level seven, Felix and Goran stared at Jess. She was awake, sitting on the floor. Her mouth, wrists and ankles were taped. Her eyes burned with anger. She flexed, squirmed and growled.

  “She’s fucking strong,” said Felix. “You sure that tape’ll hold her?”

  Without a word, Goran grabbed the tazer and zapped her again, long and hard. She shuddered and went limp.

  “Go back to ground level and watch out for Dixon. Tell Victor to stay on the door,” said Goran.

  “What about her?”r />
  “I’ll ask the boss. Now go.”

  Rupert spoke into his earpiece. “Oh that’s a bonus, Goran. Tell you what, let’s make her the patsy.”

  Charles nodded approvingly, a smile cracking his face. Piers shook his head.

  “Erratic, emotional copper with political issues murders Chinese VP. That sort of thing… Goran, when you’re done, break her neck, put her prints on the weapon and throw her down the stairwell. Right, five minutes till go. Wait for the order. Over.” He turned to Charles. “You were right not to do her in last week. She’s found her niche.”

  Piers looked doubtful. “It’ll drive Dixon over the edge.”

  Rupert cut him a frosty stare. “Fuck Dixon.”

  “Yes, you leave him to me, Piers.” Charles got up, grabbed his binoculars, and went to the balcony with Rupert. Piers glanced at the door, suddenly feeling uneasy.

  “Oh look,” said Charles. “There’s Marwan’s chopper. Christ, it’s an eyesore.”

  Rupert whipped his binoculars around to the infield. The black and gold machine touched down like a wasp beside the other helicopters.

  “Thierry’s on the pig’s back with those Qataris…” Rupert froze. “Jesus fucking Christ.” He touched his earpiece.

  * * *

  Paulie scurried across the heath with Andrew in tow. Red-faced, t-shirted picnickers screamed and yelped at them. Go on, Paulie. Nice one, mate. Rock’n’roll, Paulie. Any winners, Paulie?

  Behind them, Thierry escorted Honor at a more sedate pace.

  Andrew and Paulie arrived at the track crossing. The bowler-hatted steward, sweating in his green velvet coat, waved them across with a grin. Paulie darted into the grandstand, straight to the weighroom. Andrew put on his top hat and ran his eyes along the vast structure. Balconies, seats, and viewing areas were filling up in eager anticipation of the Royal procession. Excited conversation filled the air. People waved miniature flags and snapped photos. The atmosphere crackled; the week was about to officially commence. Andrew showed his badge and was admitted to the lawn. He dodged through the throng, darting his eyes along the rows of private boxes. Six floors. On the second floor, his gaze came to rest on familiar figures.

  Goran pulled on his gloves, slid the window open, and peered down. The excited hum of the crowd hit him; he wouldn’t be seen or heard. He looked down on them with contempt. He was about to give them an unforgettable afternoon. He set up a metre from the window. Weapon in hand, he leaned on the table and trained his sights on the final furlong marker. He relaxed and slowed his breathing to a zen-like tranquility. Ready. He threw a sideways glance at the bitch in the corner. She was still slumped, unconscious.

  There was a crackle in his ear. “Felix, where the fuck are you?” bellowed Rupert. “He’s on the lawn, staring at us!”

  Goran ignored the shouts. When the line went silent, he whispered, “In position, ready. Awaiting order.”

  “Stand by,” replied Rupert.

  Rupert focused on the elaborate wrought-iron gates at the end of the straight mile. Two stewards in green livery heaved them open. In a few minutes, the carriages would appear and trundle serenely up the straight.

  Andrew made eye contact with Charles. Charles dragged a finger across his throat. Andrew darted across the lawn, but a meaty hand snaked out and grabbed him.

  The barrel-chested man held his arm like a vice. Andrew saw the tazer and panicked. “Help! Help!” he roared. “I’m being mugged!”

  A young couple turned to face him. The large man looked murderous, but he let go, stuffing the tazer in his coat.

  “He’s a lunatic!” said Andrew, as other people stared at them.

  “What’s going on?” said someone.

  Andrew noticed the large man wore a press badge: he had seventh floor access. Andrew ducked into the sea of top hats. The large man dashed after him.

  A cheer went up as the four carriages passed majestically through the gates. Each open landau was pulled by four horses and carried four passengers. A pair of ornately-dressed footmen sat behind the occupants. The whole procession was flanked by two scarlet-clad outriders on white steeds.

  Piers found the spectacle breathtaking, as did everyone present, and indeed, most of the nation. Millions were watching on TV. Piers felt a pang of shame. They were about to taint this world-famous, noble summer gathering with blood and fear. Suddenly, he wondered if they had gone too far. He screwed up his face. Nothing could stop it now.

  Rupert spoke into his earpiece. “Goran. He’s in the second carriage. This side, facing away from you, opposite Prince Freddie and his wife… They’ll be in range at the one furlong marker.”

  “I’m surprised he’s not in the Queen’s carriage. That’s a bit of a snub,” said Piers.

  “I’m rather glad,” said Charles, glued to his binoculars. “We won’t get blood on the old dear’s dress.”

  Piers cringed at the thought.

  Andrew’s hat toppled off as he sprinted through the teeming concourse, barely making it to an elevator as the doors slid closed. Inside, sweaty, breathless and hatless, he was met with disapproving looks. His head pounded. Everyone poured out on the fourth floor, leaving him alone up to the sixth. Then he jumped out and sprinted up the stairs to the seventh.

  The seventh floor corridor stretched out in either direction; he checked left, then right. There were officials and journalists milling about and doors slamming as everyone took their places to watch the Queen’s party arrive. To the right, at the far end, Andrew saw another brute of a man, standing by a door like a sentinel. Andrew walked towards him, breaking into a run as the man braced himself for a fight. The man raised his fists, a tazer clamped in one. Andrew sprinted.

  More loud cheers echoed as the procession passed the two furlong pole. On the Royal Enclosure lawn, the band prepared to strike up “God Save The Queen”.

  Focused, Goran let out a steady breath and moistened his lips. He had Guo’s head in the crosshairs, soon it would be splattered on Prince Freddie’s lap. A hundred metres to go. “Ready to fire,” he whispered.

  “On my mark,” came the reply.

  He eased his finger over the trigger.

  Beside him, the bitch groaned.

  At the last moment, Andrew dropped to his knees and felt the air move as a thick fist skimmed his hair. Andrew drove a fist into the man’s groin. The big guy doubled over, cupping himself. Andrew hopped to his feet, wrenched the tazer free and jammed it into the man’s neck. He keeled over. Andrew kept it in place until a dark patch appeared between the fallen soldier’s legs. Checking the tazer, he braced himself and made for the door.

  Guo’s carriage passed the final furlong pole. The band launched into the national anthem. Goran was in another world, where only him and his target existed.

  He heard “Fire at will” in his ear. There was a noise behind him. He would kill the bitch after the Chinaman.

  Andrew burst through the door, saw Jess wriggling on the floor, and a man leaning over a table. He darted, thrusting the tazer.

  Goran let air leak out of his lungs and gently squeezed the trigger. A sharp pain cut through his side. The shot went high.There was a puff of grass as the bullet bit into the turf. Goran’s muscles spasmed, his teeth clenched. Then it was over. He stood and whipped around.

  To Andrew’s horror, the tazer died. The man swung the gun at him. It was Rupert’s driver, the guy from the restaurant. Andrew heard Jess’ muffled screams, and primal instinct flooded over him. This man was not going to kill them. He grabbed the gun, forcing the barrel upwards. Another shot cut into the ceiling. Andrew swiped at the man’s face, missed, and received the rifle butt in his stomach.

  * * *

  On level two, the three ex-soldiers watched with horror as the carriages disappeared under the grandstand.

  “Bollocks,” said Rupert. “Come on, Charlie, I knew we’d need more than three men.”

  Charles pursed his lips. “When you want a job done properly,” he muttered.


  “Victor, Felix. State your positions,” said Rupert.

  No answer.

  “Repeat. State your positions.”

  “Felix here. Number four stairwell. Over.”

  “Where’s Victor?”

  “Level seven.”

  “Right, you go ready my car. We’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

  “Copy that.”

  Rupert opened the cases and produced the two spare pistols, handing one to Charles. “We’re a weapon short,” he said to Piers.

  “Don’t worry about me, chaps. You go on. I’ll tidy up here, “ he replied.

  Charles and Rupert made for number two stairwell and bounded up to the seventh floor.

  Piers put the wine cases back together, replaced the bottles, and casually walked away from his box. He took the lift to ground level and hustled his bulk to car park one. He would have to drive himself home.

  * * *

  “Fuck you!” roared Andrew in a deep, primitive voice. He drove a knee into the man’s groin and followed with a throat jab. The man fell backwards onto Jess, a pistol spun across the floor. Ankles taped, Jess looped her legs around his neck, clamping her thighs against his head. He dropped the rifle, pulled a knife, and drove it into her leg. She growled, her eyes bulging. Andrew dived for the pistol, jammed it into the man’s torso and fired twice.