Читать книгу Citizen - Charlie Brooks - Страница 23

Newmarket after dark in December can feel like the coldest place on earth. And it’s not just the people. The wind that comes whipping in off the North Sea was originally refrigerated in Siberia.

Stanislav Shalakov swept into the Newmarket thoroughbred sales in a convoy of blacked-out Mercedes. A detail of bodyguards in bulky overcoats spilled out of the first of these, as the rest of them pulled up. The entrance to the sales was weakly lit, and it was surrounded by pitch darkness.

Shalakov had plenty of enemies, but he had no intention of suffering a demise similar to Alexander Litvenenko. If anyone wanted to get at him with Polonium they’d have to get past Martin Harrison and Alexei first. Harrison, with his army training, had swept the ground around the entrance. Now he stepped out of the shadows and approached the stocky, thickset bodyguard standing by the door of the third car. He gave him a nod. Alexei looked around suspiciously. He was out of his territory. Bodyguards don’t much like the unknown. After a third and final check he knocked twice on the door. A couple of seconds later he pulled it open.

Shalakov got out of the car stiffly in his long black leather coat. Years of severe Siberian winters had left their legacy with the General. If he sat in a car for too long his back seized up, which did nothing for his mood. Neither had the journey from London on the traffic-clogged M11.

‘This had better be worth my while,’ he barked at Nico, who was hovering by the door of the third car, clutching his sales catalogue and trying to smile. His credibility as a bloodstock fix-it was on thin ice tonight.

Shalakov and his entourage had barely walked through the gate when Shaunsheys, wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap, sidled up like a crab. Shalakov looked him up and down. There was nothing remotely trustworthy about the man, and Shalakov knew it.

‘Why can’t you English do something with your roads?’ Shalakov growled. ‘Do you understand how much time I have wasted? When will this horse go through the ring?’

‘Oh, not long, General,’ Shaunsheys said humbly. ‘She’s in the ring in a couple of lots time.’

‘So, we are nearly late? Show me the way.’

Shalakov may not have liked Shaunsheys and certainly didn’t trust him, but he didn’t need to. Shalakov was used to working with people he despised. And, as long as the bloodstock agent had seized this last chance and found him the best mare that money could buy, he was satisfied.

Tipper and Sam had already found their spot from which to watch Red go through the ring. Tipper pointed out Shalakov and his hangers-on to Sam as they made their late entry.

‘Here’s Sinclair’s guy, Sam. The Russian. I’d say he’ll have a serious crack at her.’

‘Well he’ll need to. O’Callaghan was talking an awful lot about her in the office this morning. He says she’s got three of the four aces in the pack—that’s the words he used. One, she’s bred from the best stock. Two, she was great stuff herself.’

‘She was a fighter in a race all right,’ agreed Tipper.

‘But the best bit, O’Callaghan says, is that, three, she’s feminine. He wouldn’t give you shite for one of those fillies that look so big and butch but breed fock all. This one’s a lady, so he says.’

‘So what’s the fourth ace then?’

‘Luck of course. And you can’t buy that, can you?’

‘What’ll she make, then?’

‘Ah, a million plus, easy. She’s worth that. You don’t get many like her coming on the market. She’s the future. If she throws a filly, you can breed from it. If it’s a colt, it’ll have a stallion’s pedigree. O’Callaghan loves this sire line, too. You can’t beat the Northern Dancer line. It’s the best that ever came out of America. Jesus, look what it did for John Magnier.’

‘It seems like a fockin’ lifetime since I was riding her,’ Tipper muttered mournfully. ‘Winning the fockin’ Irish Oaks. And will you look at me now? I’m lucky if I ride a shite winner on the sand somewhere.’

Sam laughed.

‘You should’ve shagged Mrs S., didn’t I tell you?’

‘Pipe down!’ Tipper hissed. ‘There’s people can hear you. Anyway, I hope O’Callaghan buys her. At least she’ll stay close by.’

Sam rested his elbows on the guard rail and looked around.

‘All right. So who else is going to be in for this mare? Those lads I suppose.’

He nodded towards a section of the crowd in which sat a group of a dozen or so Chinese.

Sam leaned over and saw Shalakov and his men shuffling into their seats. Shalakov, with his pockmarked, vodka-raddled complexion looked oddly out of place in the packed, Barbour-coated or tweed-jacketed audience. And, while there’s never a shortage of heavy drinkers in any racing crowd, Shalakov looked like he could out-drink the lot of them and then twist the cap on a fresh bottle just for himself.

‘Jesus, Tipper, he looks like the second cousin of Tyrannosaurus Rex,’ Sam chuckled.

‘They say he was a commando in Afghanistan, or somewhere; it was only that he’s deadly accurate with his throwing knife that kept him alive.’

Sam whistled. ‘Okay. Let’s see what he’s made of in the sales ring.’