The Vodka Trail

by AA Abbott

  She launched into a tirade. The claim stank. It was outrageously high, out of all proportion to the premium paid. Bazakistan was a stable country with an excellent record on law enforcement. Even the British Foreign Office acknowledged that. The claimant, a friend of Davey’s IT director, was a businessman who frequently visited Bazakistan and had never been kidnapped before. Why, no similar crimes had been reported in Bazakistan for decades.

  “That’s not true at all,” Davey said, spotting the kitchenette was empty and making a beeline for it so Charles wouldn’t overhear him. “My chief actuary’s girlfriend has been kidnapped as well.”

  Alana sounded exasperated. “Can’t you see it’s a fraud?” she said. “You should kick his sorry ass out of your company, and that IT director too. They’re taking you for a ride.”

  Davey’s hackles rose. The notion was risible. “I’ll run Saxton Brown exactly as I wish,” he said stiffly.

  Alana’s response was icy. “We can do this the hard way if you want. I’ll take account of it in the price,” she said. “Why, you’ll be paying me to take the business away. What will your shareholders say? Or the City institutions when they hear it’s so easy to make a fool of you?”

  She’d made a fool of him already, he thought. Aloud, he said, “The Ombudsman would skin me alive.”

  Alana laughed. “I’ll take care of the Ombudsman. I have my methods.”

  Davey had no doubt on that score.

  Chapter 25

  Kat

  It had been a week, chained in a poky room with Marty Bridges. Kat was exhausted and unsettled. Since the drugs were withdrawn, she’d struggled to sleep, painfully aware of her chains and Marty’s unwanted company. She yearned, yet failed, to blot out her discomfort and fear.

  Their conditions had marginally improved once the rebels’ leader finally returned to the farm. This was the man they called Ken, the only one who spoke English well. Marty, who spent hours by the narrow window listening to their captors’ small talk, said Ken appeared to stay in a number of safe houses. Upon spying the man’s silver Mercedes, Marty had immediately hollered for him.

  Kat had listened as Marty compared their cell with a dog kennel, then complained there was no need to drug the captives; as they were both chained, the worst action they could take was overturning the bucket of excrement. A dirty protest was hardly going to make their lives more pleasant, so why would they do it? In fact, the hostages needed washing facilities, and soon. If Ken wanted to be President one day, this treatment was scarcely guaranteed to win over foreign investors.

  Kat had formed the impression that Ken was barely interested. He’d growled that the sooner he was paid and rid of them, the better. Nevertheless, another bucket, with lukewarm water, was brought at once. Towels were provided. Kat and Marty averted their eyes from each other and washed as best they could.

  Now their twice-daily meals weren’t drugged, she had more energy, but no outlet for it. Her resentment at Marty’s collaboration with Aliyev continued to simmer as she paced the cell. Between them, they’d stolen her father’s business, as well as his life. Even if she survived her captivity, what awaited her afterwards? Was it the soulless existence of a trophy wife? She shuddered. It was better than the alternative: abandonment by Ross, to die at Ken’s hands. Why hadn’t her fiancé bought her freedom yet?

  The boredom and terror of her plight, and the aggravation of sharing it with Marty, were oppressive in spite of his attempts to introduce levity. At his prompting, they played I Spy, fantasy bathroom and fantasy restaurant.

  “What’s your perfect dinner party, bab?” Marty asked. “Let’s pretend. Who would you invite?”

  Kat made a charade of considering it. “Ross,” she said. “And Prince Harry. Maybe Jamie Dornan.”

  “To keep Ross on his toes?” Marty grinned.

  “You said it,” Kat replied. Despite her distaste for him, he could make her laugh.

  “You can invite women too,” Marty suggested. “Especially if they’re plain. Then they can’t outshine you.”

  She gave him such a filthy look that he backtracked. “Nobody could outshine you, Kat,” he added.

  “I’ll ask Dame Vivienne Westwood,” she said. “And Adele. They’re both interesting, but definitely not Ross’ type. Do the guests have to be real people, anyway?”

  “Hold on,” Marty said, mock horror on his face. “Before you move to the realms of fiction, aren’t you forgetting someone? What about me?”

  Didn’t he realise that she still wouldn’t choose to spend a minute with him in the absence of their chains? “You’re not on the guest list,” she told him.

  “I’d be your wine waiter,” he said, “if only to get close to Adele.”

  That poor secretary he’d married – Angela, wasn’t it? – might have a view on that. “No,” Kat said. “We’ll dine at the Dorchester.” The hotel name was plucked from thin air. “They don’t need any staff.”

  “And what culinary delights await you?” Marty asked, unabashed.

  “Caviar and quails’ eggs on toast,” Kat said. “Beef Wellington with roast potatoes and asparagus. Death by chocolate, strawberries, and lashings of champagne.” Her mouth watered. The menu would be most acceptable for a wedding breakfast as well.

  “I’m afraid the Dorchester is fully booked this week, Madam,” Marty said. “However, tonight I can give you a reservation at the Hotel California. Your host: that Mercedes-driving revolutionary himself, Mr Ken Khan. The chef: Miss Anna, horsemeat stew a speciality. Best of all, you may share a floor for two with your old pal, Marty Bridges. You’re not going to turn down an offer like that, are you?”

  She pulled a face, blinking tears from her eyes. Marty noticed and put his arms around her as far as his shackles would permit. That was worse. Kat shrank from him. She knew he meant to comfort her, but his touch had quite the opposite effect. She wished she was alone. Marty’s presence was part of the problem.

  Anna didn’t bring the evening meal today. Kat could hear the girl outside, muttering with annoyance. Their waiter for the evening was Ulan.

  He was younger than the others, barely into his twenties at a guess. His black hair was spiky, very short, like a soldier’s. Although there was usually a wide grin on his chunky, amiable face, Kat disliked him more than her other captors. His sly glances had begun to set alarm bells ringing. As he brought in the tray with stew, bread and apples, he leered at her.

  “Good evening, Ulan,” Marty said, his voice icy with mistrust.

  Kat turned her back on the Bazaki, still feeling the heat of his gaze until the door slammed and she and Marty were alone.

  “Creepy, isn’t he?” Marty said. “I’d lock up my daughters if I saw him on the prowl.” He stuck a spoon in his bowl. “I’ll give you odds of two to one this is the latest recipe from Anna’s equine cookbook. It’s a racing certainty.”

  Although Kat shared his suspicions about the provenance of the meat, the stew both smelled and tasted appetising. There were dumplings and herbs in the rich, savoury mixture. She ate heartily.

  “You can’t beat a good cuppa,” Marty said, gulping the sweet tea. He stretched and yawned.

  Kat felt overcome by fatigue herself. The tedium of the setting only served to amplify it. Nothing would happen this evening, except perhaps a game of fantasy cocktail bar, as if she and Marty were small children dreaming in a playground. Soon, daylight would begin to dim. Ulan would remove the tray and, if they were lucky, clean the slops bucket. She would be left with Marty, the impossible hope of recovering Snow Mountain, and the growing fear that she wouldn’t leave Bazakistan alive. Ross might not have enough cash for the kidnappers, or fail to raise it in time. He could even meet another girl. It was well known that Kireniat was blessed with alluring maidens chasing foreign husbands, and he didn’t even need to go as far as Bazakistan. London was full of beautiful single females like Kat herself.

  Her eyelids drooped. Better, she felt, to fall asleep than drive herself mad worr
ying about Ross’ infidelity. She lay on the pile of rugs and blankets that served as a mattress, staring across the room at the sputtering stove. Their gaolers tended to throw the odd log into it, keeping the fire alive without causing it to blaze. There was little imperative to heat the cell now the snow had gone and spring had suddenly arrived.

  She willed herself into a trance, letting sleep claim her. It was dark when she awoke. The dim glow of moonlight through the window outlined a man standing in front of her.

  “Marty?” she said, and found the effort of speaking was almost too much. It wasn’t Marty either, she realised with dread. He was slumped under a blanket a few yards away, his snores echoing through the small space.

  The man knelt down, his face closer but still a gloomy shadow. Moonlight cast a halo around his close-cropped, spiky hair. She smelled sweat, tobacco and alcohol. Then the shadow moved, and its mouth was on hers, roughly kissing her lips.

  It had to be Ulan. As he threw off her blanket, his hands pawing at her clothes to undo buttons and zips, she tried to punch and kick. Her arms and legs remained strangely immobile, weighed down by her chains.

  Briefly, he stopped kissing her, to draw breath.

  “No,” she shouted, first in English, then Russian.

  Ulan laughed. “You are beautiful girl,” he said, slipping his fingers under her blouse and grabbing a handful of flesh.

  He twisted her nipple. An involuntary wave of pleasure surged through her, and she retched, gagging. She desperately wanted to struggle and was completely unable to. As he brought his mouth to hers again, his stubble scratching her face, she summoned the energy to scream.

  The emerging sound was muffled by Ulan’s kiss, but it had an effect. Marty awoke.

  “What?” he said, his voice slurred.

  With a heavy heart, Kat finally understood. Ulan had reneged on Ken Khan’s promise. They’d both been drugged.

  Marty evidently was alert enough to comprehend the situation. He pulled himself to a sitting position, grunting with exertion. “Can’t stand…up,” he said. “Stop.”

  Ulan jeered at him in Russian. “You’re wasting your time,” he said. “This woman’s worthless, to us and to you. No one will pay anything for her. You may as well have your fun after I’ve had mine.”

  Kat screamed, a wail of despair, terror and anger. She put every ounce of her being into resisting Ulan as he parted her legs. It wasn’t enough. The youth easily spread-eagled them either side of him, unbuckling his jeans, panting with excitement.

  Unable to stand, Marty found the strength to roll into them both, knocking Ulan to the ground. At the same time, Anna and Ken’s voices could be heard outside. The door rattled and shook. It was locked.

  “Ulan is here.” Marty’s voice was hoarse and low. Would Ken hear it?

  “Open that door,” Ken yelled.

  Ulan scrambled to his feet. He unlocked the door. “I was just checking up on them,” he said, his tone sullen.

  The beam of Ken’s torch swept every corner of the room. His eyes narrowed as he took in Kat’s dishevelled appearance and Marty’s grogginess. “Is this true?” he asked.

  “No,” Marty said slowly. “It was a rape attempt.”

  “What have I told you?” Ken raged at Ulan.

  “Her boyfriend’s refused to pay, hasn’t he? What use is she to you?” Ulan said resentfully.

  “She is still our guest. They both are. We must treat them accordingly,” Ken said.

  “Guests?” Marty muttered, looking pointedly at his chains as Ulan cowered under Ken’s glare.

  “You speak a little Russian?” Ken said. “I wish to show you hospitality, Marty, but we must take sensible precautions.” He glowered at Ulan. “Clearly, that applies to my team as well. I can only apologise. It won’t happen again.” He stormed out, Anna and Ulan trailing after him. The lock turned.

  Was it true that Ross had refused to pay anything? Kat shivered. If Ken didn’t expect to receive a ransom for her, why wasn’t she dead? Ken seemed to regard the hostages as an inconvenience at best; surely he wouldn’t keep her alive as an act of charity? She sniffed, but still, the tears began and continued to fall.

  “Bab?” Marty’s voice sounded distant, but sympathetic. “Are you all right?”

  “No,” she said. Grasping how much worse her predicament would have been if he hadn’t defended her earlier, she added, “but thank you.” Her lips and tongue felt thick. The words were barely intelligible.

  “Don’t mention it,” Marty slurred. “Try to sleep.”

  “Marty,” she said. She was beginning to think she’d misjudged him. “I could work with you after all.”

  Marty yawned. He couldn’t quite manage a chortle. “Bab, what makes you think I’d want to work with you?” he said.

  Kat was still formulating her reply when they heard the single gunshot.

  Chapter 26

  Marty

  Only Anna, Nurbolat and a youth Marty didn’t know appeared the morning after the gunshot. They seemed subdued, rarely speaking except to mumble when they stopped for a cigarette. Marty caught very little of their conversation as he listened at the window.

  Kat’s mental health gave him cause for concern. Mostly, she sat huddled in a blanket, refusing even to pick at the food Anna brought. A few sips of tea were all she permitted herself. Marty saved bread and apples in case she changed her mind later.

  “Cheer up, it may never happen,” he said. At least that provoked a glare.

  He opened the window, and closed it in a hurry. The wind was blowing from the direction of Anna’s pigsty. He’d seen her pigs and chickens scurrying around the yard, apparently content to eat muddy weeds and worse. Was it really worth paying a premium for free-range food, he wondered? His wife seemed to think so. He mused fondly on Angela’s idiosyncrasies: the diets he tried to subvert, and her belief, which he’d often derided, that he should retire and take her on a cruise around the world. Perhaps he would if he left this hell-hole alive.

  “When,” he said. “Not if, when.”

  Kat stirred. “I beg your pardon?” she said.

  “We’ll get out of here, Kat,” he told her.

  “You have a plan?” she said, her face brightening at last.

  “Not yet,” he admitted, relieved that she was showing signs of animation. “But,” he added, smiling with a confidence that he didn’t feel, “leave it to me and I’ll think of one. And I don’t care how many of the bastards I have to kill.” The risk to their lives – and to Kat’s sanity – was too great otherwise. Ken was overly trigger-happy, his minions thuggish.

  “Their hearts are in the right place,” Kat said, to his astonishment.

  “Oh really?” Marty said. “These filthy animals drug us, chain us, throw us in a cell, try to rape you, put us in fear of our lives and doubtless make our nearest and dearest sick with worry – but they’re just cuddly pussycats after all? Whatever they stuck in the stew last night, you’re still hallucinating from it.”

  “I know they’ve treated us badly. But you said Ken wanted to bring down the President,” she said. “It needs to be done. If they hadn’t behaved so callously,” she trembled, clearly remembering the events of the previous evening, “I might have joined them.”

  His mouth gaped. “You can’t be serious,” he protested. “This is Stockholm Syndrome. You’ve been brainwashed. How have they managed it? You’ve only been here a week.”

  “No,” Kat said. Her eyes flashed. “The President’s an evil old man. While you played a part in my parents’ deaths, he was even more culpable. He gave the order.”

  Marty groaned. When would she believe he’d done everything he could? He just had to accept Kat would never be his best friend.

  “You flatter yourself and your family,” he said. “What makes you think the President even knew who Sasha was?” It was harsh, but the truth as he saw it. “More likely, Kat – far more likely – your troubles stem from some nameless, faceless petty official whom Sasha fa
iled to bribe.” Sadly, it was probably more prosaic than that. He suspected Harry Aliyev’s dirty hand on the knife. Harry, jealous of Sasha’s material success and coveting his attractive wife, paying backhanders to have his boss thrown into prison. Sasha’s death two years later was most convenient for Harry, enabling him to acquire the grieving widow as well as the vodka factory. Who knew how much Harry had paid for that?

  He might be wrong about Marina Aliyeva, of course. As Marty glanced at Kat, he didn’t think so. It gave him no pleasure to know Harry had been cuckolded for his troubles. His face darkened. He turned away from Kat and walked to the window, looking out intently, screwing up his eyes, using all his willpower to stave off tears.

  Chapter 27

  Ken

  “You didn’t kill him,” Marina said, her lips pursed with displeasure.

  “How do you know?” Ken asked, playing for time. He sipped his latte.

  “Arystan tells me Marty Bridges has been kidnapped,” she said. “A huge ransom has been demanded. Not that you’d know it, from the newspapers or TV. There’s nothing about it online, even.”

  Ken was relieved to hear it. His increasingly intemperate ransom demands had threatened dire consequences if the authorities were informed, but he couldn’t be sure his desire for secrecy would prevail. Of course, there was still a risk that the Bazaki government was well aware of Marty’s predicament, and was simply exercising its customary censorship. “I don’t know anything about it,” he lied. “Although it explains why I can’t find him anywhere.”

  “Arystan’s worried,” she said. “He doesn’t know anything about marketing, and he thinks he’ll have to find another distributor.”

  “And you?” Ken asked. “What do you think?”

  She shrugged. “It’s an established brand. Someone else will take it on.”

  That vodka factory should be nationalised, Ken thought, then the state would benefit from its profits again. Perhaps Marina could run it. Aliyev was in too deep with the dictatorship. There would have to be a trial, naturally, but he’d make sure Aliyev didn’t survive the revolution.