by AA Abbott
He didn’t understand why she hated the Englishman so much that she wanted him, of all people, dead. She’d never asked Ken to dispatch Aliyev, although she’d repeated frequently enough that she had no passion for the factory owner.
The tears fell faster now, droplets moistening her lashes. She pleaded. “Why can’t you do this little thing for me? You’ve told me you’d slit the President’s throat without a second thought.”
“After a fair trial,” Ken said. He had it planned: a showpiece trial to demonstrate the President’s dreadful crimes to the international community, followed by a swift execution.
Marina persisted. “Please, Ken, do it for me. I’ll give you anything you desire.”
What did he need most? Guns, he supposed, but she couldn’t supply those. “Your car,” he said.
She laughed. “Have you written off the last one already?”
“Not quite,” he said, unwilling to explain why the usefulness of the old black Mercedes was coming to an end. His men had taken it on bank raids too often, and now they’d kidnapped a foreigner in it. They’d been lucky, but it couldn’t last. One day, the militia would notice that car and follow them. He was no Nelson Mandela. He didn’t want to start a revolution from a prison cell.
“If that’s what it takes, my car is yours,” she said. “I’ll tell Arystan I crashed it. He’ll have to buy me another.” She handed over the keys. “Here, you’ll have to drive me into Kireniat.”
Chapter 16
Marty
The young man from Kireniat’s biggest real estate firm was insistent. “The appointment’s in my diary,” he said.
“And in mine,” Marty retorted, “but not until this afternoon.”
They were arguing in the lobby of his hotel, a Bazaki chain slightly less luxurious than the Intercontinental, and half the price. Marty had just emerged from the breakfast room, glad Angela wasn’t with him. She would undoubtedly have chided him for eating too much. After several raids on the buffet and copious cups of coffee, Marty was over his jet lag. He relented. “All right,” he said. “I don’t have anything else planned for the morning. I’ll get my coat.”
It was a Barbour quilted parka, which Marty considered a superior British alternative to the furs and sheepskins favoured by rich Bazakis. He was always telling Harry this. Marty decided it was prudent to wear boots as well. At this time of year, a sunny morning in Kireniat could suddenly give way to snow.
The lad introduced himself as Roman Popov, a surprisingly Russian-sounding name for an ethnic Bazaki, and led the way to his car.
Marty was impressed. The silver Mercedes glinted in the sunshine, not a dent in sight. Its cream leather seats were pristine. “You’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you?” he said.
“I am Salesman of the Year,” Roman said, smirking beneath his waxed moustache and beard. “In fact, I’m supposed to be training a couple of young associates today. Would you mind if I drop by the office to collect them?”
“No problem,” Marty said. “Do they speak English as well as you do?”
“Of course,” Roman replied.
Marty doubted it. He knew the Bazakis were likely to speak privately in another tongue. Their conversation might reveal enough to secure a better deal, perhaps even access to a wider range of properties. For now, as usual when making new business contacts abroad, he kept his linguistic skills to himself.
Roman had a short conversation on his phone. “We’ll pick them up at the railway station,” he said.
Marty settled into the passenger seat next to Roman, declining the proffered cigarettes. While he preferred his Jag, this car was perfectly comfortable for a forty minute journey. Roman lit up and drove to the web of backstreets next to the main railway station. He stopped by a phone shop. Two men, young and suited like him, opened the Merc’s rear doors.
“Hop in,” Roman said. “Marty, my colleagues, Alex and Vlad.”
There were handshakes and how-do-you-dos before the car sped away, slipping swiftly onto the highway out of the city.
“The knife, Nurbolat.” Vlad’s words were delivered in Bazaki.
Marty unconsciously flung his head forward. “What’s going on?” he shouted.
Roman seemed puzzled. “Is there a problem, Marty?” he asked.
Despite the constraint of his seatbelt, Marty twisted round in time to see Alex lunging towards him. A blade glittered in the young man’s hand. Without sparing a second to think, Marty landed a punch on Alex’s nose. It broke with an audible crack. Alex dropped his knife.
Marty reached for the door handle, just as one of the men – he wasn’t sure who – retrieved the knife and held it to his neck.
“Keep still,” Roman warned him, “Or we’ll slit your throat.”
Alex sniffed and moaned.
“What do you want from me?” Marty asked.
“Only your co-operation,” Roman said. “We will blindfold you, and if you’re sensible, you won’t resist. We don’t mean you any harm.”
“You could have fooled me,” Marty said bitterly. “Get that joker to put his weapon away.”
Roman issued a few words of instruction. The pressure of cold metal vanished from Marty’s neck. A cloth was bound around his head. Darkness filled his eyes.
Marty wondered what was happening. He hadn’t offended the local mafia, as far as he knew, and Harry was far too smart an operator to have done so. If this was a mugging, it was elaborate and slow – unless they were simply driving off the beaten track, to rob and kill him away from prying eyes. The good suits, and luxury car, meant nothing; they could be stolen.
Roman appeared to confirm it. “You’ve made a bad enemy, Marty. What have you done that someone wants you dead?”
“I’ve no idea,” Marty said. “Don’t play games. You told me you didn’t intend any harm.” He maintained a calm voice, despite his mounting terror.
Roman didn’t react. “It surely can’t be just because you’re buying some farmland, can it?” he asked.
“You tell me,” Marty said, baffled. Although he’d annoyed a few club owners on his home turf in Birmingham, none would go this far, in any sense. Within Bazakistan, he had no enemies. He hadn’t crossed Harry, his only contact in the local business community. Anyway, Harry needed him. It was thanks to Marty that Snow Mountain was successful, and Marty was a convenient excuse for Harry’s trips abroad.
Kat was here in Kireniat, though, with money enough to pay for a contract killing. Marty felt nauseous. He heard ringing in his ears. Right now, his blood pressure was heading skywards, and he wouldn’t be surprised if a heart attack snuffed out his life before they put a bullet in his head. Was that what Roman had in mind? Or would Alex use his knife? There were an infinite number of nasty, brutal ways to kill a man. Which would they choose? He clawed at his blindfold.
“Stop that,” Roman commanded. “Do as I say and I won’t kill you. I was told to do it, but the price is too low. You’re worth more to me alive.” His tone became businesslike, akin to his earlier façade as a real estate agent. “At least, if your family loves you. You’d better hope they do, Marty, because they’ll have to pay twenty million dollars for your release.”
Marty felt his pulse rate drop a little at this reprieve. “That’s too much. A million, tops,” he said. The going rate for murder would be a fraction of that. He might as well negotiate the ransom down to maximise the chance of someone paying it. The product that Charles had sold him included kidnap insurance; he couldn’t recall if there was a cap.
Roman laughed. “Don’t try haggling. I’m not selling you a carpet.”
“Why not?” Marty asked, fury beginning to bubble over his fear. “Why shouldn’t you have a proper job, selling land or carpets or Bazaki handicrafts? I hadn’t realised bandits were operating in the middle of Kireniat.”
A vicious slap was delivered to his head. Marty reeled, seeing stars. He tried to remove the blindfold again. This time, rough hands grabbed his arms and pinioned them to
the seat.
“Enough, Nurbolat,” Roman said. “Let him speak. We’re not bandits, Marty.” His voice reflected injured pride. “We’re freedom fighters.”
“What kind of freedom would that be?” Marty asked. “The freedom to kidnap innocent people from the street and get rich by holding them hostage? Sounds like banditry to me.”
There was no reply. Marty wondered if he’d gone too far, and with a sinking heart, wished he could retract his words. Roman had the others under control but he was dangerous in his own right; only a fool would push his patience to breaking point. He was about to apologise when Roman sighed.
“You don’t understand, Marty,” his captor replied. “The end justifies the means. We need money for munitions, mercenaries and bribes. We’re going to bring down this corrupt government: the President and his land-grabbing cronies. The dictator may think he can suppress dissent, and it’s true he’s slaughtered all the old guard who opposed him, but he’ll never win. Young people like us are ready to overthrow him.”
It was a fine speech, delivered with the passion of youth. Marty received it with the scepticism of middle age. “And then what?” he asked. “You’ll simply replace one dictatorship with another. And when Bazakistan is part of your religious caliphate, all that precious foreign investment will vanish in the blink of an eye. Even if you allowed Harry Aliyev to carry on making vodka, which I doubt, I wouldn’t bother coming here to buy it from him.” He wouldn’t grow darria here, either, as long as he could persuade the shrub to flourish anywhere else. Erik was right; Bazakistan wasn’t stable enough.
“I’m not creating a totalitarian state,” Roman protested, noticeably outraged. “I’m a Muslim, of course, but…”
One of the other lads tittered.
“All right,” Roman snapped, “I don’t pray or attend the mosque, but nor do any of you. Be quiet.” He regained his composure. “Do you think, Marty, that Da’esh haven’t made overtures to me? They’d gladly give me all the money, weapons and men I could ever want. And in return, they’d require that I deliver Bazakistan back to the Stone Age. Butcher my Russian friends, deny an education to my nieces, repress all the idiots who decided to stay rather than flee over the border. I would never do that. Never,” he repeated. “And that, my friend, is why I need you. You’re a valuable commodity. I won’t hurt you – as long as you behave.”
The radio blared into life with a loud, cheesy pop melody. One of the men whistled along tunelessly. They certainly didn’t behave like religious fanatics, but that didn’t lessen his jeopardy. Marty took the music as a cue that Roman no longer wished to speak. Indeed, once the whistling ceased, the men were silent for the remainder of the journey. Eventually, the car left the highway, bumping and clattering along what was obviously a rough track. It came to an abrupt halt. As the doors were opened, a blast of icy air assailed him.
“We’re going to tie your hands and feet,” Roman said. “Not too much, and not too tight. You will understand.”
Marty was dragged out of the Mercedes. Outside the car, it was chilly. The ground was hard underfoot; possibly frozen grass rather than tarmac. His arms were thrust in front of him and tied together roughly at the wrists. Rope shackles were placed around his ankles, enabling him to shuffle, but no more. He felt his pockets being emptied.
“This is the right man,” he heard Roman say, seconds after his passport and wallet were removed.
Stumbling, Marty was manhandled to a building and shoved inside. His wrists were untied; then knotted again, this time leaving two feet of rope between them. He heard a door close, a key turn in a lock.
“You may remove your blindfold,” Roman instructed, his voice muffled by the heavy wooden door between them.
Marty swung his bound arms upwards towards his face. His hands tore at the cloth covering his eyes, pulling it away. He blinked, dazzled by the sudden light.
He was standing near the door and window of an oblong room perhaps twelve by twenty feet, and just high enough to stand. His captors had tied his feet to the doorpost. At the opposite end of the room, out of reach, a fire blazed in a black tin stove. There was no furniture other than rugs and hangings on the wall and floors, a few blankets and a bucket.
Someone behind him tapped his arm. He spun round, prepared to fight for his life.
“Hello, Marty,” Kat said.
Her hands and feet were bound like his. Although she might want his blood, she was in no position to engage an assassin. If she hadn’t done it, then who had?
Chapter 17
Kat
It was a really strange dream, and unpleasant. There was a Mongol horde, riding across the plains on horses that turned into Mercedes cars. There was a whitewashed farmhouse, a sad girl surrounded by pigs. Lastly, there was Marty Bridges, the businessman who could have saved her father’s skin, but chose to build his bank balance instead.
“Hello, Marty,” she said, hoping she would wake up in her hotel bedroom, and Marty would dissolve into dust like all nightmares.
He didn’t. “Kat, are you all right?” he said.
No, she wasn’t. She was exhausted, curiously unrefreshed despite the sleeping and dreaming. She shrank back into the corner, onto her knees. If only she could just close her eyes again.
Marty wouldn’t let her. It wasn’t fair. He was holding the lids open, even though his fingers and hands were restricted in their movement because his wrists were tied together with rough jute rope.
She gasped. Marty’s eyes were unexpectedly compassionate. A piercing blue, they blazed with concern for her.
“Your pupils are pinpoints,” he said, his voice somehow distant. “Something’s very wrong. Kat, what have they done to you?”
She tried to say she’d been running away, across the plains and through the orchard outside. She wanted to run from the laughing men, the sad girl and the farmhouse. The words stuck in her throat. It filled with bile. She placed her bound hands in front of her mouth.
“You need the bucket.” The new, shiny, wise, kind Marty, a phantom in her dream, brought it in front of her. He helped her kneel over it, tenderly holding her hair back as she vomited.
Chapter 18
Marty
The room stank of puke. Satisfied Kat had finished, Marty moved the bucket as far away from him as he could. She was shivering, although she wore a dark business suit and the stove was warm. He picked up a blanket. It was dark red and coarse; probably horsehair. He tucked it around her.
Outside, he could hear voices: men, and occasionally, a woman. Their words were indistinct. From a small high window, he could see more squat, whitewashed buildings. Birdsong and other animal noises suggested a farm. He tried to estimate how long he’d spent in the car. They could be no more than forty miles outside Kireniat, but in which direction, it was impossible to guess.
Gradually, Kat began to thaw, her eyes regaining focus. “Marty,” she said, “what are you doing here?”
It was a good question. Did he buy Roman’s story about a kidnap for ransom? He was alive, which suggested there was some truth in it.
His reply to Kat was wry. “Welcome to the Hotel California, bab. Ensuite bucket, Bazaki lads on hand to ignore your every whim, and no mod cons. I’m not saying you can never leave, but it’ll cost you a pretty penny.” He waved his bound wrists in front of her. “My wife will be getting a ransom demand soon, and I bet Mr Millionaire Ross Pritchard has had one already.”
“How much?” she asked.
Marty whistled. “Ten, twenty million dollars. I hope Ross bought kidnap insurance for you. His company sold me plenty.”
Kat’s pale face looked strained. She drew the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
“He didn’t, then?” Marty said. “That was careless of him, wasn’t it? Being an insurance expert and all.”
“What will happen if he doesn’t pay?”
Marty couldn’t believe she was serious. “He’s a rich man, Kat. That’s why you’re marrying him, isn’t it?” He d
idn’t wait for her to protest, although he noticed she opened her mouth. He added, “Of course Ross will pay. He loves you. He bought you that huge chunk of rock.”
Her eyes grew tender as she examined the sparkling ring on her right hand. “They haven’t taken it,” she said.
Marty considered her words. “These lummocks claim they’re revolutionaries rather than thieves,” he said. “They want to bring down the government.”
“It’s about time,” Kat said, unexpectedly.
There was a knock on the door.
“How polite our new friends are,” Marty observed. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Kat, take my advice. Don’t speak Russian to them. Or Bazaki. Unless they already know you can, keep that information to yourself.”
“They don’t know,” she replied, nodding.
A Bazaki woman entered, glancing at them nervously before looking away. She was perhaps Kat’s age, dressed in an anorak and jeans, her long black hair wild from the wind that blew into the shack with her. There was no trace of make-up, or of joy, on her striking face. She carried a tray set with two tin bowls of cabbage soup, spoons, flatbreads, two mugs of milkless tea and a couple of scabbed red apples.
Marty pointed to the bucket, its stench almost causing his own stomach to heave. “Can you take this away please, young lady?” he demanded.
While she remained silent, she certainly understood his meaning. Laying her tray on the floor a few feet away from them, she picked up the bucket and took it with her. The door slammed behind her. Marty heard the key turn once, then again a few minutes later. She reappeared with the same bucket, shiny and damp from being washed, before leaving and locking them in again.