The Vodka Trail

by AA Abbott

His stomach rumbled. He held both mugs out of the window, soon filling them, and drank from one. Predictably, it slaked his thirst, but no more.

  A particularly loud retort of thunder roused Kat. She immediately screamed.

  “It’s only the weather,” Marty said.

  She peered at him, bleary-eyed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I dreamed I was in my hotel, ordering from room service, so I wasn’t expecting to see you – or this.” She gestured around the mean cell. “I’m so hungry,” she complained.

  “Sorry, bab,” Marty said. “H2O is all I can offer you.” He gave her the other mug. “You’ll have to pretend it’s champagne, a special calorie-free version. That’s important to you girls, isn’t it?”

  Kat snatched it, giving him a dirty look.

  Refilling the mugs, he said, “They don’t want to starve us. We’re valuable merchandise, remember? Your legs are worth five million each.”

  “They’re not insured, though, are they? Unlike yours,” she said. “What if Ross can’t pay?”

  “He’ll negotiate,” Marty said. Whatever he thought of Ross, the lad wasn’t stupid.

  “They might kill us anyway,” Kat said. Her lip twitched.

  “No, if they wanted to, they’d have done it already,” Marty said. She had a point, but he couldn’t afford to concede it to her. If she was already on the edge of hysteria, it might tip her over the line. He didn’t need that.

  He was worried about Angela. He pictured her sitting alone in her spacious kitchen. She must have received a ransom demand by now, and would surely be out of her mind with anguish. Would she remember the insurance? Better to pay than rely on the Bazaki police to find him. Ken Khan had hidden his hostages too well.

  A greater concern was Harry Aliyev. Marty’s business partner knew better than anyone how to galvanise the Bazaki authorities into action. Had Angela told him Marty was missing? With his network, there was a chance he’d find out what was happening. That would be bad news for Marina Aliyeva. Yet it could be worse for Marty, because Harry would want rid of Kat, and he might think Marty’s death was a price worth paying for that.

  Kat turned away from him, and Marty decided it was actually for the best. They’d simply inflame each other’s fears if he began another conversation.

  He simmered restlessly until sunshine had finally dispelled the rainclouds and Anna arrived with food. It was a meal that Marty considered brunch, although it bore little relation to the hearty buffet at his hotel. Once again, she’d brought apples, bread and tea, this time with a grainy grey porridge.

  “Is it drugged?” he demanded, eyeing the tray doubtfully.

  Anna averted her gaze without replying. She probably didn’t understand.

  Marty was unwilling to break his cover by speaking Russian or Bazaki. “I bet it is,” he continued. “Where’s Ken Khan? I want to talk to him.” He was raising his voice now, his patience exhausted. “Bring him here right now,” he yelled, shaking his fist, even more frustrated by the impotence imposed by his shackles.

  Kat stared at him, her expression guarded, as Anna stomped out of the door.

  “Don’t you start,” he said to her.

  Kat shrugged. “I didn’t say anything.” She looked at the tray. “Half that bread has your name on it. And an apple.”

  Marty realised how hungry he was and grabbed the tray, letting Kat help herself before devouring the chewy flatbread. His apple followed it. Regretfully, he pushed the porridge away. Angela’s diet hadn’t prepared him for two consecutive days of iron rations.

  He heard Anna outside, shouting, “Ulan!” Eventually, she reappeared with the stocky young Bazaki who’d been introduced to Marty as Vlad.

  “You tell them, Ulan,” she said in her local tongue.

  Ulan, ogling Kat impudently, had heavily accented and stilted English. “Ken is not here,” he said.

  “When will he be back?” Marty asked.

  Ulan sniggered. “I know not,” he said. With a final lustful gaze, he left. Anna picked up the tray and followed him.

  “Didn’t you want to slap him?” Marty asked Kat.

  “What do you mean?” She looked puzzled.

  “The way he gawped at you,” Marty said. Sensing her total lack of comprehension, he said, “Never mind.” Men probably eyed Kat like that all the time.

  Kat lapsed into sullen silence. Marty, unrefreshed by the poor meal and fretful night, tried and failed to catch up on his sleep. He resorted to staring out of the window in an unsuccessful effort to stave off boredom, hunger and dread. Eventually, he decided bread, apples and rainwater weren’t enough. However fantastical an escape might seem, it gave the hostages their best chance of survival. If they didn’t gain sustenance, he and Kat would never have the physical or mental strength to find a way out.

  “We should eat everything tonight,” he said. “Who cares if there are sedatives in the stew? We need to sleep anyway.”

  She muttered acquiescence. When supper was brought, they both fell like wolves on the meaty stew, wiping their dishes clean with delicious flatbread. The accompanying tea tasted like nectar, better than any Marty had had in his life.

  Prayers didn’t come naturally to a man who acknowledged God only on high days or holidays. Still, as Marty drifted to sleep, he pleaded with his deity to spare his life. Whatever else he’d desired before, he’d settle for that now.

  Chapter 21

  Davey

  The tension and misery of an angry heavy metal track matched Davey’s sombre mood. Slowly, his stress eased and he forgot Ross’ impossible dilemma. He was no longer a bald City gent braving the morning exhaust fumes of Bishopsgate, but transported back to his youth, wild curly locks bouncing around his face as he joined fellow headbangers at Wembley Stadium.

  Another commuter jostled him. The spell was broken. Rush hour began early in the City. By 8am, the pavements were a mass of drab-suited City workers, all striding purposefully towards their offices. Davey spotted Charles easily. The IT director was the only man dawdling in the throng outside the Heron Tower. As Davey waved to him, Charles cast a cigarette stub away and lit another.

  Davey raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen you do stress before, Charles.”

  Charles laughed bitterly. “Just wait until your children grow up.” He took a long drag.

  “I’ll keep you company,” Davey said, relieved that Charles’ woes were apparently nothing to do with Dee. “What’s up?”

  Charles seemed hesitant, inhaling another lungful of smoke and glancing around anxiously before he replied. “You’ll recall I sold some corporate risks insurance recently?” he whispered.

  “Oh yes, when we were in Birmingham,” Davey said. He, too, kept his voice low. There was no need to share information with passers-by. He dimly recollected the sale, although his memories of the conference were dominated by the whirlwind affair with Alana. Charles had crowed about his triumph at the time. “Your daughter works for the policyholder, doesn’t she?”

  “Indeed,” Charles agreed. “She phoned me first thing this morning in a panic. I didn’t even have a chance to tell her about George. She wanted to talk about a potential claim. It’s serious.”

  Davey shrugged. Charles lived on his nerves too much. He supposed Amy was the same. “That’s why we’re in business. I don’t see the problem.”

  “I may not have completed the paperwork correctly,” Charles admitted.

  Davey suspected he knew what was wrong. “Have you completed it at all?” he asked.

  Charles’ silence spoke volumes. Davey clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Ross and the underwriters can look at it later,” he said. “Let’s get a coffee.” He didn’t understand why Charles was so worried. EWB had paid the chunky premium weeks ago. Davey had no intention of denying their claim.

  The lift to the seventeenth floor was crowded, and, as usual, hushed. Confidentiality precluded business talk, and British reticence stopped conversation about anything else. Davey was relieved when he and Charles wer
e alone in Saxton Brown’s serviced offices. He dialled the strongest setting on their state-of-the-art coffee machine and made them both a latte. “What’s really the matter, Charles?” he asked.

  Charles sipped the drink. “Amy’s boss, Marty Bridges, was in business in Bazakistan,” he said. “He’s been kidnapped. I suspect it’s the same bandits who have Ross’ fiancée. There’s a photograph of poor Marty in chains. It was emailed from his phone. It’s too similar to be a coincidence.”

  “Either that, or Bazakistan’s a kidnappers’ paradise,” Davey said. “I don’t recall the Foreign Office giving any warnings, though.”

  “There couldn’t possibly have been any,” Charles said. “Ross assesses our product risk and pricing. There’s no way he’d have allowed Kat to travel there if he’d really thought for a minute it was that dangerous.”

  The IT director still looked tense. Davey contemplated, and discounted, the bottle of bourbon. It was too early for anyone to start drinking. “What do the kidnappers want?” he asked.

  “Twenty million dollars,” Charles said gloomily.

  Davey nearly fell off his chair. There couldn’t be two greedy sets of kidnappers, both using the same tactics, in a backwater like Bazakistan.

  “This is going to cause problems with Ross,” Charles said, putting words to the concerns that had started to coalesce in Davey’s mind. “We’ll get negotiators in to help with Amy’s boss, won’t we? We have to get him out.” He looked anxiously at Davey, as if willing him to agree.

  Davey grunted. He needed to examine the claim, and the policy paperwork, carefully. It was pointless to commit to further action until he’d checked the claim was valid.

  “But Ross will be on his own,” Charles added. “Nobody’s helping him negotiate with the kidnappers, or giving him the cash to pay Kat’s ransom. If he can’t do what those thugs want, Kat may not come home alive.”

  “I’m sorry,” Davey said. “We can’t deal with Kat’s ransom demand too. It would be completely unethical. Ross didn’t buy insurance for her, and we can’t use the company’s assets to support him, however sympathetic we are.” He couldn’t afford to be swayed by Charles, or indeed listen to his own emotions. It was going to be a difficult sell to his shareholders as it was. He wasn’t looking forward to telling them that the low risk, high margin kidnap insurance business was about to pay twenty million dollars for Amy’s boss. Although Ross had undoubtedly passed on some of the risk to the Lloyds market, the company must have retained a proportion itself. Charles’ sales victory was looking increasingly hollow.

  Ross wasn’t in the office, and Davey wondered if he would turn up at all. In Ross’ shoes, Davey thought, whether he had flu or not, he’d take leave from work. Ross should be liquidating his assets and speaking to his Bazaki lawyer. Davey was about to ring the actuary to suggest it, when Ross arrived at the office, his face drawn.

  “It’s not just Kat who’s been kidnapped, is it?” he said. “Erik tells me his business partner has disappeared in Bazakistan too.” He shook his head. “My future brother-in-law bent my ear for what felt like hours. He’s not amused that Kat went there at all, let alone without me. He’s even less impressed that he found out via your daughter.” He glared at Charles. “Why can’t Amy stay out of this?”

  Charles looked stunned. “I don’t think she did anything wrong,” he said, his tone injured.

  “The kidnappers want secrecy,” Ross said. An air of desperation clung to the young man.

  “I’ll deal with this,” Davey said, noting how Ross was shivering, his eyes sunken and rimmed with dark circles. “I’m sure it’s time for your next cigarette, Charles.”

  “Too right,” Charles said, heading for the door. He, too, obviously realised Ross hadn’t slept a wink.

  “Ross, we’ll manage without you for once. Go home, talk to your Bazaki contacts, then try to get some rest,” Davey urged. Satisfied the actuary had listened, he took a deep breath, preparing for a meticulous investigation into the new claim.

  Chapter 22

  Marty

  Another day dawned. Marty had slept well. He had more energy this morning, and was glad he’d eaten last night. Rolling over to look at Kat, he watched her green eyes blink open, as if a jeweller had swept back curtains to reveal twin circles of jade.

  She yawned and stretched. “I’ll be using the bucket,” she said, throwing off her blanket.

  He made a show of covering his eyes with his hands. It was the least he could to preserve her dignity. She’d do the same for him.

  “When we met at Heathrow, I bet you didn’t think we’d be sharing a room,” he said. He could hear she’d finished, so he risked a wink.

  “It wasn’t my choice either,” Kat replied. “We don’t have to see each other again if we get out alive.” Her lip trembled.

  “When, not if. We’ll be free soon,” he said, with more confidence than he felt. His helplessness was a bitter pill for a man accustomed to controlling his own destiny and that of others. This bothered him more than the fear lurking in the corners of his mind, banished there by sheer willpower. He forced himself to stay positive for his own sake, for Kat, and for the family and employees who depended on him. “Mr Millionaire will pay up. So will our friends at Saxton Brown. It won’t stop me returning to Bazakistan.”

  “You won’t need to,” she snapped. The rich stew had obviously restored her strength and brought her old fire back. “I’m reclaiming the vodka factory from that old thief, Aliyev. There’ll be no point in you travelling to Kireniat, because you won’t be welcome at Snow Mountain.”

  Harry would have plenty to say about that. Marty knew the engineer wasn’t giving up his factory without a fight. Did Ross and Kat imagine they could outspend Harry and his powerful friends? They didn’t stand a chance, especially if Ross had to pay a hefty price for her release.

  He wondered why Kat wanted the distillery anyway. Amy had told Marty about Kat’s partying, her love of dancing and designer dresses. Kireniat was hardly exciting enough for a London socialite. “I don’t know why you care about it so much,” he said.

  “These are my roots,” she replied.

  Marty groaned in disbelief. “How far back?” he asked. He tried to sweep an arm around the room, forgetting his shackles. The chains clanked. “Look around you. Look especially at the freedom fighters. They’re ethnic Bazaki. How long do you think the Russians have been here? I’d guess your parents were shipped out by Stalin. Maybe they were toddlers at the time. Your father ran a factory producing liquor for the Communist USSR. There were no generations toiling in the mountains, lovingly handcrafting vodka for Bazaki aristocrats. There were no aristocrats. No point being misty-eyed about Snow Mountain, bab.”

  “Still,” she persisted, somewhat sulkily. “It’s a family tradition, even if just for a generation. My father made Snow Mountain great. He expected me to take on the factory when I grew up. Erik wasn’t interested.”

  Marty could believe her last statement. Erik had always shown an aptitude for science. He was a dreamer too, like his father. Of course, Sasha had been an able engineer and a reasonable manager, but it was Maria who had been the practical one. She’d immediately seen the commercial possibilities when Marty first showed up at the factory. She and Sasha were a good team. Why would she have anything to do with a snake like Aliyev? He shook his head.

  Kat misinterpreted the gesture. “I suppose you think a woman can’t run a distillery?” she said hotly. “You’re wrong. I went to the factory every day in the summer holidays, helping with labels on the bottling line, learning how to produce vodka from start to finish.”

  That implied scant regard for health and safety, Marty thought wryly, not that it had done her any harm. This wasn’t the UK after all, stuck with all that government red tape. He let her continue.

  “It was going to be my business one day,” Kat said. “The distribution as well. My father intended me to do it when you retired. That’s why he sent me to school in England.�
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  “News to me, bab,” Marty said. Sasha hadn’t breathed a word of it to him, and he would have received a robust response if he had. “I’m passing my business on to my children when I ride into the sunset. I already employ three of them at East West Bridges. My succession planning’s sorted.”

  She gawped at him. Marty could almost see the wheels turning in her head, telling her he was a liar, and it wasn’t fair.

  There was a sudden crashing sound from the yard, and the door rattled.

  “What was that?” Kat nearly leaped out of her skin.

  Marty looked out of the window. He saw Anna cursing, food and crockery scattered on the ground. A couple of pigs were making a start on the apples.

  “Room service is delayed this morning,” he said.

  Anna recovered quickly enough to appear ten minutes later with a full tray. “No Ken,” she said, giving Marty the evil eye before slamming the door behind her.

  Once they’d split the bread and apples, Kat was still apparently spoiling for a fight. “You say you’re involving your children in your work. Why wouldn’t my father do the same for me? I can’t believe he didn’t tell you.”

  Marty bit into his apple, savouring the juice. It would be many hours before he ate again. Meanwhile, he’d be cooped up with Kat. He wished she was less agitated. “Calm down,” he said gently. “Maybe Sasha never got round to divulging his plans to me. There’s much more to Snow Mountain than you realise, though. It isn’t just about making vodka. You have to meet regulations for sale, advertising and quality. Taxes have to be paid as you transport and sell the product.” He didn’t mention the bribes, although judiciously paid commissions were also a fact of life. That was a criminal act back home, so the less Kat knew of it, the better. “Those are the technical aspects. Then the magic starts. You have to build a brand, and protect it. Do you think Sasha did all that?” He didn’t wait for her to reply. “No. I registered the Snow Mountain trademark, and my company owns it.”