The Vodka Trail

by AA Abbott

  “You used to smoke yourself,” Davey pointed out.

  “Not cigars,” Dee said. “It’s a taste I’ve never wished to acquire. I just about tolerated his cigarette habit when Charles and I were together.”

  She’d once admitted to Davey that she began smoking as a teenager to win her way into Charles’ affections. Charles was the coolest guy they knew then, a few years older than Davey, and hero of the school football team. Dee hadn’t been the only girl pursuing him. Sporty, scruffy and chubby, she didn’t stand a chance.

  Although they’d played football together at school, Davey had forgotten all about Charles once they left. Dee hadn’t. Two years ago, she’d announced without warning that Charles had moved in with her. Eighteen months later and equally suddenly, just as Davey had given Charles a job, it became clear that Dee was pregnant and Charles had left her.

  Davey studied his sister’s appearance: her creamy skin, golden hair, and slim figure that appeared almost untouched by pregnancy. The chunky teenager was gone. She and Charles had been a good-looking couple.

  It was a shame they were no longer together. Children needed a father around. Besides, whatever had passed between Charles and Dee, Davey liked his IT director. Charles was good company, and straightforward. His IT skills were fundamental to Saxton Brown’s success. Davey suspected the relationship with Dee would have lasted longer if it hadn’t started so soon after Charles’ divorce.

  “Are you planning to see much of Charles?” he asked.

  “I won’t stop him seeing his son,” Dee said. “I’ll have nothing to do with him otherwise. My teenage infatuation twenty-five years ago was no basis for a relationship now. I was crazy to think any different.”

  She was protesting too much, Davey thought. If Charles hadn’t walked out, Dee would still be praising him to the skies. She’d virtually thrown herself at the man two years before, having met him in a nightclub and discovered he was newly single.

  George awoke, looking around solemnly with huge blue eyes. Dee decided they should take him into the garden. She wrapped the little boy in a blanket.

  They walked down a staircase to the basement, a stainless steel kitchen with a large dining area and French doors at the rear. Dee’s house was larger at the back than the front: four storeys instead of three. The property was a step up in size from her old flat.

  It was a fine spring evening, sunny, and as warm as the season allowed. A lilac tree threw its heady scent over the long, narrow plot. Dee showed him how she’d left old trees in situ, for fruit and climbing, while designing a garden suitable for a small child. There was a lawn, a play area and a herb patch. Furthest from the house, a locked gate led to a mooring on the Regents Canal. One day, she would build a boathouse, Dee said. She and George would speed across London by water, ignoring the traffic-choked streets.

  They sat on hammocks under the lilac tree. Davey stroked George’s soft hair. Dee told him how glad she was that the decorators had just finished. It had been touch and go whether renovations would be completed in time for the baby’s arrival.

  “I’m sending the builders round to the flat in Mayfair now,” Dee said. “I’ll be renting it to an oligarch, so I’m making it perfect to attract the best tenant.”

  Davey assumed that would be the tenant who paid the most money. “Are you sure it needs work?” he asked doubtfully. The flat was already finished to a high specification in the cool greys that Dee favoured, ornate mirrors and chandeliers adding a touch of bling.

  “More than you’d think,” Dee said. “The paintwork needs freshening. Little scuffs, the sort you and I would overlook, mean hundreds off the rent. They’ll expect power showers. Then there’s the balcony floor. It’s rotten, and has to be replaced.”

  “How long will that take?” he asked.

  “A couple of months,” Dee said, “if the time the decorators spent here is any guide.”

  Alana had suggested he rented a pied-à-terre. Another option suddenly presented itself. “Could I stay there occasionally until you rent it out? I’m always working late at the office these days. Staying over in central London would help me keep my exercise programme and sleep on track. Commuting is just dead time.”

  Dee looked at him sharply. Had she realised he was having an affair? His pulse quickened, imagining Dee telling Laura; then tears, recriminations and divorce. On Saturday mornings, he would join the sad dads he saw at rugby training, gazing wistfully at the children they would hand back at teatime.

  “I don’t understand,” Dee said. “You’ve worked in the City for years without buying into that macho long hours culture. Why now?”

  “We’re a start-up,” Davey said, as if that explained everything. He grinned with relief. She suspected nothing.

  “Well, don’t forget your mindfulness techniques,” Dee said. “Even two minutes of meditation is as good as an hour’s sleep. You’re welcome to use the flat. It’s not fully furnished, though. I only left a few pieces to display the flat to prospective tenants. It has to be properly dressed. If there’s anything you need, let me know and I’ll have it sent round.”

  “Thanks,” Davey said. All he needed was a bed.

  They returned to the kitchen so she could fetch keys. He noted the calendar hanging on the wall. It was refreshingly free of appointments.

  “Are you taking it easy for a month or so?” Davey asked.

  “Of course,” Dee said. “I’ve told my clients I’m spending time getting to know George. I can afford it. My online videos are making money while I sleep. I’ve made sure not to take on new clients lately. The last one was an insurance highflyer, actually.”

  “Really?” Davey said. “Anyone I know?”

  “Alana Green,” Dee replied. “She said she’d met you.”

  Picturing his lover’s naked body, Davey suppressed a leer. “I hardly know her,” he lied.

  “Yes, I worked that out. She was fascinated by you, I think,” Dee said. “She bombarded me with questions about you. I ended up telling her about your mediocre football team, the Iron Man, your ridiculous taste in music. She hung on my every word. And do you know the very strangest thing?”

  “You must tell me,” Davey said weakly, stunned by the revelations but flattered that Alana had been so keen to pursue him.

  “Alana didn’t even have time to meditate. She had to dash back to her office. Her secretary cancelled all the other meetings she’d put in my diary.” Dee shook her head in disapproval. “That woman doesn’t know how to relax.”

  Chapter 10

  Kat

  “What do you mean, we’re not going to Bazakistan?” Kat said. “I don’t understand.” It was in the middle of the afternoon, and she was packing a suitcase for the next day. Their tickets, passports and currency were safe in a travel wallet. A cab was booked to take them to Heathrow in the morning.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” Ross said, his voice gruff. Theatrically, he put a hand to his brow. “I’ve got a hellish headache, my throat feels as if I’ve swallowed a box of drawing pins, and my temperature’s way above normal.” He flopped onto their bed. “I just want to sleep. I saw the GP as an emergency case. He says it’s flu and I need to rest, not travel.”

  “You can rest on the plane,” Kat said, perturbed.

  “No way would I disobey doctor’s orders,” Ross said. “I’m afraid the trip’s off, darling.”

  He looked dreadful, his skin waxy and beaded with sweat. Of course he shouldn’t travel. But where did that leave her? Arman Khan had arranged a court hearing, and she couldn’t afford to miss it.

  “Okay,” Kat said. “I can see why you shouldn’t go to Bazakistan, but there’s nothing preventing me.” She tried to hide her fear. It mustn’t stop her now, not when she was so close to recovering her family business and her purpose in life.

  Ross looked concerned. “Erik felt it was too dangerous for you to travel alone,” he said. “In fact, he didn’t want you to go at all.”

  “Erik’s an old woman. H
e thought it was too dangerous, full stop,” Kat pointed out. “That’s not what the lawyers are saying. Money talks in Bazakistan.” At last, thanks to Ross, she was in a position to have her say.

  “I’d trust Ted’s judgement, but the lawyers are just some Bazaki guys he knows, aren’t they?” Ross said. “If I were them, I’d pretend Bazakistan was an earthly paradise to keep the fees rolling in. Anyway, I’m starting to think this factory is too much of a distraction. You won’t have time to run it, once we’re married with a baby or two. You do want children, don’t you? Everyone I know seems to be having them, even Charles.”

  “Amy’s father?” Kat was puzzled. “Surely not, at his age? Amy never mentioned anything.”

  “He’s just become a father again,” Ross said. “I’m actually rather jealous. A child is the only legacy we truly leave behind on this earth. Our genes will live forever, whereas a factory will crumble to dust. It’s only bricks and mortar, after all.”

  Ross wasn’t usually philosophical. “You’ve definitely got a fever,” Kat said impatiently. “Try to sleep, and let me finish packing.” She ignored the twinge of guilt that suggested Ross needed her by his side. He’d be over his flu within days, whereas she only had one chance to recover Snow Mountain and show the world what she could do with it.

  Ross groaned. “Please don’t go.”

  “If you really cared, you’d let me.” Kat looked soulfully into his eyes. That always won him over.

  Chapter 11

  Marty

  Bazakair shared its Heathrow business lounge with a number of other airlines. Bored with the grainy photographs of models in The Sun, Marty tried to guess where the other passengers were flying. He was sure the rowdy group of young men in the corner were the Bazaki national football team. They stayed put as flights were called for Karachi, Kuala Lumpur and Canberra. He was about to help himself to more complimentary beer when he saw Kat.

  She strode into the lounge, long blonde locks swinging above a pale cashmere coat. It had been a year since they last met, a fortunately brief occasion when they’d exchanged harsh words across Erik’s hospital bed. Erik was fine now. Marty and Kat’s regard for each other was anything but. Marty wondered whether to ignore or acknowledge her.

  He chose the latter, standing in her path and offering a handshake. “How’s tricks, young Kat?”

  She looked at him with unconcealed dislike, although her warm, smooth hand took his for a second or two. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” she asked.

  “I’m visiting the distillery,” Marty said. He was actually planning to view a few parcels of land, and had been in two minds whether to see Harry at the vodka factory at all. “How about you?”

  “Oh, things to do, people to see,” she said. “I’ve spotted someone I know. Must go – Ciao.”

  Marty doubted she knew the Bazaki footballers, but from their leers and frenzied waving, it was clear they wanted to put that right. She sauntered over to them and began a conversation in Russian. Marty didn’t bother to listen.

  The flight to Bazaku City and Kireniat was called. Marty was unamused to find his suspicions were correct. Kat, too, was travelling to Bazakistan. She donned her cashmere coat again and strode out of the lounge, admiring footballers clustered around her.

  Marty followed them, certain now that he should meet Harry in Kireniat. Kat didn’t look in his direction again until, boarding the aircraft, she glanced over her shoulder and whispered to the flight attendant. When he was seated, he wasn’t surprised to see that she was as far away from him as the confines of the club class cabin allowed.

  Marty set his watch to Bazaki time, early evening in Kireniat. Ordering plenty of red wine to compensate for Bazakair’s poor beer selection, he settled in his seat to view the latest Bond movie.

  Chapter 12

  Kat

  As the Airbus circled above Kireniat, Kat stared through the oval window. A lump rose in her throat at the familiar sight: lush farms around the city, newly clothed in spring green, and snow-tipped mountains beyond. Only Kireniat’s skyline had changed in the last eleven years. There were taller, shinier buildings glittering in the morning sunlight.

  She was both excited and apprehensive. This wasn’t just her birthplace, it was the city whose officials had consigned her parents to an early death in gaol. To quell her lingering fears, she swigged from the small bottle of champagne provided by Bazakair for a Bucks Fizz breakfast. Some of the footballers noticed, and gave her the thumbs up. They passed pieces of paper to her with names and phone numbers hastily scribbled down. She smiled, withholding her own number. While their chat in the lounge at Heathrow had been fun, helping her relax, Kat didn’t want it to go further.

  Her spirits began to lift. Bazakistan was different now. Even the shape of the city below was evidence of that. She had money, thanks to Ross, and that made a difference. Kat had no illusions about the nature of commissions brokered by Arman Khan.

  She waited until Marty Bridges, the football team, and the other club class passengers had disembarked. Strolling after them with her precious British passport, she was waved through immigration with barely a glance.

  A handful of large Western hotel brands had arrived in Kireniat. Kat took a cab from the airport to the InterContinental, a showy skyscraper with a polished granite lobby and huge rooms. Although it was early, the receptionist booked her in immediately. Kat refreshed herself with a shower, ordered from room service, and asked the concierge to arrange a taxi to Arman’s offices.

  Unlike Ted, Arman invested in ostentation. His premises were on the eighth floor of a glitzy newbuild overlooking the former People’s Palace, now City Hall. Kat was escorted to a meeting room by a young blonde secretary. Their heels click-clacked in unison across the marble floor. If anything, the girl’s stilettos were even higher than Kat’s.

  Arman was sitting at a circular table, a view of downtown Kireniat behind him. He motioned to Kat to sit opposite. She saw that the black glass table was, in fact, made of many small tables, each shaped like a slice of cake.

  The secretary served strong coffee in tiny white espresso cups, without being asked. Kat sipped hers gratefully.

  “So,” Arman said, gesturing expansively behind him, “What do you think of the new Kireniat?”

  “I see a lot of change,” she said. “I hope it’s been enough to give me my factory back.”

  Arman leaned backwards. His chair, a chrome and leather Bauhaus copy, rocked, not quite tipping him out. “No problem,” he said, grinning. “I’ve lodged your claim with the commercial court. They were supposed to discuss it tomorrow but it’s been postponed until Friday. How long are you here?”

  “I’d planned to fly back on Thursday,” Kat said, “but I’ll stay as long as it takes. Why the deferral – is it Aliyev’s doing?”

  “I don’t think so, and I don’t envisage difficulties,” Arman assured her. “Judges are overworked and short delays are normal. Do some shopping, a bit of sightseeing. I’ll make sure the court hears your case first thing on Friday morning.” He rubbed a thumb and forefingers together.

  Kat thanked him and rose to leave. “Incidentally,” she asked, “did you hear from Ted on the trademark ownership outside Bazakistan?”

  “Yes, I had an email ten minutes ago,” Arman said. “One moment.” He took an iPhone from his pocket and thumbed through emails. “Here it is. A long list of countries where class 33 trademark rights for Snow Mountain are registered.” He winced. “Oh dear, it’s bad news. The brand is owned by the Snow Mountain Company only in Bazakistan. Everywhere else, it belongs to EWB Ltd.”

  “What’s class 33?” Kat asked. “And who’s EWB? Is it part of the Snow Mountain Company?”

  “Class 33 is the trademark category for alcohol,” Arman said. He fingered his closely clipped beard. “I’ve no idea about EWB. It sounds like an English company. I’ll ask Ted to find out.”

  Kat was discomfited. The brand’s split ownership added complexity to her ques
t to regain her inheritance. She decided to follow his advice. Retail therapy would improve her mood.

  Outside, light snow had begun to fall. There were no cabs. A battered black Mercedes ground to a halt next to her.

  “Taxi?” the driver asked.

  Kat didn’t answer. She looked around anxiously, shivering in the snow. There were no other vehicles in sight.

  “American?” the driver asked, hopefully. He was a slim Bazaki lad, about her age.

  “English,” Kat said. “Kireniat Mall?”

  He nodded. “Five dollars.”

  She opened the passenger door and sat on the worn leather seat next to him. In her childhood, she’d heard of gypsy taxis, the informal transport that appeared whenever a driver had spare time and a desire to earn extra cash. Her family would never use one, of course; there was no need, when both her parents drove.

  “I practise English, okay?” the lad announced in a marked local accent. “Why you in Kireniat?”

  “For work,” Kat said.

  “You work in shop? At the Mall?”

  He quizzed her for a while, taking a route that she thought circuitous, but no matter. It was a fixed price, and she’d brought plenty of dollars anyway. She recalled they were accepted everywhere. Looking at the snow, she told him she would buy furs.

  “My uncle’s shop in Kireniat Mall is best,” the driver said, offering to collect her later and return her to her hotel.

  Like much of Kireniat, the Mall was brand new and glitzy. Fountains tinkled, classical music played, spotlights displayed expensive goods to their best advantage. It was a world away from the untidy bazaars that Kat remembered. She found the furrier and marvelled at the soft sables, snow leopard and wolfskin on display. Although unsentimental about animals, she was also realistic. Such furs might be practical in Bazakistan, but in London they would attract attention of the least admiring kind. She chose a long white leather coat and matching hat, negotiated a discount for dollars, and made a beeline for a few more boutiques. Humming along to the piped Stravinsky, she returned to the waiting Mercedes with her purchases.