The Mandarin Stakes Read online

  THE MANDARIN STAKES

  SAM O'BRIEN

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organisations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published 2020

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  E-mail: [email protected]

  www.poolbeg.com

  © Sam O'Brien 2020

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd. 2020, copyright for editing, typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-78199-397-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  DEDICATION

  For J. D. and G. C.

  Guanxi: the word that describes the basic dynamic in personalised networks of influence in China, a central idea in Chinese society.

  Prologue

  Istanbul. October 2009. 9pm

  The restaurant bustled around him as Okan Yildiz forgot his troubles and smiled warmly at his daughter, who was cutting up kofte meatballs for her five-year-old son.

  She glanced at him. Returned the grin. “That’s better, Father. I haven’t seen you look happy in months.”

  Okan’s eyes flickered. “Jockey Club politics, my dear Sinem. It has got under my skin.”

  “Then step down, Father. Please don’t get so stressed. It’s bad for your health. You should be enjoying life, family, and your horses.” Sinem put down her fork and gripped his meaty hand. “It’s what Mother would’ve wanted.”

  With his other hand, Okan ruffled his grandson’s hair. Winked. Made the boy giggle.

  “I know, my dear,” he said. “But I still have so much to do for racing in this country. If only they would let me.”

  Sinem arched her brow. “Then just tell them what to do.”

  Okan raised his palms. “Please. I am not a dictator, but I wish I could make people see the big picture. They only think about short-term gain.”

  He sighed and pushed his plate of lamb away. Wiping his mouth and thin, greying moustache, he stared out the window at the Marmara Sea with the faint lights of Prince’s Island in the distance.

  When he was elected President of the Turkish Jockey Club, he had vowed he would do better than his predecessor and invest wisely in the future of Turkish racing. But he knew, then and now, that the jealous in-fighting of the Club might undo him.

  In the current dilemma, it was tempting to take the easy option, but he had neve done that – even as a child in the harsh winters of Eastern Anatolia. No, he would have to do the right thing. By the Club and by Turkish owners and breeders.

  A chiming in his pocket made him scowl. He pulled out the device and checked the name on the screen. Letting out a sharp breath, he silenced the call and tossed the device on the table. He stared at it. After a few minutes, he stood. His daughter looked surprised.

  “I’m sorry, my dear, but I’ll have to cut our dinner short. I cannot eat until I settle the matter at hand.” He winked at his grandson again. “Grandpa has some work to do, my boy. We have to go.”

  The boy nodded.

  “But, Father!” Sinem protested.

  He raised his palms again, a stern look bristling his moustache. “Finish your food, my dear. I’ll tell them to bring the car round.” He peeled several banknotes from the wad in his pocket, placed them on the table and made for the door, thanking the manager on his way. Outside, he gave the valet his ticket and paced beside the road, punching the numbers on his phone.

  The Friday night traffic bustled by on the coast road. An endless river of cars: honking, screeching, roaring. Okan turned his back on them and put a hand over his free ear.

  “It’s me,” he growled into the receiver. “I’m done thinking about it and there’s nothing you can do to change my mind… I’ll be telling the Board tomorrow… No, not a chance.”

  He pocketed the device and lit a cigarette. Spinning on his heel, he saw his daughter coming out of the restaurant, hand-in-hand with her son. Okan’s face softened with pride, and he relaxed slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a car approaching. He turned, expecting to see his own black Mercedes pulling up. Instead, the car mounted the footpath and slammed into him, tossing him over its roof like a rag-doll. He was dead before he hit the tarmac and two other helpless drivers rolled over him.

  Sinem’s screams cut into the night air.

  Inside the restaurant, heads turned. People rubbernecked.

  The security camera outside the popular restaurant revealed the car to be a black Renault, reported stolen hours earlier. The police found its smouldering chassis in a Western suburb the following morning.

  Two days later, the investigating officer told a distraught Sinem that it was becoming standard practice for joy-riders to destroy all DNA evidence in stolen vehicles. A simple hit-and-run accident by unknown perpetrators. Sinem refused to believe it.

  The cop rolled his eyes at her hysterics. He told her there was no evidence to suggest a conspiracy and declared the case closed, sparing himself months of tedious interviews, investigations and paperwork.

  The July Racecourse. Newmarket, Suffolk, nine months later

  Catherine Fellowes stood beside her trainer and jockey in the winners’ enclosure and patted her filly on its neck. Foamy sweat stuck to her hand. The heaving racehorse’s nostrils flared as it gulped in massive lungfuls of glorious summer air.

  Catherine beamed as the course photographer snapped the scene. After that, the groom led the winner around in small circles while the trainer debriefed the jockey. Catherine listened intently to every detail, batting away tears of joy. It was always nice to have a winner, but having bred this filly at home on her stud made the win extra special. Right now, Catherine felt as she had when her daughter had graduated from University with a First in Classics.

  “Mrs. Fellowes,” said her trainer. “I’m delighted for you. This is a promising filly with an exciting future.”

  Catherine felt a lump in her throat. “Thank you so much,” she said. She rummaged in her Hermes handbag and produced some folded bills, which she stuffed into the groom’s jacket pocket. “Well done, Roy!”

  The spotty young man grinned. “Thanks, Mrs. Fellowes,” he said, leading the horse away to the stables for a washdown.

  The last race over, spectators flocked towards the exits chattering excitedly about the wins, losses and thrills of another evening’s racing at this lovely old track.

  Catherine bid her trainer good evening and decided to let the crowds leave. Parched, she went to the owners’ bar for a cup of tea. She leaned against the bar, sipping from a cup. Her phone rang. “George, darling!” Her face lit up. “Did you watch it on TV?”

  “I certainly did,” said her husband. “I’ve put a bottle of bubbles in the fridge. She could be an Oaks filly next year.”

  “Oh, let’s not get carried away. I’m just glad she won well. It means so much more when we breed the
m, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Well, I’ll be home soon. I’m just waiting until the crowds leave.”

  “See you soon, then. Bye.”

  Catherine finished her tea as a waitress cleared tables and the barman washed glasses.

  Half an hour later, she ambled out of the members’ enclosure and down the tree-lined path to the owners’ car park. She walked parallel to Devil’s Dyke, the ancient fortification that ran the length of Newmarket’s July Racecourse. As she gazed at the huge mound and cavernous ditch, she wondered which would crumble first: the bank of Roman earth or British horseracing.

  She sighed and flicked through the race card. It had been a lovely evening’s sport. All in all, a delightful few hours distraction from the British Horseracing Authority and the endless political wrangling. She had expected trouble when she became the first Lady Chairman, but this was worse, much worse.

  Her latest proposal had been met with glazed looks or hostile comments. Particularly from those who only thought about their own interests. Still, she had support from her Board and many small breeders around the country. To hell with the others: if they would not see the big picture willingly, then she would have to give them little choice.

  Her green Bentley stood alone in the car park. She stuffed the race card in her handbag and pressed the key fob. As the car clicked, she noticed the reflection of a man standing behind her.

  She turned to face him. He was small and wiry like a jockey and held a farrier’s hammer in his hand.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, frowning.

  He held her gaze in an icy stare and kicked the tall woman in the knee, bringing her down. She let out a gasp. He swung the hammer with lightning speed. The side of her head exploded. Blood splattered onto the car. He paused, grabbed her handbag, and disappeared into the thick bushes lining the dyke.

  Central Beijing, China - September 10th, 2011

  The three dark-suited men walked along the eastern bank of Beijing’s Central Sea, one of two lakes inside the Chinese Government compound of Zhongnanhai. They had no security detail following them: there was little risk of public interference here. Since the Cultural Revolution, this vast area on the western edge of the Forbidden City had become a private sanctuary for those steering the world’s most populous – and soon to be most powerful – nation into the modern era.

  The men walked in silence, but the fuzzy din of the teeming city poured over the high walls, invading their tranquillity. The early morning sun inched into the sky and slowly pierced the heavy grey smog. A frigid breeze cut the autumn air, a harbinger of the Beijing winter.

  One of the men moved with an unsteady gait, his lacquered-bamboo walking stick clacked rhythmically on the asphalt. Neatly-trimmed, gunmetal-grey hair was oiled to his scalp.

  His two companions did not dare walk ahead of him.

  The three men stopped under the Pavilion of Water and Cloud, a small structure built on a jetty over the water.

  The senior man used his cane to ease himself down onto a cushioned bench. The others sat on either side of him.

  “Ah, that’s better,” said the senior man, pulling up the collar of his overcoat. “If the world only knew how delicate my health is, they would compare me with old Ronald Reagan.” He chuckled.

  The other two laughed politely with him.

  “Oh, they could never do that, Leader. Your body might be failing, but your mind is as focused as ever,” said the youngest man, sitting at the left hand of the President.

  The Chinese President smiled and patted him on the knee. “Comrade Ling, you will have your time, but right now I need you to be patient and help Comrade Guo guide our country into a new era,” said the President. He paused and surveyed a gaggle of geese on the lake. Then he took a breath and turned to the man on his right. “Guo, when I retire in October, I will expect you to be my successor. You understand perfectly how the country must develop, and you have the discipline to maintain harmony and prosperity.”

  “I will be honoured to take office and steer the vessel,” said Guo.

  Ling pursed his lips.

  The President nodded slowly at his successor before returning his gaze to Ling, who hastily mustered a smile.

  “You will continue dialogue with the rebellious factions within the Party,” said the President. “You will explain the forthcoming changes and instruct them to remain loyal.”

  Ling nodded, forcing his grin to widen. “But of course, Leader. I have no doubt they will be loyal.”

  The President shrugged. “Perhaps. But when men become fantastically wealthy, they have a habit of placing their trust in money and giving their loyalty to their fortunes, at the expense of all other things. You will see that they do not become so selfish, or China could easily take what she has permitted them to have.”

  The grin disappeared. “I shall be honoured to carry out your wishes.”

  “Then it is settled. I will officially declare my support for both of you at the Liang Hui meeting next March, by which time you will have prepared the Party and People’s Congress to receive the news with approval,” said the President.

  Ling and Guo nodded.

  “By March, you will both have completed your diplomatic tour of the globe. Other leaders will feel safe and reassured by you, but you will – as the Europeans say – keep your cards close to your chest.”

  The two men nodded again.

  “And always remember that China calls the shots.”

  Chapter 1

  Tattersalls sales complex, Newmarket, Suffolk - November 23rd, 2011

  The Honourable Charles Buckham abandoned his Range Rover in the valet car park, snatching the ticket without looking at the attendant. The gravel crunched under his feet in the bitterly cold, grey morning as he marched along with a disciplined gait that had stayed with him since his army days. He passed the auditorium, walked through the archway that led to the back stables, and made his way through the throngs of people looking at foals. He shook hands as he walked and dished out jovial remarks like a canvassing politician.

  Charles was tall and had deep-set, striking blue eyes and looked younger than his 47 years. He had not changed much since his time in the Life Guards and the SAS. After service in the Persian Gulf in 1991 and the Serbian conflict, Charles left the Army in 1997 to come home to Norfolk. He set up a stud farm and bloodstock agency on the family estate at Brockford Hall, in an attempt to save the place from his older brother Jamie’s follies – a mission which had changed his wavy blond locks to salt and pepper grey, and thickened his waistline slightly.

  Today’s principal mission was to unload some useless yearling fillies that belonged to a client of his – Lord Tony Fowler – and then get rid of Tony’s useless mares, too. A few years ago, with the bloodstock market at its peak, that would’ve been easy. Not these days. That was why Charles currently favoured unloading the rubbish in emerging markets. Places where owners more enthusiastic than shrewd.

  He walked down the steep hill to the footbridge and crossed the brook that traversed the stable area. Eventually he stood under a tree in the furthest corner of the complex. He checked his watch and scanned the people.

  “Well, boyo? How’s tricks?” said a voice behind him, with a heavy Irish accent.

  Charles whipped his head around. “Where the devil did you come out of?”

  Billy Malone ignored the question and lit a cigarette, inhaling as if it was the elixir of life. His slicked-back thatch of greying hair framed his red complexion. Charles despised him, but Billy had numerous contacts in Russia and the former Soviet republics. Although Charles had made money selling horses to Kazakhstan and Moscow several years ago, they were volatile places and Billy was a suitable middleman.

  Billy – sharp with money, lean and hungry-looking – was an excellent judge of a horse and a reasonably successful trainer on the plains of The Curragh in Ireland. His principal owner was Anatoly Rimovich, a former GRU agent who supposedly made
his money selling off Cold War armaments to anyone who would buy them – or so Billy would say, after a few drinks.

  Charles knew, through his friend Rupert Calcott’s contacts, that the rumours were not only true, but merely the tip of the iceberg. He half-expected the roguish Billy to disappear at any time.

  Charles flicked his eyes around as he spoke. “I’ve got four fillies to get rid of, all by Dream Peddler. They’re broken and ready. Get me fifty each for them, anything on top of that is yours.”

  Billy’s eyes twinkled. “You’re a proper man! What are they like?”

  “Backward and useless. They’ve been well done, though. Andrew and the team at Brockford have them as good as they’ll ever look. Can you shift them?”

  Billy tossed the butt away and lit another. “I can of course, but Anatoly’s getting wise to this kind of thing. Unfortunately, he’s learnt a bit about horses.”

  Charles rolled his eyes. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

  “Fockin’ tell me about it,” said Billy. “Don’t worry, though, I’ve a guy called Kharkov in Georgia. He’s six with me in Ireland and another forty out there. He’ll be the man.”

  Billy flicked open his phone. “His younger brother takes care of the horses. Spoilt and clueless,” he said, punching the numbers.

  “Well, boss? Billy here! How’s tricks Dimitri? Grand, grand. Listen, I’ve found four fillies for you. Absolute beauties. They’ll be flyers for you, and then you can breed them. There’s a lot of interest in them, but I thought of you. Just what you need, they’re by the great Dream Peddler, sure he sires champions all the time… Oh, sure they’re for nothing. Seventy-five a piece, sure you’ll win that back on them in Dubai, or wherever you want to race them. And that’s not including the money you’ll take the bookies for! I tell you what, I’ll give you an hour to think about it… No, no. They’ll be gone if you wait. Rightly so. I’ll call you back. They’re champions, Dimitri, champions.” He stuffed the device into his pocket. “Don’t worry Charlie, it’s in the bag. These guys’re like kids in sweet shops. They want to buy everything, and nothing scares them more than missing out or their friends buying the animals and beating them. Easy money!”