The Vodka Trail

by AA Abbott

  Marty gazed at Kat, gauging if she had an appetite. He had none. It was not so long since his large breakfast. He took an apple and put it in his pocket for later, just in case.

  “Kat, can you eat?” he asked kindly. “Keep your strength up, bab.”

  “I’ll sip tea,” she said, a wan grin forming. “There’s no better place to drink tea than Bazakistan. They really know how to brew a cup.”

  Marty recalled Erik and the sweet, dark tea they drank together. If he had a preference, it was for the English builders’ version. “You go ahead,” he said.

  Kat drained a tin mug quickly. She took a tentative spoonful of soup, then another, before announcing it was delicious, and finishing the bowl.

  Marty had reservations about her claim. Cabbage soup was the kind of meal Angela would serve on a fast day, virtually ensuring Marty wouldn’t ingest any calories. “Have the other bowl too,” he offered. “I’m not hungry.”

  Kat fell to it, eating half the bread as well. Colour returned to her cheeks. “How are we going to get out of here?” she asked. “Have you got your phone?”

  Marty shook his head. “Everything was taken.”

  He checked his pockets, and she did the same, finding them empty as predicted.

  “What about the ropes?” she asked. “Can you untie me?”

  Marty grinned. “I can try.”

  He picked at the knots around her hands. His short fingernails made virtually no impact, but a spoon handle gave him more leverage. Unfortunately, the Bazaki girl caught him in the act when she returned for the tray. Swearing in her local tongue, she summoned Roman and Alex. The latter, a bandage over his nose, scowled at Marty.

  Marty was more concerned about the Kalashnikov that Roman was pointing at him. He listened intently to the heated discussion among their captors. Although they spoke in Bazaki, the foreign language and Kireniat dialect posed no problem for him.

  “I told you they were more trouble than they were worth,” the girl spat.

  “You cannot be serious,” Alex replied. “They’re a goldmine.”

  “If they’re as rich as you say,” she said.

  “I have it on the best authority,” Roman said. “If I’m wrong, I’ll take full responsibility for the consequences.”

  “We should be chaining them up,” Alex said. “I’ve brought everything we need, as you well know.”

  “Very well,” Roman agreed. “We can’t take risks. I’d hoped for more co-operation from our guests, but it seems I won’t get it.” He switched to English, addressing Marty and Kat. “I repeat. Behave, and you won’t get hurt. Just to make sure, I’m putting you in chains.”

  Roman and his gun remained in position as Alex made trips to fetch chains, padlocks and a drill. Roman’s henchman fixed a heavy metal ring next to the window, then replaced the ropes with chains and padlocks. Alex used a figure of eight on each of hands and feet, allowing limited room to manoeuvre. A longer chain bound them to a short radius from the window, like dogs on a leash.

  Kat submitted to her shackles with a sullen expression. Marty didn’t resist either. Tempted as he was to joke about the famous Bazaki hospitality, he decided this wasn’t the right time to antagonise his captors. He couldn’t escape anyway. The window was far too small and the door bound to be locked.

  Satisfied their captives were secured, the kidnappers left, with a final threatening glare from Alex.

  “At least we’ve got a clean bucket,” Marty said.

  Kat was subdued. “I feel so tired,” she yawned. She lay on the pile of blankets, cocooning herself in one of them.

  Marty watched her doze. He felt her forehead. There was no sign of a temperature, but something was amiss. Their gaolers must have drugged the food, perhaps the tea as well. Kat had eaten his portion of soup too, he realised. He resolved to leave his next meal untouched and urge Kat to do the same, however appetising it appeared.

  No one could easily tinker with an apple, though. He felt it in his pocket and was comforted, knowing he could turn to it when hunger and thirst overwhelmed him.

  Marty used the bucket, briefly grateful that Kat was asleep. Smoke from the smouldering stove overcame the smell, but the room was becoming stifling. He opened the tiny window a fraction. A welcome breeze, fragrant with honey blossom, wafted inside. The cold snap that had greeted him in Kireniat had vanished.

  He heard a car approach, and halt. A door slammed, locking with a beep. Stilettos clacked across the yard.

  “Kat!” he shouted, shocked. For a moment, he stared, puzzled that she’d suddenly appeared outside. The illusion was swiftly dispelled. He looked down and saw at once that he was wrong; his fellow hostage lay at his feet still, asleep and oblivious.

  The woman outside glanced round at his cry. Seeing nothing, she flicked her long blonde hair around her fur-clad shoulders, and slipped through the door of the farmhouse opposite.

  Marty felt his hands tremble beneath their makeshift cuffs. The visitor could have been Kat’s twin, or an older sister. That was impossible, he knew. He’d socialised with Sasha and Maria often enough, acting like an uncle to their two children during their education in England. If the family had been larger, he would have known. This was no sister. It could only be Sasha’s widow, Maria.

  He’d believed her dead, but how could he really tell? She’d simply stopped communicating with him, after he’d sent her almost a hundred thousand pounds for legal fees and bribes to secure Sasha’s release from gaol. That was all to no avail, of course. Sasha’s death had been announced after two years in the hell-hole to which the implacable Bazaki courts had consigned him.

  On the other hand, Maria’s death wasn’t made public, nor had Marty seen a death certificate. Harry had delivered the news during their early communications, when both wanted Marty to maintain his Snow Mountain vodka distribution business, despite their lack of trust in each other.

  Marty dug his nails into the palms of his hands. This was too bizarre. More likely, despite Angela’s attempt to train him with her diet, his self-imposed fast was causing him to hallucinate. His eyes rested on Kat again. He must have imagined the other woman shared her features. There were thousands of Russian blondes here; millions even. Finally, desperate to banish the image from his mind, he took the apple from his pocket and ate every last scrap, pips and all.

  Sounds in the yard outside were clearer now the window was open. Marty heard footsteps and peeked through the glass. The girl who’d brought the food was smoking with Alex.

  “Marina Aliyeva is here again,” she said. There was no mistaking the contempt in her voice.

  Marty jumped backwards, almost tripping over.

  Alex laughed. “Leave it, Anna. There’s no chance for you with Ken, you know that. He’s in love.”

  Her own laughter was hollow. “Love? He’s her pampered lapdog. Anything he wants, she gives him. This orchard, a car – two cars now…”

  Alex interrupted her. “We needed a hideout, and transport,” he said. “Ken and I are on the run, remember? He does what he has to do. It all helps the cause.” He licked his lips. “It wouldn’t bother me, either, if she liked me. She’s a fine-looking woman.”

  “She’s old, Nurbolat.” Anna was dismissive.

  Marty noted the name she used. Their leader wasn’t called Roman either, he reckoned. His money would be on Ken. Was this the revolutionary Erik had mentioned?

  Anna took a drag on her cigarette before confirming it. “What makes you think I’m interested in Ken Khan? He’s married,” she said.

  “You complain too much,” Nurbolat said. His chuckle was ribald. “Ken’s wife is in exile. Why shouldn’t he let an old dog teach him new tricks? If he needs help handling her, I’d volunteer.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Anna said darkly. “Aliyev’s wife has seen off one husband already. She’s too much of a woman for you.”

  “You can never have too much of a woman,” Nurbolat said, cupping his upturned palms in front of him. “Ma
rina Aliyeva has breasts to die for.”

  “Perhaps you’ll find out,” Anna said nastily.

  Nurbolat told her to stick to feeding the pigs. Glowering, she stamped out her cigarette and stormed out of view.

  It was hours before Marina emerged from the farmhouse, a flushed glow upon her face. Marty scrutinised her features carefully, comparing them with Kat’s. The smile, slightly long nose and oval face were the same. He was too far away to see the colour of Marina’s eyes.

  Kat was beginning to stir. “What are you looking at?” she asked. She was still groggy.

  “Nothing.” Although suspicion raged within him, he didn’t want to share it with her. How could he give her hope that her mother was alive, when he didn’t really know? Suppose he was wrong?

  The food was another matter. “They’re drugging us,” he told Kat. “There were sleeping pills in the soup or the tea. Maybe both.”

  “So we can’t eat?” she said.

  “See what they bring us,” he told her.

  As dusk fell, Anna brought meat stew and more flatbread, apples and tea. Marty’s mouth watered at the savoury aroma. He was thirsty, too. Nevertheless, he poured all the tea into the bucket.

  “Keep the mugs. We’ll stick them out of the window when it rains,” he said.

  They agreed the flatbread and apples were safe to eat. The food hardly touched the sides. Hungrily, they watched as Anna removed the plates of stew. The girl shook her head at them.

  The window darkened, leaving the stove’s embers their only source of illumination. The room had no electric light; it was little more than a shed.

  “Good night, Marty,” Kat said.

  He helped her choose a blanket before taking one for himself. The rest, he heaped into mounds to give her the semblance of a mattress and pillow. She soon fell asleep, although as he lay there wakefully, he heard her rise. While she tiptoed to the bucket, her chains clanked. He pretended to be dozing.

  Wolves howled in the distance. Marty lay on a rug, his mind churning late into the night, the chains chafing him. Even when he slept, Harry, Marina and Ken stalked his dreams.

  Chapter 19

  Davey

  “Are you still here?” Davey said. “It’s time you were going home.”

  It was only 2pm, but Ross shouldn’t have been in the office at all. Pallid, sweating and pumped full of painkillers, he was clearly unwell. He’d arrived at eleven to help Davey add the finishing touches to a pitch he was making to a large multinational.

  “How did it go?” Ross asked. His desk, usually tidy to the point of OCD, was littered with empty coffee cups and packets of pills.

  “We got the sale,” Davey said, smiling. “They liked the pitch, they liked the view from the Duck & Waffle, and most of all they liked the wine. We all had rather too much of it.” Although his new client’s headquarters were in Luxembourg, he’d conducted business over lunch at the upscale restaurant at the top of the Heron Tower. He often invited prospective clients there. The food was exquisite, there were impressive views over the City of London, and it wasn’t far for him to stagger back to his office on the seventeenth floor.

  Ross was clearly relieved. “Great. I’ll just pack up then, and get a cab back. Oh – excuse me.” His phone was ringing.

  Charles gave Davey a high five. All three men shared an office, an airy space with pleasant enough views of its own. They hardly noticed the vista over London any more, though. It had become like wallpaper to them.

  “What do you mean?” Ross said to the caller. “It’s a joke, right?” His face, already pale from his illness, was white.

  “I suppose Kat’s pregnant,” Charles hissed, as Ross continued his tense conversation, oblivious to their speculation.

  “That’s my guess, too,” Davey admitted. He grinned. “Two new fathers in the office? The girls will say it’s something in the water.” He hadn’t spoken to Charles about Dee’s baby yet. The lunchtime claret was loosening his tongue.

  Charles’ eyes softened, then he winced. “I’ve barely seen George.”

  Davey didn’t reply. It wasn’t appropriate to become involved in Charles and Dee’s relationship, or lack of one, however much he sympathised with his IT director.

  “It was a gory birth,” Charles added, shuddering at the memory. “I was gasping for a smoke afterwards.”

  “I heard,” Davey said. “I presume Dee was ice-cool. Planning a series of baby yoga videos, perhaps. She seems to regard pregnancy as a business opportunity.” He chuckled. “I could almost imagine her booking the studio and cameras, then choosing you to father the child.”

  Charles’ cheeks flamed. “I’ve considered that,” he said stiffly. “As a matter of fact, I raised it with Dee. She’s been rather cold towards me, actually.”

  “Yes,” Davey said, thinking Charles could have used more tact.

  “I appreciate I didn’t improve matters by saying it,” Charles pointed out. “How is she, anyway?”

  “In great shape,” Davey said. “You wouldn’t know she’d just given birth.” Laura had never slimmed down to her wedding weight once their offspring had arrived. “You know Dee. Breastfeeding, vitamin pills, yoga – she says the pounds peel off.” He thought Charles looked uncomfortable. “Why don’t we break out the bourbon? Hey, we can all use a drink. We should celebrate the new contract.”

  He’d acquired a taste for the whiskey since his first night with Alana. As he poured a slug into Charles’ coffee mug, he thought longingly of incendiary sex with her. Maybe he could see her that evening, tell Laura that he had to stay in London to work late again.

  “Ross looks like he could use some of that, too,” Charles said.

  Davey was about to find a glass for the actuary, when he glimpsed the boxes of pills on Ross’ desk once more. “I don’t think so,” he said, motioning to them. “Let’s keep him in one piece.”

  Ross finished the call, and immediately speed-dialled another number. “Call me straight away, darling,” he said, placing the phone on his desk, and putting his head in his hands.

  “What’s up?” Davey asked.

  “Kat’s been kidnapped,” Ross said. “They want ten million dollars.”

  “How?” Davey stared, shocked, at Ross’ grim face. “Where is she?”

  “Bazakistan,” Ross said bitterly. “It’s where she comes from.”

  “Why on earth would she go there?” Davey asked, puzzled. He was aware that Kat had been orphaned as a child, and the Bazaki government was somehow responsible. It seemed the last place she would visit.

  “She had a crazy notion of recovering the family business,” Ross said. “She had to lodge a claim in person at a court in Kireniat. Her brother was urging her not to go. I tried to talk her out of it too, but she wouldn’t listen. In the end, I gave in.”

  Davey imagined Kat could be persuasive. “Look, you must tell the police,” he said. “Get the Foreign Office involved.”

  “They’ll kill her if I tell the authorities,” Ross said. Already ill, he appeared to be on the point of collapse.

  “Are you sure this is for real?” Charles asked gently. “It could be a version of one of those holiday scams. I know she didn’t answer her phone, but it could have been stolen, couldn’t it?”

  “She may be a free woman, walking through the streets of Bazaku City as we speak,” Davey said.

  “No,” Ross said. “The phone call was from my lawyer friend, Ted Edwards. His correspondent law firm in Kireniat received the ransom demand, with a photo. He’s going to email it.”

  “Well, let’s see it,” Davey said. “Have you received it yet?”

  “Not here.” Ross looked up at his laptop screen. “It will have gone to my personal email.” He tapped his smartphone. “Here it is. Oh, God.”

  The picture showed a blonde woman, fully clothed but unconscious on a rug or large cushion, her hands and feet roped together.

  Davey peered uncertainly at the tiny screen. “Hold on,” he said. “Is that rea
lly her?”

  “Let’s see it on a bigger screen,” Ross said, switching on his iPad.

  The likeness was unmistakable. “If this is a fraud, someone’s done something very clever with Photoshop,” Charles concluded gloomily.

  “If only I’d gone with her,” Ross said. “I would have done, but for this wretched flu. She went alone. Now she’s going to die unless I raise a sum of money that is, quite frankly, beyond my means.”

  “Could you sell your flat, or borrow against it?” Charles asked.

  “It’s not worth anything like that,” Ross said. “Even if I sell my investments, I won’t have enough. And they want it by next week. It’s impossible. I can’t find the money that quickly, not even by playing poker.”

  “Don’t do that,” Davey cautioned sharply. Ross was a legend in the industry for using his undoubted mathematical skills to win large sums playing poker, both online and in casinos. Even so, distraught and delirious with flu, he’d make mistakes and lose everything.

  Despite his well-oiled lunch and afternoon bourbon, a sense of doom almost returned Davey to sobriety. An hour ago, he might have been envious of Ross: a gilded youth with money, a glittering career ahead, good looks and a gorgeous fiancée. Now, nothing would persuade him to swap places. Worse, he was powerless to help.

  Chapter 20

  Marty

  A succession of short, sharp explosions of sound woke Marty from his uneasy dreams. Panicked, he curled into a ball, protecting his head as best his chains allowed.

  White light flashed across the room, and heavy rain lashed at the window. Opening his eyes, he saw he and Kat were still alone. Once he realised he’d heard thunder rather than gunfire, his relief was sweet.

  First light broke as he listened to the storm, his heart still pounding. Kat slumbered on, her features angelic. He forced himself to put comparisons with Marina Aliyeva out of his mind.