The Vodka Trail

by AA Abbott

  “EWB Ltd belongs to you, then?” Kat asked, biting her lip.

  “Correct,” Marty said.

  “You stole the trademark from my father,” she flared.

  “No, I listened to my lawyer,” Marty said patiently. “Katherine persuaded me to register the brand everywhere I might want to sell it and in many countries I wouldn’t. Sasha just wanted the rights in Bazakistan, so he could manufacture within the law. Everywhere else, it’s mine. My intellectual property protection is watertight.”

  “So what?” Kat said, her cheeks flushed. “This is the best vodka in the world, made with water drawn from the mountains. Without it, your trademark’s a worthless piece of paper.”

  “I could make Snow Mountain vodka anywhere in the world,” Marty said mildly. “Birmingham, for example.” After all, he owned enough land and old buildings to set up a factory there.

  “Birmingham versus Bazakistan?” she said, her derision audible. “Scarcely the same cachet.”

  “Not for London, it’s true,” Marty admitted. “It would do very well in Brum itself.” The city was proud of its successes, it was well-endowed with upmarket cocktail bars and pubs, and he had an excellent local business network. “I tell you what would work, though, Kat. A distillery in the Welsh mountains. That would play well in London, and actually, I’d get great sales in cities like Paris where they don’t love the English.” He almost forgot his parlous situation as he began to daydream. A Welsh holiday cottage would suit him, a bolthole where he could tinker with the classic cars and motorbikes that annoyed Angela so much.

  He became aware that Kat was looking unimpressed. “I made that brand,” he said. “When I arrived in Kireniat on my motorbike, I found a barely functioning vodka factory. Kireniat was a ghost town. It was the Wild East out here.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “We weren’t living in mud huts.”

  “Kireniat was a crazy place,” he said. “It wasn’t the cosmopolitan city it is today. The Soviet Union had disintegrated and Bazakistan was independent. Your countrymen were excited about that, but it came at a price. The old state-organised distribution chains had broken down. Everywhere I went, there were shortages. Only three things were abundant: land, people and vodka.”

  She’d been a baby then. How could she possibly remember, and how could he begin to explain?

  “I knew the fall of the Soviet Union would bring opportunities,” he said. “I taught myself Russian in three months and started importing vodka from Russia in a small way. My name was known within the trade. Your father heard of me through the grapevine.”

  “He made a big mistake choosing you as his distributor,” Kat said. “He must have had salesmen queueing up to buy his product.”

  Marty ignored the slur. “No chance,” he said. “When I first met him, your father was making vodka from any raw materials he could find. He would have made it from old shoes if he could have got enough of them. Under Communism, the factory’s targets were based purely on quantity, not quality. Sasha wanted to change that, but first he had to find money to keep the factory going. He was desperate. Nobody would do anything for him without a bribe, not even supply electricity.”

  “I bet you took advantage of that,” Kat said.

  “Hardly,” Marty said. “The stuff he made was so rough, I’d have been mad to buy it. But Sasha convinced me he could make a quality product, and I handed over a down-payment. I didn’t rip him off. I wanted a long term relationship.”

  Kat snorted.

  “You don’t know how lucky your family was,” Marty said. “Sasha had sent telexes to every Western vodka distributor he could. None of them replied. It was hardly surprising, you know. In the West, we were already using faxes, perhaps the odd email.” It was lucky that Angela, then his secretary, liked the telex machine.

  “Not only that, Kat. Did Sasha ever tell you how hard it was to get to Bazakistan in those days?” Marty continued. “Bazakair was the only airline allowed to land at Kireniat, and it made up its flight schedules as it went along. It couldn’t always afford fuel, even when it coaxed its decrepit kites into the air.”

  “How did you get here, then?” Kat asked.

  Marty grinned, remembering his big adventure. “On a motorbike.”

  In polite, painstaking English, Sasha’s telexes had told him to travel by train from Istanbul, then buy a motorbike at a car auction two hundred miles from Kireniat. He should bring plenty of dollars for police bribes, food and fuel – and to buy vodka when he reached his destination.

  “I picked up, of all things, an old Triumph Bonneville,” Marty said.

  Kat looked blank.

  “It was made in the Midlands,” he said. “I’ve no idea how it ended up here.”

  The journey hadn’t been without danger. Although a keen boxer in his youth, his fists weren’t proof against knives. Marty had protected himself by carrying one, and knowing how to use it. A can of pepper spray was handy too.

  Riding along the rocky, pitted highways, resting in farms rather than towns, he stayed safe and retained his possessions. He probably ate better as well. Food was expensive in urban areas, and in short supply.

  “I arrived at the Kireniat Number Three Vodka Factory with a Russian phrasebook in one hand and a fistful of dollars in the other. And then the fun started.”

  Fortunately, Sasha was forward-thinking. He’d listened as Marty explained that the West required a high-quality product, with an air of mystique and exclusivity. They’d decided to use only the best wheat, and capitalise on the crystal-clear stream that flowed past the factory from the mountains. Viewing the snowy crags beyond Kireniat, Marty had christened the brand.

  “Once Sasha and I had ironed out the quality issues, I designed the label,” Marty said. He was proud of it, a simple line drawing of jagged peaks tipped with snow. “I registered the Snow Mountain trademark. I devised the marketing strategy. High end outlets only. I didn’t need a degree like your friend, Amy.” He didn’t care if Kat was listening. He was on a roll. “It wasn’t easy at first. I paid a fortune to airlift consignments out of Bazakistan. There was no other way. I sent food parcels, too, for Sasha to feed his family – you – and his workforce.”

  He’d despatched what seemed like half the EU food mountain to Bazakistan. Fortunately, after a few years, the transition to capitalism was complete and the country’s fuel and food shortages eased. Then, Sasha could use trusted lorry drivers equipped with dollars to grease official palms. That was when they really started to make money.

  “So don’t think Snow Mountain is just about you and your family,” Marty said. “I have a massive stake in it too.”

  “I know.” Kat scowled at him. “A stake you weren’t willing to give up when my father was thrown into prison. You could have threatened to walk away and take all that marketing know-how with you.”

  “What makes you think I didn’t?” Marty asked. “I spent a fortune on lawyers’ fees and commissions too, without success.” Nothing had worked. He’d just had to accept the new reality: that Sasha was in prison and Harry owned the factory.

  Kat pursed her lips. “An honourable man would have left Aliyev to flounder.”

  Marty shook his head. “I wanted to secure your father’s release. I had to co-operate with Harry.” By the time Sasha died, it was evident that, although Marty disliked and distrusted Harry, he could do business with the man. Like Sasha, Harry listened. Together, they’d taken the brand global. It was respected, requested and served in the finest establishments in half the world’s capitals.

  Kat’s face darkened further. “I know it isn’t about my family,” she said, “at least, not where you’re concerned. For you, it’s all about profit, cash in your bank account. You can’t take it with you, old man. I hope the rebels kill you. Because when you could have saved my father and mother, you counted your money and did nothing.”

  Chapter 23

  Davey

  Davey’s troubles diminished and his excitement ro
se as he neared the glossy black door. Had his life been free of the family responsibilities that were rapidly losing their charm, he would have liked to live in the flat Dee had shared with Charles. The Mayfair garden square was the epitome of understated opulence, its four sides lined with the white, iron-balconied houses that most Londoners adored and few could afford.

  As usual, the Saxton Brown CEO looked around, satisfying himself he didn’t know any of the passers-by who sauntered past, oblivious to Davey and his plans for the evening. The location was sufficiently far from the City to render this unlikely. He unlocked the door, noting there was now a large placard on the balcony railings announcing “Milsom Painters & Decorators” were working there.

  Inside the first floor apartment, the scale of the renovations became apparent. Dustsheets covered the cream carpets and there was a strong smell of paint. Davey was about to call Alana to suggest they rented a hotel room instead, when he noticed the time. She’d be here in ten minutes.

  Quickly, he checked the drinks cabinet. The bourbon he’d left was untouched by Milsom and his men, as was a bottle of champagne. Davey slipped it in the fridge with the food he’d bought to eat later.

  He’d had a trying day, with Ross and Charles both on edge, and he suspected Alana had too. There were rumours in the City that Bishopstoke’s profits were down, and their investors restless for change. She’d need cheering up. He no longer resented her for beating him to the top job in the merged company; their love affair had taken away the sting of losing that competition. A leer played on Davey’s lips as he recalled how Alana had wanted him so much, she’d deliberately pumped Dee for information about him before that magical night in Birmingham.

  Davey undressed. He was wearing just a towel and a broad smile when he buzzed Alana into the flat. Barely hesitating to close the door, he flung the scrap of cloth to one side, enveloping her in his embrace.

  She surrendered willingly. “You’re so fit,” she said, pinching his firm biceps.

  Davey smirked, gratified at the adoring look in her eyes. “The Iron Man’s getting closer,” he said. He could feel his endurance improve. For over an hour, he kept time to the beat of his favourite metal tracks.

  “Do you want to stay?” he asked afterwards. “I can cook for you.”

  She nodded, pulling on her business suit.

  Davey dressed, then opened the bottle of champagne, filling two flutes. “Cheers,” he said.

  “Cheers.” Alana downed the fizz. “That’s cleared my head,” she said. “What’s for dinner?”

  “A surprise,” Davey said. “Ready in five minutes.”

  “Proof you can microwave a ready meal,” Alana said, with a knowing grin. “I’d have done the same myself if I’d returned home before dinner. Home cooking is for wimps.”

  Laura would have candles and flowers on the table, and a stew bubbling on the hob. Davey banished the thought as he busied himself in the kitchen. An acceptable beef stroganoff appeared almost instantly.

  “Thank you.” Alana smiled. “How’s business?”

  He was surprised she’d asked, although it gave him permission to discuss Bishopstoke’s plight and offer sympathy. “Up and down,” he said.

  “Oh.” Alana seemed taken aback. She recovered enough to say, “It’s the same at Bishopstoke.”

  “I heard,” Davey said. “The City of London is a hard taskmaster. Commiserations.”

  “I’ve had our merchant bankers threaten blood in the boardroom,” Alana said. She pushed the carb-heavy rice to the side of her plate, stabbing a strip of steak with her fork. “I tell you, there will be plenty of blood if I find out who leaked our results. And it won’t be mine.” There was a vicious glint in her eyes.

  “Let me guess,” Davey said. “They want more exciting insurance products, with fatter profit margins.” It was a well-worn refrain he’d heard from investors for years. Fortunately, he was delivering it, although Marty’s kidnap would dent Saxton Brown’s profits.

  “Exactly,” Alana said. “I’m finding my finance director is useless. I thought accountants were supposed to be creative. He’s only interested in adding up the group’s profits, when I need him to find a way to make them look bigger.”

  Davey suspected she’d be disappointed. New financial regulations had removed most opportunities to massage accounts numbers. He cleared their plates away. “How about chocolate mousse?” he asked.

  “There’s only one way chocolate passes my lips,” Alana said.

  He recalled their first night together. “Later, then,” he teased.

  “Yes, we still need to talk business,” Alana said. “You’ve got interesting niche products at Saxton Brown. Your kidnap, key man and business interruption insurance books, to name three. I could do great things with them at Bishopstoke. Sell them to me, Davey.”

  He was flabbergasted. “Not now, sweetheart,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I’ve told you before they’re not up for sale.”

  Alana pulled her hand away. “You don’t understand. I really need this. I’m prepared to make an offer you can’t refuse.”

  “But I will refuse,” Davey said, sighing. “Don’t spoil a fun evening, Alana.” He stroked her face.

  She kissed his lips lightly, and simpered. “You’d do it if you cared about me,” she said.

  He ignored the desire that flared within him. What was her angle? He’d made it clear at the start of their relationship that his business was out of bounds to her. “Don’t try emotional blackmail,” he said, forcing a chuckle, reluctant to show her she’d rattled him.

  “I’m not joking,” Alana said. She pouted. “Too bad if you don’t care about me. What about your wife? How would you like her to know about us?”

  “She doesn’t need to,” Davey said, alarmed.

  “Indulge me, and she won’t,” Alana said. “Sell me the business. I can have my lawyers write up terms tomorrow.”

  Her implacable gaze worried him. He understood she wanted to save her job, but she was going too far. “You’re kidding,” he said. “You can’t prove anything.”

  “Oh no?” Alana said. “I suppose I haven’t seen that little mole on your left buttock. And…” She proceeded to list every pimple, blemish and physical imperfection on his body.

  The music stopped as Davey squirmed, horrified. It was obvious that Alana need only pick up the phone to his wife. To his dismay, he was certain she’d do it if he continued to resist. He faced an invidious choice: to lose either his marriage, or Saxton Brown, the company he’d worked so hard to build.

  “My lawyers will call you tomorrow, baby,” she said, blowing him a kiss. “Ciao.”

  Chapter 24

  Davey

  “Why are you selling half of our business?” Charles asked. “I don’t get it.”

  Davey looked at the ceiling. After a sleepless night, he’d reached a decision. He was proud to have taken Saxton Brown from a mere twinkle in his eye to a successful company. While it was important to him, his marriage meant much more. Laura wasn’t just the mother of his children, but his soulmate. If Saxton Brown must be sacrificed to keep her, he’d do it.

  He could hardly tell Charles the truth. “There’s Marty’s kidnap, Charles,” he said. “It’s an outlier, at the highest end of the spectrum of potential claims. A catastrophe, you could say. There will be a large hole in our capital should we have to pay it all. We haven’t yet built a big enough book to spread our risk.”

  Charles winced. “Alana Green will never give you full value when there’s a large claim outstanding, though, will she? She’s got an aggressive reputation – and from what I’ve seen, it’s well-deserved.”

  “She knows what she wants,” Davey said.

  Ross, silent until now, chipped in. He was nursing a large black coffee and had bags under his eyes. “Tell Alana you won’t sell,” he said. “And tell the kidnappers you won’t pay.” His blue eyes glittered and his fists clenched. He looked dangerous, ready for a fight. “That’s what I’ve
done. I’ve emailed them to say there are plenty of beautiful girls in Bazakistan. I can get another one any time I like.” He shook his head. “I’m calling their bluff, Davey. You should play poker, like I do. It’s excellent training for life.”

  Charles put his head in his hands.

  Davey, too, was taken aback. “Not this time,” he said. The thought crossed his mind that Kat’s brother was right to despise Ross as a potential brother-in-law. He doubted that Angela Bridges, or indeed any of their wealthy clients, would appreciate the company treating an insurance claim like a hand of poker.

  The days of good-natured banter with his team seemed a lifetime away. Thinking longingly of his old office overlooking the Thames, now occupied by Alana, he found a quiet corner and called her. She scarcely bothered to keep the note of triumph from her voice as she told him her consultants would be round at twelve. Naturally, she wanted a team to perform due diligence on the business.

  Although the process would take several weeks, Alana’s consultants arrived armed with a list of initial questions. Davey answered them all in two hours over coffee and sandwiches. He wasn’t surprised to receive a call from Alana later that day.

  “You know that kidnap claim? My guys say material facts weren’t disclosed. Put it on hold,” she instructed him.

  Davey glanced at Charles: drinking buddy, baby George’s father, and committed IT director. He was so committed to Saxton Brown, in fact, that he’d sold kidnap insurance to his daughter’s boss. Like all their clients, Marty had paid the premiums believing that if he encountered problems, Saxton Brown would be on his side. Marty’s family and friends desperately wanted the Brummie businessman rescued from Bazakistan. So did Charles. They all had a right to expect Davey to do everything in his power to achieve it. How, in all conscience, could Davey put Marty’s life at risk by declining either to pay the ransom or negotiate with the kidnappers? “I can’t do that, Alana,” he said.