Kitabı oku: «Match Pointe»

Prologue
Caesar

Antony ‘Caesar’ King was one of the wealthiest men in the United Kingdom. Casino and hotel management were his business staples, but he was equally notorious for his ruthless dealings in property investments and high-end gambling. The crowning glory of his business empire – on which he spent a disproportionate amount of his limited time – was the firm he had built from scratch: The Edge. It was the world’s leading sports agency, responsible for managing the global careers of the most influential and brand-conscious athletes. Caesar had a natural instinct for identifying emerging talent, and the financial resources to back those he happened to tap on the shoulder.

Athletes knew that if The Edge represented them, they were on the path to greatness. To say ‘No’ to Caesar was akin to kissing your sports career goodbye and fading into oblivion. Not only was the business highly lucrative, but it also ensured Caesar was the pre-eminent ‘mover and shaker’ in the industry. At elite sports venues the world over he was immediately recognisable for his flamboyant dress sense, and he had the personality to match. Whether people loved him or hated him, such was his magnetism that they were drawn to him like moths to a flame. Power and superiority emanated from every gesture he made and the tone of every word he spoke. And rest assured that he relished the authority he wielded and the attention he attracted. Indeed, he depended on it for his continued success.

* * *

His father, Antonio ‘Tony’ King, was a self-made man. From humble beginnings in Italy, Tony had emigrated to America after the war. He had hocked his few valuables for several hands of blackjack, and won enough to kick-start his life in the new world. He was a conscientious gambler, willing to bet on high-risk ventures. And against all odds, he won significantly more than he ever lost.

Antony junior’s middle name was a direct tribute to an exceptionally lucky night at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. During a few raucous rounds of poker, Tony was challenged to risk all of his winnings on the roulette table.

With all the careless arrogance of a man who had nothing to lose, he barely glanced at the spinning wheel, where the numbers and colours swirled towards the potential gain or loss of such a huge sum. Instead, the beauty of a tall young blonde a few feet away captured his eye. With a sly wink he beckoned her close, whispering in her ear that she was his good luck charm. It was only when she returned his smile that he let his eyes focus on the tiny silver ball slowing towards black thirteen as if it were magnetically attracted to the number.

The ball fell into place, and the crowd who had gathered around the table erupted into applause as Tony walked away $1 million richer. He graciously accepted the envious congratulations of those around him, and the gratis upgrade to the Emperor’s Suite proffered by hotel management. Needless to say, he wasted no time in bedding the stunning babe, who had more than happily accompanied him and his newly acquired funds to the suite.

At first Tony was shocked by the news of her pregnancy, but given that the conception had occurred on the luckiest night of his life, it seemed fate was sending him a definite sign. The woman had no interest in becoming a mother at the peak of her youth and beauty, so he made her an offer any young student with a substantial college debt would find difficult to refuse. A healthy, strong baby boy was delivered into the world, and once the obligatory paternity tests were completed, the biological mother willingly accepted the bonus money they had agreed on, granting Tony full custody of his only son and disappearing from their lives forever.

Caesar had wanted for nothing during his youth as he was groomed to be the heir of his father’s financial throne. He became the only true love of his father’s life. Tony was determined that Caesar would have all the refinements he’d lacked in his humble upbringing in Italy. So it was inevitable that Tony would choose the prestigious six-centuries-old Eton College to educate his only son. Fortunately the college had no problem accepting Tony’s ostentatious new money.

Caesar excelled academically, more so in mathematics than in any other subject. Although he won several mathematics awards across Europe and was the youngest player ever to represent Britain in bridge, Caesar didn’t necessarily understand what all the fuss was about. It all came so easily to him that it was as natural as breathing.

It was only after he discovered the game of tennis in his first year of secondary school that his true passion was ignited. In his mind, tennis was the ultimate sport, dwarfing all others. The idea that a grand slam was all down to two players after a fortnight of competition intrigued him. Only one player could outplay, outsmart, outwit and out-hit the other. There were no teammates to confer with, rely on or blame; two solo players were left to fight it out on court, bound only by the rules of the game.

To win you had to have everything – the physical and mental stamina, skill, consistency, tenacity and most importantly the absolute belief in yourself, that you deserved to win and had the capacity to do so. At the end of the day only one person would take all the glory.

Tennis appealed to Caesar in a way that other sports didn’t. It got under his skin. He felt more alive watching Wimbledon than at any other time during his schooling. It was as though he belonged there in some way.

From that point on Caesar channelled much of his energy into the game of tennis, and even managed to crack into the top one hundred on the junior tennis circuit when he was fifteen years old – albeit briefly. Unfortunately, a bad skiing accident left his knee structurally damaged and unable to live up to the relentless demands of the game. Though he was bitterly disappointed, the accident neither deterred nor diluted his interest in the game. He hadn’t missed a tournament at Wimbledon since his first year at Eton, and he didn’t plan on missing any in the future.

In fact, the accident spurred him on to become involved in the sport in other ways, and sparked his interest in the players moving up through the rank and file. He knew many of the players personally, and he began to learn what motivated them, when they had their off days and on days, and where they derived their desire to win.

Suddenly he was intrigued by the game for completely different reasons, as his mathematical brain took over and he developed a program called ‘Junior Jousts’ for betting on each of the players. His father fully supported and funded his first foray into sports gambling. It was so successful his father applied a similar mathematical model to identify arbitrage opportunities for professional sports and the money came rolling in. Why? some asked. His father responded simply. ‘Because it is Caesar’s destiny. He was born under a star where winning is the only way.’ Caesar revered Tony, and the most important thing in his life was to continue to make his father proud.

* * *

Caesar was now in his forties, and still attended every grand slam, never short of a jaunty handkerchief and cravat to complement his impeccable hand-tailored suits and glistening polished shoes. He made a point of establishing a connection with each of the top ten players in the world at any given time, engineering reasons to meet up with them more regularly. That way he came to know them very personally – just as some horse-racing punters build steam rooms in their homes to become better acquainted with jockeys. This close association was the reason why he was able to sign most of the top players up with his elite agency.

Even though The Edge employed dedicated staff to look after his clients’ every whim and sponsorship deals, Caesar liked to provide a more personalised service. It was important to him that the players had direct access to him – not a relationship per se but certainly an identifiable association. So he offered them excellent rates to stay in his luxurious hotels and to be seen in his glamorous entertainment and gambling establishments, usually in his company.

His motive was undeniably twofold. Not only did he derive great personal pleasure from being directly connected with the greats of tennis stardom, but at the end of the day, it also made good business sense and gave him ultimate control over the players he endorsed.

Yet most of all, he was passionate about testing his automated betting models against his personal insights into each player’s capabilities and state of mind. And that was why he so enjoyed the obscenely sized individual bets he made with his billionaire friends in their secretive ‘Club Zero’ aptly named for the number of zeroes that accompanied each transaction – often on par with the size of the egos placing them! Caesar’s gambling was as highly informed as it could be, since on some occasions the bets placed entire companies at stake. Companies Caesar strategically pursued for his ever-expanding empire.

The only other part of his life that kept him engaged – in a non-business sense – was his philanthropic interest in the Royal Ballet. Some called it his hobby. The beauty and graceful movement of the dancers provided him with a sense of serenity he didn’t experience elsewhere. Perhaps it was a way to make up for the lack of feminine energy in his father’s male-dominated world? No one was sure … nevertheless, his substantial contributions to the Ballet’s Benevolent Fund had secured his prestigious invitation to become a member of the Board of Trustees. Accepting this role meant he had access to the ears of London’s high society, not to mention association with the aristocracy – lords, baronesses and even HRH the Prince of Wales and Her Majesty the Queen (who disappointingly had no interest in tennis whatsoever, but fortunately was an avid patron of the arts).

To know Caesar, you had to know three things. First, his father was the ultimate role model in his life. Second, tennis was his absolute passion. And third, his love of ballet was his greatest pastime. Other than the finer things in life his bank balance could afford, he treated everything else with absolute disdain.

Eloise

To those in the know, Eloise Lawrance was the latest up-and-coming star on Britain’s ballet scene, and had just been chosen to dance the lead in Swan Lake. Her movements were technically perfect, her timing precise, and due to her young age perhaps she could be forgiven for lacking a little passion or soul in her otherwise flawless performances.

Eloise was uniquely beautiful, though she only ever saw the imperfections in herself. Men and women alike were attracted to her fragile radiance, but she never noticed their attentions. She wished her fingers were a little longer and her feet were more delicate, but most of all she longed for her hair to be manageable and straight – which was why she seldom wore it out. Her soft translucent skin only caused her frustration, as she could never go out in the sun without it freckling, and she believed her aquamarine eyes were too big for her heart-shaped face, instead of seeing them as her most distinctive feature. At least her body proved to have excellent proportions for a ballerina, though she would have preferred a tad more height.

Yet Eloise had long ago relinquished all rights to her own body. Her diet was strictly controlled so she maintained the delicate balance between her fear of putting on even one additional pound of weight, and ensuring she had the stamina to endure the demanding twelve-hour days. Adept at being weighed, pinched, probed and analysed on a regular basis, she was more than skilled at detaching herself from her physical form. Every measurement had to be recorded in detail; even ‘point to point’ (the distance between her nipples) was noted for each new ballet performance. She liked the way others took control so she could focus solely on her craft, her one creative outlet. In her mind, her body was only a means to an end; merely an instrument to enable her to dance.

She was a quiet, reserved person, not exactly shy but certainly not outgoing. Although she was friendly enough when spoken to, she preferred to keep to herself and didn’t have many friends. Being in the ballet meant that her opportunity to form any real friendships was limited, for in her mind the other ballerinas were all potential threats who could unravel her dream – something she was fiercely determined to protect. She had been ensconced within the realm of ballet for more than a decade and it had protected her from the harsh realities of the outside world. She had experienced this world in her youth, and had no desire to revisit such a heartless place again.

So she never raised her voice or caused any trouble, instead choosing to focus on listening intently to what was required of her. She appreciated the calm passivity of conforming with her ballet masters’ strict requirements – with the aim of always exceeding their demanding standards. And from her perspective, this compliance had finally paid off.

Earlier this year, Eloise had been proudly announced as Principal of the Royal Ballet. Everything she had worked for with utmost focus and physical dedication had finally been acclaimed by her esteemed ballet mistresses and masters, and endorsed by the Board. Striving for such recognition had given her the drive to ensure she was as close to perfect as she could be since arriving as a student at the Royal Ballet School aged twelve. Throughout her teenage years, she had never socialised if it interfered with her studies, rarely succumbing to potential suitors, who would no doubt distract her from achieving her dream.

Now she – and everyone else – knew that her dedication to the art of ballet had been worth it. For she was the best; she was Number One. All of the other girls would aspire to be like her, to act like her, dance like her, be her. It provided her with an identity she had never had before. And she loved it!

But even though she had reached the pinnacle of all she’d ever wanted to achieve, before each performance, the fear of losing everything crept insidiously into her thoughts. Fortunately, she had become adept at forcing her mind outwards – to focus on the rapt applause she would hear from all over the darkened theatre at the end of each act, and the beautiful flowers she would receive at the end of the performance, rather than on the lonely holes in her emotional life. After all, to show fear was to admit weakness, which she saw as a dreadful imperfection. Imperfect was something a prima ballerina would never be.

Staring into the mirror on the opening night of Swan Lake, she saw a vision of what she was about to become onstage. She had discarded the loose grey sweats that usually covered every inch of her feminine body, and her wild auburn mane was now tightly restrained and unrecognisable beneath an elaborate headpiece. She liked the fact that her pert lips were artificially red and her aquamarine eyes were buried beneath a swathe of dramatic black make-up. The headpiece accentuated her neck – long and supple, as a swan’s should be – and her striking costume and feathers miraculously gave her the birdlike qualities that would see her fly onstage. And though she was petite, at five foot four, she knew she would become larger than life in order to do whatever the ballet required of her.

She had come from nothing to being the most revered person in every performance. She lived for this feeling and for this feeling alone. When she danced beneath the heady lights, she was as close to home as she had ever been. It was the only sense of belonging she had ever experienced, and she would cling to it for dear life. For to fail now, when she had reached the peak of her career at twenty-two, would destroy her. To fail was intolerable. She had dedicated her life to perfection and there would be no turning back.

So, drawing her dramatic eyes away from the vision in the mirror as the announcement was made for her to make her way to the stage, she completed the ritual she performed before every performance. She sat down, placed both her hands on top of a small, worn music box and closed her eyes. After a moment of quiet meditation, she opened the box and watched as the tiny ballerina swirled around and around, to the tune of ‘Music Box Dancer’.

Eloise imagined herself as the ballerina, who only ever truly came to life when the box was open and provided her with an opportunity to dance. Absorbed by the music and the tiny dancer’s pirouettes, Eloise transformed into the tragic heroine Odette, losing all sense of self in the process.

She turned and made her way to the stage, to give the performance of a lifetime to her many admirers – knowing the music box would only be closed after the final curtain was drawn, and be safely packed away until next time.

Ballet

Caesar’s relationship with Ivan Borisov dated back to the days when Ivan was a junior tennis champion. Now Ivan was Number One in the rankings of the Association of Tennis Professionals (ATP), and had been for the past two and a half years. Ivan was a client of The Edge, but his passion for ballet – as insatiable as Caesar’s own – ensured their friendship went much deeper than the connection Caesar shared with the other top players.

Ballet was in Ivan’s blood, which was why Caesar found their discussions on the topic so engaging. Ivan’s mother had been a prima ballerina in her youth, and still taught ballet in St Petersburg. Ivan had grown up around dance and could easily have made it his career, had his tennis not been identified as such a strength; comparatively, ballet was a new discovery for Caesar.

The two men met up at performances of the Royal Ballet as often as their schedules allowed. It was on one such evening, after the final curtain call of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden, that Ivan turned to Caesar and commented: ‘I’ve seen this ballet on many occasions around the world, and never have I been so captivated by the ballerina dancing the lead roles of Odette and Odile. Yet she seems so young.’

Caesar nodded. ‘Indeed. Swan Lake is her first performance as Principal of the Royal Ballet. Her name is Eloise Lawrance. She’s one of our own, actually; studied at the Royal Ballet School.’

Ivan’s eyes shone with enthusiasm. ‘She is just beautiful; she illuminates the entire stage. The precision of her movements is a joy to watch, simply bewitching.’

‘It appears you are attracted in ballet to what you illustrate on the court, Ivan.’ Caesar’s features creased into a smile, which Ivan returned.

‘You’re being way too kind, Caesar. My mother, perhaps, but I’m afraid I have no such elegance.’

‘Until recently, no one could even get close to winning against you,’ Caesar observed, moving the conversation on to his other favourite subject.

‘I know, Caesar, you’re right.’ Ivan sighed. ‘It all depends on motivation, and I seem to have lost mine recently – which is why I didn’t compete in the Australian Open this year.’

‘You know better than I that it was a huge risk to take with your ranking; luckily your sponsors didn’t ask too many questions. The other top seeded players are all hungry to close in on you like a pack of wolves. Any thoughts on what you’re going to do to stay on top?’

‘In all honesty I’m not sure. All I know is these days, if I have to choose between training and ballet … well, as you can see, I’m here, aren’t I? Which is not such a good thing for the world Number One, is it?’

He shook his head as if to answer his own words.

‘Please understand,’ he went on, ‘I still enjoy it, but the monotony of training is getting to me. I go through the motions but my mind is in another world – like a swimmer focusing on the relentless black line at the bottom of the pool, no longer able to see the big picture. And all my commitments off the court … You know I dislike having to appear smiling in front of cameras for sponsors – making sure my watch is positioned just so – I’m just bored with all of it. I feel like I’ve already achieved what I set out to do.’

‘If you like, I can organise to reduce your commitments and free up more of your time – if that’s what it’ll take to get you back on form. Just a couple of calls, no problem.’

‘Believe me, I know if anyone can, you can, Caesar. But it’s not just that …’ Ivan reflected a moment longer then gestured towards the stage. ‘My heart is in this world, in dance and music and beauty, just what I have witnessed tonight. Now that I have seen Eloise – that was her name, yes?’

Caesar nodded.

‘Well, now that I’ve seen her onstage, it makes me want to attend every one of her performances. I know I shouldn’t feel this way – I should be focusing on my training – but there’s something about that exactness, that discipline she has over her mind and body …’ His thoughts meandered before he added, ‘If I could only capture a performance like that before I play – you know, bottle it up somehow – I have no doubt that my motivation would be sky-high.’ He sighed again, suddenly disheartened by the absurdity of his own suggestion. ‘But instead I must wait until her next performance like everyone else.’

Caesar looked thoughtful. ‘Are you saying you believe watching her dance before you play would improve your motivation?’

‘How could it not? Look at her! I’m sure I’m not the only one who would feel this way. There’s something captivating about the way she moves, like she brings the essence of the music to life … Well, if I could just bottle up a bit of ballet for my own personal use, that would be perfect.’ Ivan laughed, then added with a wink, ‘I know you are a resourceful man who is capable of many things, Mr King, but I doubt this is a problem you can solve. If you do come up with the answer, let me know; I’d love to hear about it.’ He chuckled at the path their conversation had taken, amiably patting Caesar on the back.

‘A fascinating challenge, just fascinating. In the meantime, my friend, come backstage with me, and I’ll see if I can introduce you to Eloise and the rest of the corps de ballet.’

‘Thank you but unfortunately I must be on my way, yet another plane to catch. Thanks for the chat. I shall look forward to seeing you again at another one of her performances.’

As the two men bid each other farewell, Caesar’s intrigued mind was clicking into gear, working on a variety of scenarios based on Ivan’s sketchy idea.

If Ivan could not manage to consolidate his position as the world’s Number One, men’s tennis would enter one of its most unpredictable eras. The Edge currently managed the top six male players in the world, which provided Caesar with tremendous insights into what was happening on the circuit – leading to substantial business opportunities.

The more inside information Caesar had, the more money he stood to make. And once an idea had seeded in his mind, it was rarely dislodged – particularly if it was coupled with a fire in his belly. There was no doubt this conversation had ignited the flame of an idea for Caesar and it was usually only ever a matter of time before it came to full fruition.