CHAPTER FIFTY
The preceding forty eight hours Wilson and Bartholomew had been busy arranging for certain people to attend the festivities of the first Tuesday in November at Flemington. Kalika Palmer ran from the buys office of her father's horse training operation at Winston's home property in Flax Bourton, dawn to dusk they lived the place, nowhere else existed. "Dad! Dad!" she shouted as she ran from grounds to stable, her father appeared from a stable in the complex pitch fork in hand upon hearing her.
"Here darling!" he shouted. She heard his cry and raced into the stable complex panting for breath handing her father a printout from the computer. Her father read it aloud. 'Dear Roger and Kalika, leave for Heathrow London immediately. First class tickets and agenda waiting at Qantas airways. No ifs, ands, or buts, jockey Johnny Watts on his way to look after operation,' he hesitated slightly then looked at Kalika. 'Flaxmead running in Melbourne Cup in forty eight hours time, fondest regards Wilson Hornswaddle and Bartholomew Fothrington.' Roger swallowed and tears welled in his eyes. "Blimey he did it. I've never left the country in me life love, never wanted to, I keep our passports up to date just in case. Get your things ready, as soon as Johnny gets here we're away."
Two drunken Irishmen staggered from a pub in Kildare Ireland, it was early on a Saturday morning, and they were met by some burly minder types from England. "Which one of you geezers is William McPherson," grunted one of them.
"That be me," said McPherson as the pair arm in arm fell to the ground.
"You remember a man called Winston Blake?" asked the minder.
"I do, I'll remember the man for the rest of my life."
The minder touched the other drunk with his foot. "You remember blokes called Wilson Hornswaddle and Bartholomew Fothrington?"
"I do," the pair stood and leant on each other. "I remember those fellas, they knew of a horse."
"Flaxmead," asked the minder.
The pair could just see in the poor light of the pubs doorway, the cool Irish meadow air and the name of a horse brought a smile to their faces. "You're a big nasty looking fella, cockney and all. How would you know about such a horse?"
"Never mind, one more question. Do you remember a fire in Australia?"
The Irishman looked down and hesitated looking sad swaying from side to side, he stank of fine Irish whisky. "I do, there was nothing I could do, the horse ran into the flames and perished. A sadder day I have not seen."
The minder looked at his burly accomplice. "This is the geezer, they said no one else would know that," he looked back at the Irishman. "Well take you past your home, pack and get your passport, your going to Australia."
The Irishman looked back up puzzled. "Why?"
"Mr McPherson you remember a horse you sold to a geezer called Winston Blake."
"I do, although a while back I remember well."
"I was told to let you know in four days time its running in a race called the Melbourne Cup."
McPherson held his friends shoulders and looked in his face. "Patrick, did you hear that. The little black fella that loved the kiddies, he made the Melbourne Cup man. That Blake fella was right."
"Bless my cotton socks," replied Patrick. "The son of the burnt horse in the greatest race in the land, his father didn't get a chance you know."
"Go with them Patrick, if those fellas want you there they must have a good reason."
"Why would they want me in Australia?" asked Patrick.
"Our instructions are to get you to Flemington racecourse this Tuesday morning Australian time and make sure nothing happens to you," replied the minder.
"Go on Patrick, I'll cover for you," said McPherson.
"One more thing Mr McPherson," added the minder. "No one is to know he's gone until after the race has been run."
McPherson pouted and nodded. "Ill do that for them, no questions asked. God speed Patrick, I'll be watching the race knowing you're right there man," said McPherson. Patrick staggered toward the minders, they assisted him toward their car. "He doesn't mind a warm drink on a cold night ya know!" shouted McPherson swaying backward and forwards.
The minders chuckled under their breath as they helped Patrick into the car. "We shall return," said the minder as he climbed in the car and it silently left.
"How did those fellas know where to find us," mumbled McPherson. He staggered off towards home and family singing at the top of his voice. "I've been a wild rover for many a year, and I spent all my money on whiskey and beer, and now I'm returning with gold in great store, and I never will play the wild rover no more!"
The Flaxmead story virtually untold in the UK and Ireland suddenly hit the front pages of British Newspapers. In a few hours no seats were available on Australian bound flights and media news and talkback shows had a hit on their hands. Prime time television gathered up all they could on Flaxmead showing his commanding race wins and record breaking runs. Little footage was available of the two young owners of the steed; the heart-warming story of two children following a dream hit a chord with the UK public. The main question asked was why had this story not been mentioned to any magnitude before, relegated to four line licks in the sports pages and stable rumours. Now proven to have been trained near Bristol before going to Australia, why did this record breaking steed end up on top of the pile in Australia and not run in the UK. Scottish stayer Celtic Storm was found to be a stable mate well known in the UK and as the story grew over just hours wars and financial crisis hardly branded a mention. Flaxmead began to be linked to runs at Ascots Gold Cup and Epsom's Coronation Cup in the near future but could not be verified. The questions mounted and British tabloid controllers were relegated to damage control. The enemies of Wilson Hornswaddle and Bartholomew Fothrington were unavailable for comment; they cancelled their planned attendances at the Melbourne Cup. A phone consensus conducted by commercial radio and television networks found a staggering amount of people would like to see the race live even though it would be three in the morning UK time. In Australia the Melbourne Cup was known as the race that stopped the nation, in the UK it would soon be known as the race that woke a nation.
The preceding forty eight hours had Stanton bringing people in from far and wide unbeknown to the team or anyone else. After a series of satellite communications British MI6 operative Bruce Hurst winged into Melbourne aboard an international British Airways flight. He retrieved a buried steel box from scrub land by means of following a GPS setting sent in code by Stanton. He checked the weapons from the stash and studied the latest picture of Renoir. He carefully studied Flemington race course plan memorising its layout and race day timetables. He prepared his all areas neck pass identifying him as press.
Within the same hour an Air France passenger jumbo from Paris delivered French Secret Service agent Louise Legrande to Melbourne. She retrieved her steel box, prepared herself and her weapons. She lay on the bed of her hotel room looking at the latest picture of Renoir and waited for the morning. She fiddled with the all areas pass around her neck identifying her as a press agent for a top European fashion magazine.
Stanton received verifying codes the packages had been picked up just before the float left Shangri La. Joel Renoir alias Rick O'Brien enjoying relative freedom and oblivious to international visitors, was now firmly in the sights of government agencies. The question was, would Stanton let Renoir live to tell his tales.