He walked back to the main road and hailed a cab. Yet another Mercedes. The phrase Kubla Khan drew a nod from the driver. They rode out past the big development and into the next bay.
Winter leaned forward. ‘This is Bicici?’
‘Da.’
Bicici, on first impressions, was Budva without the charm. The speed of development was no less intense but there were still large tracts of land – overgrown, litter-strewn – advertised for sale. In the middle of the bay the cabby slowed and indicated a sizeable white complex with a nod of his head.
‘Kubla Khan,’ he muttered.
Winter got out and paid. A huge roadside hoarding advertised the benefits of making a down payment on one of the beachside apartments attached to the hotel. A sleek, bronzed twenty-something in a red bikini was mugging for the camera beside an enormous pool. Her mates, equally gorgeous, were tastefully arranged in the background. A waiter with a tray was lurking on the edge of the shot. This could have been a scene from any of a hundred resort destinations. On offer was limitless sunshine, world-class cossetting, and – if you were lucky enough to score – quality sex. In essence, thought Winter, these guys were selling everybody’s wet dream. Why Wait? went the strapline.
Why wait, indeed. At the bottom of the hoarding was an email address and the name of the developers. Melorcorp was the vehicle Nikki Kokh used in Montenegro. Winter walked down towards the beach along the flank of the site. The skin and bones of the complex were in place, but glaziers were still fitting windows on the seaward side and an enormous lorry was offloading what looked like interior panels.
As far as Winter could judge, the bulk of the development consisted of an artfully cantilevered building which served as the hotel, while a matching block beside it housed the apartments. On closer inspection, some of the units on the upper floors seemed not only complete but occupied. Shading his eyes against the low slant of sunshine, Winter could see Venetian blinds at some of the windows, pot plants on balconies, even a beach towel draped over a smoked-glass retaining screen.
Winter stepped back, wondering how the sums stacked up. He had no way of telling whether this construction site would deliver all the promotional boasts he’d checked out on the Internet, but he liked what he saw and assumed it would play well with the clientele Nikki Kokh had in mind. Given full occupancy at the hotel plus speedy take-up on the apartments, Melorcorp might be looking at a nice little earner. Maybe he should be pitching for more than £1.5 million tonight. Maybe he could squeeze a little more from Bazza’s favourite Russian.
Back at the hotel he treated himself to a bath and a kip. When he awoke, the room was in semi-darkness. He fumbled for his watch. Five past seven. He had a shave and stepped back into his suit. By the time he got to the lobby, his transport to Kotor was already parked outside, a big Audi 4 × 4, regulation black. Expecting Arkady, Winter bent to the front window. Only one of the two guys spoke English. Both had the look of bodyguards, presumably part of Kokh’s entourage. They wore designer jeans and white T-shirts. Heavily muscled, they had the blank-faced fuck-off arrogance that goes with decent wages and a place in the fast lane. These guys owned the world. Neither had much interest in conversation.
They sped through the town, heading north towards Kotor. Bruce Springsteen played softly on the music system. From time to time Winter caught a murmur of conversation and once, with a glance in the rear-view mirror, a low chuckle. On the road north, along the valley, Winter glimpsed more construction sites, fenced-off enclosures stacked with sewer pipes and huge piles of aggregate. The whole of Montenegro, it seemed, was on the rise. Then came a tunnel Winter remembered from the earlier trip and suddenly they were back in Kotor. The dockside cruise ship was bathed in light. Flocks of elderly tourists were waiting for gaps in the traffic before they wandered into town.
The Audi slowed and then slipped into a side road that led to the marina. Kokh’s motor yacht was one of the biggest, a sleek confection in gleaming white.
A boarding ramp offered access to the fantail from the dockside, and Winter made his way aboard, stopping briefly to gaze down at the name emblazoned on the stern. Starburst. Gibraltar.
Nikki Kokh was waiting for him, a small slight figure in jeans and a rumpled denim shirt. He wore his hair long, tied in a ponytail, and the wire-rimmed glasses gave him the look of a student. Bazza had already mentioned Kokh’s taste in clothes, the way he liked to present himself, and only yesterday he’d warned Winter not to jump to conclusions. The guy dresses like a hippie, he said. But don’t be fooled for a moment.
Kokh extended a hand, the lightest touch, barely a handshake at all.
‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘You’ve come a long way.’
They moved into the saloon. If wealth has a smell, thought Winter, it was surely this: new leather, wax polish and the faintest hint of perfume in the air. The lighting was soft after the harshness of the marina neon outside. An extremely pretty girl stepped out of the shadows and asked what Winter would like to drink. Like Kokh, her English was flawless. Winter opted for a lager.
‘Not champagne?’ Kokh was smiling. ‘We have Krug.’
Champagne, to Winter, suggested some kind of celebration. Under the circumstances it seemed churlish to say no.
Kokh led him to a huge crescent of sofa. Like everything else on board, the white leather looked showroom-new. The girl, who said her name was Olenka, popped the bottle of Krug and poured two glasses. Kokh, it turned out, was drinking fruit juice. He raised his glass.
‘Kubla Khan,’ he murmured.
‘Happy days.’
‘You went to Bicici this afternoon? Had a look round?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you like what you see?’
‘Very much.’
‘Good. Very good.’ He glanced across at the girl and said something in Russian. She nodded, checked her watch and slipped out through a glass door at the far end of the saloon. Kokh turned back to Winter. It was best, he said, if they talked business first. Afterwards they could enjoy a meal together. Olenka was a fine cook. She’d given the resident chef the night off and insisted on preparing the meal herself. Kokh hoped Winter liked wild boar.
Winter, who’d never tasted wild boar in his life, said he loved it. But where was his friend Arkady?
‘Arkady has a date in Podgorica. He’s sorry not to be here.’
‘Is he back tomorrow?’
‘I think yes.’
‘At the hotel?’
‘At the Georgi, yes. You must get together. He talks about you often.’
Winter smiled and said nothing. Towards the end of their evening in Pompey Arkady had confided that Montenegran women were extremely hot. Maybe that’s what had taken him away for the evening.
Kokh fetched the bottle from the ice bucket and topped up Winter’s glass. Then he settled on the sofa again. He said they needed to be frank with one another. The project was coming along fine at last, and they were nearly back on schedule, but the last nine months had been a nightmare.
‘How come?’
‘For people like us life here can be complicated. You know what I mean?’
‘No.’
‘The Montenegrans, they love money. They’ll sell you anything. Land. Water. Drugs. Women. Anything. And when there’s nothing left to sell, they sell you yourself.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘They make things hard for you. They give you big problems. And then one day they come along to your office and they knock on the door and they’re very polite and they tell you they can make all the problems go away. For money, of course.’
‘You’re telling me you pay protection?’
‘Of course. They call it business. These are mountain people, my friend. Life is tough in the mountains. They don’t like strangers. The only stranger they find room for is the stranger with money. And if he doesn’t share his money they chase him away.’
‘We’re talking serious money?’
‘Enough. More
than enough.’
‘And this came as some kind of surprise?’
‘Of course not.’
‘So why invest in the first place?’
‘Because we can make the sums work. Because we’re good at what we do. Because this is a beautiful place and we believe in the project. But everything in life is relative, my friend, and these are greedy people.’
‘So what are you telling me?’ Winter knew exactly what was coming.
‘I’m telling you that the project has been in trouble. And I’m telling you that there may be more trouble to come.’ Kokh put his glass to one side. He had delicate hands, perfectly buffed nails, and he used them to develop and shape the case he was trying to make. ‘There are two kinds of Montenegrans. The ones in the government, the ones who run the country, the ones with the rubber stamps, they make it very tough for you to do anything and they rob you blind in the process. The other sort don’t bother with the paperwork. You either pay what they demand or your life becomes very difficult.’
‘How?’
‘They cause trouble at the construction site, they intimidate your workers, they take your chief engineer for a ride one night and scare the shit out of him. Next morning you wake up and he’s gone. This is a cowboy town, my friend. On a bad day it reminds me of Chechnya. On a very bad day it can be worse.’
Earlier, back at the hotel, Winter had prepared a little speech about his own boss’s problems. How much damage the credit crunch had done Bazza. How most of the business sector was suffering. How the time had come to turn one or two investments back into cash. Not because the original decisions had been wrong or the prospects going forward looked dodgy, but because they had no choice.
‘You want to leave the project?’ Kokh was watching him carefully.
‘I’m afraid we have to.’
‘You mean liquidate the entire holding?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you have a buyer?’
‘No. That’s why I’m here.’
Kokh looked briefly pained, as if this news had come as some kind of shock.
‘You want us to buy back your stake? The full 10 per cent?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you have a price in mind?’
‘Of course.’
‘How much?’
Mackenzie had told him to start at two and a half million. Winter doubled it.
‘Five million?’ Kokh was laughing. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘Not at all. We think the project’s fabulous. We know you’re selling apartments already. The design, the setting, the promotional stuff, it’s all spot on. Five million is a compliment. Five mil means you guys have done brilliantly. I’m surprised the locals are such a pain in the arse, but I’m sure you can see them off.’ Winter shrugged. ‘This kind of bollocks you’ll find everywhere. It’s what happens when you do business in the Third World.’
‘You think this is the Third World?’
‘That’s what it feels like.’
Kokh was chuckling now. Surprise had given way to amusement.
‘You’re asking me for five million? When you’ve just told me you have no choice?’ He shook his head. ‘You want some more Krug?’
Winter emptied the glass and held it out for a refill. He was beginning to enjoy himself.
Kokh got to his feet and fetched a bowl of nuts from a table near the door. When he returned to the sofa he had a proposition.
‘Three hundred thousand,’ he said. ‘In euros. A third on signature. A third on project completion. The rest when we declare the first dividend.’
‘Three hundred grand?’ It was Winter’s turn to laugh. ‘When we paid you a million and a half?’
‘Things haven’t been easy. These people have cost us a lot of money.’
‘But three hundred grand?’
‘Then turn it down. Stay in the game. Stay at the table. You’re welcome, my friend. We like you. We appreciate your support.’
‘That’s nice to hear –’ Winter tipped his glass ‘– but we can’t afford you any more. Like I say, times are hard.’
‘Then take the three hundred …’ the softness of his hand closed over Winter’s ‘… before I go lower still.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Very wise. I wouldn’t either.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Shall we eat?’
The rest of the evening passed more quickly than Winter had anticipated. The plates of wild boar, despite Olenka’s best efforts, looked like something out of a crime scene. The meat was blood-red and extremely tough. The arty scoops of mashed potato might have come from a tin, and the decorative crescents of red cabbage badly needed seasoning. The wine, on the other hand, was excellent. Winter had the best part of a bottle of Chambertin to himself, and by the time Olenka escorted him off the boat, he was beginning to regret it.
On the fantail he turned to give Kokh a goodbye wave, but the Russian seemed to have disappeared. Conversationally, over dinner, the stand-off on a price for Bazza’s stake in Kubla Khan had given them nowhere to go. Winter’s knowledge of football was rudimentary, and Kokh hadn’t shown much interest in talking about anything else. In the end Winter had found himself discussing the Battle of Trafalgar with the girl. It turned out she had a degree in naval history from St Petersburg University and was deeply impressed by Nelson’s boldness in breaking the French and Spanish line.
As he stepped onto the gangway he gave her a peck on the cheek.
‘England expects.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘That’s all you need to know.’
Olenka smiled and told him to take care. There was something in her voice that might, under different circumstances, have sounded a warning note, but Winter was far too pissed to notice.
The bodyguards were waiting in the black 4 × 4. They watched him plotting an uncertain course across the dock and one of them leaned back to release the rear door. The moment he got in they were on the move, pulling a tight U-turn and carving a path back into the traffic on the main road. An angry parp-parp from an oncoming truck brought Winter to his senses. He forced himself upright on the back seat, steadying himself as the guy behind the wheel weaved around a slowing bus and floored the accelerator.
‘In a hurry?’ he said vaguely.
There was no answer from the front. He was aware of the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, scanning the road behind, and the other guy half turned in his seat, peering back. Winter thought nothing of it, and once they’d cleared the traffic and found a clear road before them, he lay back against the plumpness of the leather seat and closed his eyes, trying to review the evening aboard the yacht.
He and Kokh had been through the pantomime of negotiation, as Winter had planned. The last thing he’d wanted was a decent-sized cheque to get Pompey First off the hook – that would have to wait for Skelley – and he’d therefore tabled a bid he knew Kokh would reject out of hand. At that point, in the way of these things, he’d assumed there might be some appetite or room for compromise, but the ruthlessness of Kokh’s counter-offer had taken his breath away. Not for a moment had he believed all the bollocks about extortion rackets and protection money. Neither did he buy how difficult and costly it was to get state backing. On the contrary, according to Bazza the locals were falling over themselves to flog off vast areas of the coast. No, Kokh – like every other Russian businessman – could scent blood in the water. If Bazza’s little empire was haemorrhaging money, then Kubla Khan’s junior partner was there for the taking.
He opened his eyes. They were in the tunnel now, speeding away from Kotor. The traffic was thinner here, but the guy in the front passenger seat was still peering back, checking the road behind. Winter did the same. Maybe four hundred metres behind them he could see a pair of headlights. The vehicle looked like another 4 × 4, white this time.
The guy in the passenger seat murmured something to the driver. Already the 80 kph signs were flashing past, but Winter felt the punch of the big engine as the Audi surged forward. By the time the
y burst out of the tunnel back into the darkness, the digital speedo was showing 187 kph.
They slowed briefly for an upcoming bend, accelerated hard again, then the Audi began to shudder as the driver stamped hard on the brakes. Winter had time to register the blur of a T-junction before they were drifting sideways onto the major road. The manoeuvre was a punt. They were on the wrong side of the road, still travelling at speed, but luck and blind faith spared them oncoming traffic. A twitch of the wheel took them back to the right-hand side of the road. In the throw of the headlights Winter caught the glitter of broken glass in an approaching lay-by. Seconds later the driver hit the brakes again, hauled the Audi off the road and killed the headlights. Winter, still peering out of the rear window, hung on to a grab handle as the Audi bumped to a halt on the rough gravel.
Back down the carriageway the white 4 × 4 had stopped at the T-junction. After a second or two it turned left, away from the lay-by, towards Budva, and disappeared into the darkness. Winter did his best to compose himself. Maybe, after all, Kokh had been right. Maybe Montenegro was as lawless as he’d claimed. Maybe Winter had stepped into an ongoing turf war, which would explain a great deal about Kokh’s treatment of his junior partner. He turned back, meaning to pursue the thought a little further, but his attention was caught by the guy in the passenger seat. He had a mobile in one hand and an automatic pistol in the other. Mercifully, as he began a muttered conversation, he returned the gun to the glove box beneath the dashboard.
Winter was back at the hotel by midnight. A circuitous route had taken them up through the mountains on one flank of the valley, via a succession of tight bends and dizzying drops, to a much bigger road that approached Budva from the east. Winter had tried to coax conversation from his minders but failed completely. Knowing his reliance on these guys was total, he sat in the darkness resigned to whatever might happen next. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would take an early cab back over the border. From there he could find a coach north along the coast. By lunchtime, with luck, he could be light years away from the madness of Montenegro. When he finally reported back to Mackenzie, he’d salt the disappointment of Kokh’s offer with a full account of exactly how these guys did business. You’re lucky I’m still in one piece, he’d tell Bazza. Nikki Kokh? Kubla Khan? Melorcorp? Best of fucking luck.
Happy Days Page 13