in Annie's Bar in the Commons? We can dine at the Club if you like.'
'Rupe, that all sounds great. But I have to go right now. Meeting the parents just before the second race. This has been real fun. I'll call in the morning.'
'God, I'm just so glad you're alive. There's an Old Harrovian golf meeting at Sunningdale in three weeks. There's a lot of the chaps who will be delighted you're still with us. G'bye, Ray.'
Ravi replaced his hat, and walked up to the now empty rail around the early saddling enclosure. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed 0207-555-4337.
'Hello, Lizzie. Yes, this is John Farmer, an old friend of Mr. Studley-Bryce… We were at Harrow together… Matter of fact, I just left him in the White's tent at Ascot.'
'Yes, Mr. Farmer, how can I help?'
'Lizzie, he wrote down his home address for me to send him an invitation to a lunch in Oxford, and I must have thrown away the piece of paper with a couple of betting slips. Losers, of course! He said to send the invite to his flat, and there's so many people here, I just can't find him. Luckily, I took down his office number. You're my lifeline!'
Lizzie laughed. 'You could just send it to me. I'll see that he gets it.'
'I don't care where I send it,' chuckled Ravi. 'But he did say specifically to send it to the flat.'
'Okay. It's Flat 9B, Prior's Court, 72, Marsham Street, London SWTV 2SA.'
'Thanks very much. I'll pop it in the post.'
By now he could hear the commentary on the second race, the Norfolk Stakes, five furlongs for two-year-olds. It would take only around sixty seconds, less if one of them was really classy. And already he could see stable staff leading up the runners for the Gold Cup, the next race.
He waited discreetly at the far end of the preliminary enclosure, knowing the trainer would appear any moment, carrying the saddle, and the number cloth for Persian Lady, who was already walking briskly around the perimeter, so close he could touch her as she went by, her name carried on the stable girl's right armband.
He guessed his parents would accompany Charlie McCalmont on the long walk from the weighing room, down the lawn, through the middle of the empty parade ring, and on up the hill to the paddock. Sure enough, there they were, and his heart missed several beats as he saw his mother, and his father marching resolutely toward possible victory.
They both looked immaculate, his father in a black tailored morning coat, a navy blue shirt with a white collar, the perfectly knotted, maroon silk tie, tucked into a gray waistcoat with a gold watch chain, charcoal gray- striped pants.
His mother wore an elegant dark green suit, which showed off her slim figure. Her lustrous dark hair was almost hidden beneath a very chic, wide black hat, obviously from Paris. But she looked older, and walked in a self- conscious way, as if aware that the eyes of the crowd were upon her as the fabulously lucky owner of one of the leading runners in the Gold Cup. She was walking just behind Richard and the trainer, and she was smiling a smile of immense pleasure, imperfectly masked by modesty. Ravi guessed her heart would be pounding, but perhaps not so hard as it might be a few minutes from now, when he made his opening appearance.
Persian Lady's connections came within twenty-five yards of Ravi, heading straight to the first saddling box on the left. For a few moments, they stood watching the mare coming toward them, and then Charlie gestured to the girl to bring her in.
Persian Lady dipped her head and turned, walking into the box. She turned again easily, facing out of the door, the girl at her head, and Charlie gently placed the saddle on her back.
Ravi ducked under the rail and set off across the grass, swiftly approaching his mother, bang on her six o'clock. Silently, he stood behind her, before leaning forward and saying softly into her ear, 'Steady, Mum. Don't scream or faint. I'm right here and I'm just fine.'
Naz Kerman almost died of shock. She heard the familiar voice and spun around, her hand flying to her mouth. Helplessly, she just said, 'Oh, my God' twice, with tears cascading down her face. Then she dropped her racing form, binoculars, and handbag to the ground, and flung her arms around him, sobbing uncontrollably, careless of who saw her, disinterested in what anyone might think.
They were both off to the side of the saddling box, and could not be seen by Charlie or the groom, but Richard Kerman turned around and his heart literally stopped for a few seconds, as he saw the commanding figure of his only son, perfectly dressed, in the arms of his wife.
It took only a half minute but it seemed to the owner-breeder of Persian Lady that the whole world had gone into slow motion. He watched Naz try to pull herself together, and he saw Ray step toward him, and he felt the steel arms of the SAS Major enfold him, and was conscious of just one sentence. 'Listen, Dad. I'm fine. And you two are busy. Say nothing, but meet me in one hour under that big tree over there. I have much to tell you. And don't worry.'
With that, Raymond Kerman was gone, striding back across the grass, disappearing into the big crowd now gathering around the paddock, and making his way down to the packed parade ring, where thousands of racegoers were anticipating the arrival of the big gray Homeward Bound and the hugely popular Persian Lady.
Mr. and Mrs. Kerman were in a daze, but Naz was laughing at the world, months of grim acceptance now being replaced by a euphoria that bubbled up inside her.
'Darling, he's alive,' she whispered, unnecessarily. Richard just shook his head, and there was a wry expression on his face, as the afternoon sun warmed the old red brick of the saddling box, and Charlie McCalmont pushed a dripping cold-water sponge into the mouth of Persian Lady, washing out the saliva, preparing her for battle.
Charlie softly pulled Persian Lady's right ear and ran his hand down her white blaize, below the headband which bore a neat diamond pattern in the black and scarlet colors of her owner. Then he said, quietly, 'Okay, Julie. Let's go.' And the girl led the mare out, setting off across the grass, almost in the footprints of Major Kerman five minutes before.
Meanwhile, the Hamas General was doing his best to steer clear of any possible human contact, which was not easy in a crowd of close to 75,000. He went into the Royal Enclosure, keeping his head well down, and then made his exit through the tunnel and into the infield where he hoped he would be least likely to see anyone he once knew.
He positioned himself on the rail, and stared at the grass for a full fifteen minutes until the pounding of hooves, thumping past him, signified the horses were going to post. Thus far he had betrayed nothing, no information about his parents' runner to Rupert Studley-Bryce, no bets on Persian Lady, in case a bookmaker should recognize or even remember him. No contact. No lunch. No tea. Just a heartrending reunion with Naz and Richard.
He watched the horses go by, all fifteen of them in a big competitive field. And he waited for six more minutes until the announcement came over the public address system: Under starter's orders… and they're off.
Ravi knew the status of this race, and he understood the quality of the blue-blooded thoroughbreds who would contest it. Most national racing authorities consider a mile and a half about as far as a racehorse wants to run. There are a few high-class two-mile races, but not many, the Goodwood Cup and, in Australia, the Melbourne Cup.
The Ascot event is over two and a half miles, $200,000 to the winner. This is an arena for gladiators only, for the Titans of the track, racing into the thunder of the Ascot crowd, bringing lumps into the throats of every true horseman just because of their power, their speed, and their unending bravery.
There was a big television screen behind him, but Ravi could not take his eyes off the emptiness of the dark green carpet before him. He stared ahead, watching the runners come by for the first time, five furlongs already behind them. He spotted the scarlet cap of Persian Lady in the middle of the pack, on the fence, going easily. And then they were gone, away from the stands, thundering out into the country, swinging right, up the slight rise in the ground and then on down toward Swinley Bottom.
Five furlongs out Ravi could hear the announcer calling the race: … and Persian Lady strikes the front… opening up a six-length lead as they race down to the turn.
Twenty-four seconds later, Ravi heard the traditional Ascot bell toll, as the leaders entered the home straight with two and a half furlongs to run. By now most of the field was half-dead with exhaustion, and Persian Lady had the leaders off the bridle. Right behind her, three lengths adrift, came Homeward Bound, answering the desperate
