The Vodka Trail

by AA Abbott

  “The Intercontinental?” her new friend asked.

  “Sure,” Kat said. She mused dreamily about chilling out in the hotel spa, perhaps visiting a nightclub later. Fatigue slowed her reactions. When her driver wove in and out of backstreets, she didn’t think to question his route. She didn’t even think, in the split second when the car stopped at a red light and two more young men jumped in through the rear doors, that she should leap out. The lights changed, the driver locked the doors, and her chance of salvation passed.

  Chapter 13

  Ken

  Ken Khan was stocky where Nurbolat Khan was slim, but otherwise the two men could have been twins. Their resemblance had often been remarked upon in their National Service days, especially as both were the same height, shared a surname and sported a soldier’s crewcut. Ken, it was true, had grown his hair and sprouted a beard and moustache since then, but they were still mistaken for brothers. They had a similar outlook on the world too, especially the sensitive issue of Bazakistan’s politics and its President. After leaving the Army to study English at Kireniat University, they plotted sedition late into the night over a bottle of vodka. Ken was used to considering Nurbolat an obedient disciple, which was perhaps why he couldn’t quite believe the news.

  “You did what?” he demanded, eyeing the young woman sleeping in his elderly Mercedes.

  “I’ve kidnapped her,” Nurbolat confirmed. “She’s a rich Westerner, here on business. Once we ransom her, we’ll make a fortune.”

  Ulan, one of the other two boys who’d gone out with Nurbolat, butted in. “You know how it is, Ken. The boys take a lot of risks holding up banks and grocery stores, and it’s not bringing in enough money. We need more to buy weapons and communications equipment.”

  “It’s too risky,” Ken replied. He didn’t need the complications, political and practical, that a foreign hostage would bring. With regret, he decided they were already past the point of no return. The girl had seen too much; she could describe his comrades and their car. “I’m going to take her into the forest and shoot her,” he added. “Let wild animals dispose of the evidence.”

  “You’re missing out on easy money, then,” Nurbolat said.

  Ken was still sceptical. “How much do you honestly think we’ll get?” he asked. Nothing about their hostage indicated wealth, apart from a diamond ring that could be fake and a collection of bags from pricy boutiques. She didn’t look Western, either. Her features were Russian, full-lipped, high-cheekboned, sensuous like his lover’s. Ken’s thoughts drifted to Marina. He didn’t want her to find out they’d kidnapped a pretty girl.

  “Ten million dollars,” Nurbolat said. “I tell you, she’s rich. She’s an English businesswoman and she’s paying tens of thousands in bribes. She has told me this. There must be big money at stake. I have her passport too, and a thousand dollars in cash.”

  Ken whistled. They needed cash desperately. With money and time, they could spirit the woman over the border to another country before releasing her. They could buy guns. They could recruit mercenaries. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

  Nurbolat flashed him a rare grin.

  “And we must be organised,” Ken said. He had to think quickly, address the practicalities. “Does she have a phone?”

  “I’ve already switched it off,” Nurbolat said.

  “Good.” His friend was bold, not rash. “Take it to the Kireniat Mall and switch it on again there in one of the coffee shops,” Ken told him. “There are thousands of shoppers in that place every day, in a confined space. The militia won’t find you, even if they’re looking. Find out who her close family are and email a ransom demand from her phone.”

  Nurbolat nodded agreement.

  “Make it plain they’re not to tell the authorities,” Ken said. “The British government stops ransoms being paid. We don’t want them on the case, especially as our beloved President would have the militia look even harder for us.”

  “I understand that,” Nurbolat said. “You can rely on me, Ken.”

  “We’ll have to sort out logistics,” Ken said. “My wife’s in London, as you know. I’ll get her to open a Swiss bank account. She can use it to buy arms as well. By the way, why is the girl asleep?”

  Nurbolat and Ulan exchanged glances with their friend, Sultan. He’d stayed silent until now.

  “Heroin,” Sultan, said sheepishly.

  If he’d had a gun in his pocket, Ken would have shot Sultan there and then. The girl would have died if they’d given her an overdose. “We smuggle that stuff. We don’t use it,” Ken said.

  Sultan evaded his eyes.

  “You injected her, I suppose,” Ken stormed. “How come you had the equipment, and what possessed you, anyway? You could have killed her.”

  “She was like a fiend from hell,” Ulan said sulkily. “She would have scratched Nurbolat’s eyes out before we were even outside Kireniat. Then we’d all have died, because he was driving.”

  Ken’s agitation lessened. What was the problem? The girl was alive. She’d have no idea where she was or how she’d got there, along a three mile dirt track through woods by the highway south of Kireniat. “All right. I understand. Actually, let’s keep her drugged to confuse her senses.” It would reduce the risk of identification and betrayal. “Use something less dangerous next time. Valium, Rohypnol, whatever. It can be slipped into her food and drink.” He’d deal with Sultan’s evident addiction later.

  He noticed Ulan prick up his ears at the mention of Rohypnol. “No funny business,” he warned. “We’re freedom fighters, not rapists. I didn’t want a hostage in the first place. It seems I have no choice, but the least I can do is treat her properly. Keep her quarters warm, give her food and sanitation, and keep your hands to yourselves.” He glared at Ulan. “Remember, we can’t kill the golden goose.” Not yet, anyway. He wanted the gold first.

  Chapter 14

  Marty

  Arystan Aliyev had once been a handsome young man. Marty remembered the slim, blond engineer he’d first met more than twenty years before. Harry had been Sasha Belov’s second in command then. His looks were nearly gone, buried under the florid skin and bulbous nose of an alcoholic. The waxed hair was grey and thinning, the athletic figure run to fat. Harry’s enthusiasm for engineering remained undimmed, however.

  “We’ll be expanding the production line here,” he said, guiding Marty to a storage area at the back of the factory, a Soviet-era concrete box a few miles outside the city.

  Marty nodded. After brief greetings in English, they’d switched to conversing in Russian. Marty was reasonably fluent. He had a gift for languages, and Harry’s English was somewhat halting. “What about raw materials?” he asked. “Can you draw enough water from the stream?” Locally renowned for its pure water, the brook outside the distillery flowed straight from the foothills of the snow-capped peaks near Kireniat.

  “Of course,” Harry said. “And if not…” he showed Marty a new purification plant. “I designed it,” he said proudly.

  They went outside, ostensibly for Marty to view the vigour of the stream. Harry fumbled in his pocket for cigarettes, a local brand, and a lighter. Smoking was forbidden inside the factory. Marty suspected the rule was honoured only on occasions like this.

  “Want a drink?” Harry asked, producing a quarter bottle of Snow Mountain vodka from another pocket.

  “No, thanks,” Marty said. “Not before five thirty.”

  Harry tipped half the bottle down his throat before lighting up. Marty half expected a magic trick, Harry breathing out a flame perhaps, but nothing extraordinary occurred. Harry simply stood silently, drawing on his cigarette, a superannuated James Dean.

  “I’ll give you a bottle for the road,” Harry said. “Now tell me why you’re here in Kireniat. I had no idea you were coming until you telephoned this morning.”

  Kireniat was small and close-knit enough that news travelled like wildfire. Marty decided it was pointless trying to keep a secret from his
Bazaki business partner. “I’m looking for land to grow darria. Not in the mountains, but the valleys in between.”

  “Darria, huh?” Harry said. “The old wives’ shrub. My wife drinks the tea every morning. She’s tried to get me to do it, but hell will freeze over first. That stuff tastes foul.”

  “My wife likes it too,” Marty admitted. “As soon as she heard it was full of anti-oxidants, she couldn’t drink enough.”

  “Vanity triumphs over common sense,” Harry remarked. “Anyway, you’re buying land. What’s your budget?”

  “Two hundred thousand dollars.”

  Harry laughed. “When you first came here, that would have bought you the whole of Kireniat,” he said. “It will still stretch a long way. There’s a farm next to my summer house on sale for half that amount.”

  “Would that be Sasha’s old summer house?” Marty asked. He recalled warm, sunny evenings, the smell of woodsmoke and roast meat, as he joined the family for barbecues. Sasha’s wife, Maria, had been a fine cook and pretty with it; Kat was her spitting image.

  “It would,” Harry said, without appearing troubled in any way.

  “I’ve a visit to that farm lined up tomorrow,” Marty said.

  Their eyes were drawn to the wood-clad bungalow next to the factory. Large, with picture windows, it had been built in the 1960s for the then factory manager. Sasha, and now Harry, lived there subsequently.

  The building was surrounded by a garden of almost an acre, obviously well-tended despite the difficulties of the Kireniat micro-climate. Beyond the trees at the perimeter, only just in bud and still skeletal from winter, Marty saw a swish of blonde hair at the window.

  Harry noticed it too. He waved. The blonde disappeared. “My wife,” Harry explained. “She’s shy.”

  Marty believed him. He’d never met Mrs Aliyeva. “How long have you been married now?” he asked.

  “Nine years,” Harry said. “I loved her for much longer, but until then, I couldn’t give her this.” His arm swept around from the house to the factory. “She likes the good things in life,” he added.

  Marty almost felt sorry for him, before recollecting how Harry had chased women, bedding and discarding them ruthlessly in the decade before his marriage. He knew of three illegitimate children; there were bound to be more. Harry had even followed Maria around like a dog trailing after a bitch on heat. She, at least, had nothing to do with him, Marty was sure.

  He really ought to tell Harry about Kat’s arrival in Bazakistan. That, after all, was why he’d made the effort to meet his business partner today. He wondered how to broach the subject, but it transpired he didn’t have to.

  “Do you see anything of Sasha’s daughter in London?” Harry asked.

  “Coincidentally, she was on the same plane to Kireniat,” Marty told him.

  “I’m not surprised.” Harry lit another cigarette, and puffed on it furiously. “She’s launched a court application to take the Snow Mountain Company away from me, factory and all.”

  “Could she succeed?” Marty said, alarmed.

  “Over my dead body.” Harry’s blue eyes were cold as ice. “I’ve got the right people on my payroll.”

  They stood in silence until Harry’s cigarette was finished. The wind had begun to rise. A few flakes of snow were falling. “Tea?” Harry asked.

  Marty yawned. Despite his snooze on the plane, jet lag was overtaking him. “Please,” he said.

  Harry ushered him inside, past the stills and pipes, to the corridor of offices where the factory was managed. The walls, panelled in local pine, had been freshly painted white. They were adorned with framed Snow Mountain advertising posters.

  A raven-haired Bazaki girl, looking scarcely old enough to have left school, sat typing in the antechamber to Harry’s rather luxurious office. She stood to greet them, revealing long legs under a black leather mini-skirt.

  Not for the first time, Marty was struck by the beauty of young Bazaki women. “Hello,” he said.

  “My new secretary,” Harry said, by way of introduction. “She’ll make the tea.”

  “New secretary?” Marty echoed, feeling the full gaze of the young woman’s sultry eyes as she returned to her seat. She crossed her legs. The hem of the leather mini-skirt moved another inch up her slender thighs. “What happened to Nadia?”

  “She moved on,” Harry said. “This is Inna.”

  Inna batted feathery lashes, the same raven hue as her sleek mane. She leaned forward, leaving little to imagine about her buxom figure. “You’re from London, Marty? I think we should take a business trip there, Harry, don’t you?”

  Harry looked contentedly at Inna’s cleavage. “Oh, yes,” he murmured.

  “Visit me any time,” Marty said, switching to English, “but if the bab’s expecting Buckingham Palace, she’ll be sadly disappointed. I’m based in Birmingham, which is, oh, a mere hundred miles away.”

  “I know,” Harry said. “Do you think I can’t tell the difference? I just plan to combine business with pleasure on my next visit to the UK. You understand me?”

  “Too well,” Marty winked. Harry hadn’t changed.

  Chapter 15

  Ken

  It was the safest of safe houses, because apart from Marina, only Ken’s trusted inner circle knew of it.

  Anyone who bothered to take the unpromising track through the forest would find a simple smallholding. It was just a little piece of land, an apple orchard with a few tumbledown buildings, but it was his. A son of the soil, Ken Khan loved the land with his bones. He’d spent too long away from it, displaced to the city after his parents’ farm was expropriated. This was like coming home.

  He was fond of Marina too. She’d brought him here; it was thanks to her that he had this place. The least he could do was light a fire for her, to make her comfortable. He gathered kindling from the woodpile and began igniting it in the grate; tentative flames at first, then a conflagration, sizzling and popping. This, he thought, was how democracy started. A few pinpoints of light in the darkness, gradually joining until the bright blaze consumed all obstacles in its path.

  He heard the sound of an engine, wheels clattering along the dirt track. Eagerly, he ran to greet her.

  Marina emerged from her Mercedes, a whirl of flashing eyes, blonde hair and white fur. Her boots crunched on the frozen ground. Her breath made clouds in the air. “It’s been so long, Ken.” She pulled him to her, kissing him passionately and stroking his waxed black hair. He’d allowed it to grow longer, so it fell back into the nape of his neck, the way she liked it.

  “It’s been only a week.” He enveloped her in a bear hug. Her furs were soft and downy beneath his fingers. She smelled of lilies and love and mystery. She’d told him this was Chanel.

  Anna, who cared for the pigs and chickens, wandered past, glaring pointedly. She disappeared into the hut where the English girl was manacled.

  Ken had no intention of allowing Marina to follow, even in the unlikely event she wanted to. He took her hand, leading her inside to the heated room.

  “This old shack’s looking good,” she said, removing her boots and shrugging off her coat.

  Ken nodded. He and his friends had repaired the properties, whitewashing them inside and out. Within, this one was spotless and simply furnished: a single mattress, cushions on the floor. Colourful rugs covered both walls and floors. The scent and crackle of the fire filled the air.

  Marina sat cross legged on the mattress. Ken snuggled into her, nuzzling the warm, clean skin of her neck. After a while, he undressed her, admiring her pale body, firm and white as a marble statue. How old was she? Anna had contemptuously told him that his mistress was in her fifties. He didn’t believe it. He wasn’t quite thirty himself. Marina was perhaps ten years his elder.

  They’d met when he took a summer job in the distillery as a student. The affair survived his marriage to one of his classmates. Marina saw to that, such was her desperation for him. She needed him for the tenderness Aliyev wouldn’t
give her. For Ken too, since his wife fled to London, Marina was his only lover.

  Unlike Marina and Aliyev, their forebears among the millions of Russians banished to Bazakistan by Stalin, Ken was of Bazaki origin. He was proud of his heritage: his swarthy skin, waxed hair and moustache, strapping figure. Marina liked them too. Her response was very unlike a statue as he made love to her, caressing her and making her moan with pleasure. He tried not to think of Aliyev doing the same.

  Afterwards, he lit her cigarette before taking one for himself. As ever, she puffed gently while he took long, deep drags.

  “Why don’t you inhale?” he asked

  “You only just noticed?” she said, amused. “My mother told me. Don’t inhale, and you’ll cheat the grave. And drink darria tea.” She drew on her cigarette again. “Darria grows wild all around my dacha, actually. So much so, that an Englishman, Marty Bridges, wants to farm the shrub there. He’s buying the land next to mine to do it.”

  “What does he want with darria?” Ken asked. It was akin to cultivating thistles and dandelions. Anyone could do it, but it was pointless.

  “To sell the tea across the world,” Marina said. “To steal our birthright, a natural Bazaki herb, to make himself rich. Worse still, he’ll destroy the tranquillity of my bolthole. I’ll be unable to snatch time with you there when Arystan’s away on business in London.” Her green eyes welled with tears. “You must get rid of Bridges, Ken. His death is the only solution.”

  “Murder him?” Once again, he pictured himself in the forest, dragging his victim to a quiet spot. A well-targetted bullet, carrion left for wolves to find; after they’d feasted, no one would know. Yet he was uneasy. The girl was different, because she’d been presented to him as a fait accompli. He would do what he needed to do, but why take unnecessary risks when, politically, he must keep his hands clean? On the day of the revolution, he needed foreign governments on side. “I can’t do it,” he told his lover.