The Vodka Trail

by AA Abbott

  Two uniformed policemen entered the coffee bar, AK-47s slung across their bodies. They were professionals, their eyes never still, glancing everywhere. Ken made ready to flee, then relaxed as the men ordered drinks and took them away.

  It was unlikely, he knew, that anyone would recognise either him or Marina Aliyeva. He was wearing a woolly hat and dark glasses, as an older man might to hide a bald head and bags under his eyes. She sported sunglasses and a white silk headscarf, tied under her chin. Sometimes, the best place to hide was in a crowd. That was why he’d suggested the Kireniat Mall, the massive shopping centre through which tens of thousands of Bazakis passed every day.

  Marina spotted his discomfort. “Shall we go to the hotel?” she asked.

  It was part of a local chain, built into the mall. Scores of couples probably arrived here each day with the same purpose in mind. The young male receptionist as good as winked at Ken when Marina handed over a bundle of crisp notes for their room.

  “I thought it would be nicer for you here,” he said, as they threw themselves down on the big white bed and began kissing.

  “I bet the lovely hot showers were attractive too, compared with cold water from a well,” Marina observed.

  “Is that a hint?” he asked, laughing. “Let’s take one together.”

  She let him strip her, and lead her into the bathroom. It was a white, windowless room that smelled of apples. Again, as he ran his hands over her pale, taut body, he felt himself consumed by the silky warmth of her flesh. She was hungry for him too, nibbling his shoulders in the shower, cupping her hand around his groin. He made her wait until they were back on the bed before entering her. She responded with enthusiasm, writhing backwards and forwards, her skin flushing. When they came in unison, it was the most exquisite sensation he’d ever experienced.

  It was never like this with his wife. She’d been a virgin when they met, and was still coy in the bedroom. Ken desperately wanted her back in Bazakistan, but not at the expense of his relationship with Marina. Their passion was too intense. He reassured himself that no one knew. They’d kept their secret until now, and they’d continue to do so in future. They would find a way.

  Afterwards, he returned to Starbucks with Kat and Marty’s mobile phones. Switching them on, he swiftly sent messages to Arman Khan and Angela Bridges. They would receive body parts if no cash was forthcoming, he told them. In reality, he’d made up his mind. It was too risky to hold hostages any longer. If he released the pair, they’d remember too much about the cars, the orchard and the kidnappers. Even his initial plan, of taking them through the mountains and over the border, was unsafe. They’d be debriefed by the British, their intelligence passed back to the President’s men. He didn’t want anyone leading the police to his hideout before he’d bought weapons and armed his network of keen young fighters. Tonight, he thought, he would kill his captives quickly. That would please Marina too, and with luck, he’d still receive the ransom.

  Chapter 28

  Marty

  Anna and Nurbolat appeared to be having an argument.

  “I’ve got to feed the pigs,” she said. “Why do we have to go now?”

  “Ken says we must collect a freezer and other supplies,” Nurbolat replied. He drew a finger across his throat and pointed to the window, seemingly unaware Marty was gazing from it. “You have to come with me. We’ll look like a young couple shopping together.”

  “I want no part in it,” Anna said.

  The discussion, in Bazaki, became heated. Although Marty couldn’t catch all of it, its tenor was unmistakable. Nurbolat was winning.

  Moments later, a Mercedes – not the shiny silver model Ken drove, but a battered black car – was driven into the yard. Marty saw Nurbolat at the wheel. Anna opened the passenger door to sit next to him, and the vehicle clattered away.

  What did Ken and Nurbolat have in mind? Marty recalled old reports of dead hostages, their bodies frozen and photographed with daily newspapers to pretend they were still alive. It was the cruellest of frauds, giving false hope to bereaved families. There was no point waiting to find out if he was right. He had to act before Nurbolat returned.

  The younger man, whom Marty hadn’t seen before that morning, remained in the yard. He was tinkering with a motorbike as pop music blared from a wind-up radio. Marty gathered it was the Bazaki hit parade. He called Kat to the window when one of Adele’s songs was aired.

  “Have you got a plan yet?” Kat asked.

  “I might have,” Marty said, reluctant to share his fears. He had the barest outline of a plot – to entice the youth inside, trap him and take his keys – but it was better than nothing.

  There were risks, he knew. If they failed, they couldn’t expect their captor to be merciful. Even if they succeeded, what would happen next? The lad might not be alone on the farm. The smallholding was isolated too; the dirt track was proof of that. How would they escape and what might they find? If they were unlucky, wolves would find them. He’d heard them howling at night. They lived wild in Bazakistan. This wasn’t England, where the countryside had been tamed and the largest feral creatures he’d seen were urban foxes at the bottom of his garden.

  Marty decided to wait until he knew for sure that the lad had fixed the motorbike. He whispered his ideas to Kat.

  For the first time that week, she smiled. He’d evidently thrown her a lifeline. “Let’s do it soon,” she said. “I don’t care about the risks. Remember what Ulan said. I’m as good as dead anyway.”

  Perhaps they both were, Marty thought. He heard the motorbike engine roar into life outside and told Kat to scream. To Marty’s dismay, the boy ignored them, even when the window was opened.

  “Shout ‘Fire’ in Russian,” he suggested.

  Kat looked puzzled. “I thought we were pretending we didn’t know any,” she said.

  Marty groaned. “It doesn’t matter any more,” he said. “Ken suspects. And it might be the only way to communicate with our friend.”

  “Very well.” She yelled at the top of her voice, while Marty banged on the door.

  “What’s the matter?” the youth shouted.

  “Fire!” Kat repeated.

  They heard the key in the lock. The boy peeped cautiously inside, but he wasn’t careful enough. Standing behind the door, Marty sprang out, barging into the young man, sending him sprawling on the floor.

  Swiftly, Kat crouched by the lad’s head, placing her hands either side of his neck, then taking them behind it. The chain between her wrists wrapped itself around his neck. She pulled it just tight enough to make him gag. “I could kill you in an instant,” she threatened in his local tongue. “Give Marty the keys and I might let you go.”

  “I don’t have them,” he protested.

  She began to garrotte him, while Marty patted down his pockets.

  The boy spluttered and lashed out at her. “Enough,” Kat commanded, pulling the chain tighter.

  It didn’t stop the lad. He aimed a vicious kick at Marty, landing a blow to his chest and sending him flying.

  “You want to play rough?” Marty said. He had no time for this. Coldly, he stamped on the boy’s ribcage.

  Winded and in pain, their prisoner stopped struggling. Marty stuffed a corner of a blanket in the youth’s mouth to stifle his groans. Finally, he emptied the lad’s pockets. “There’s nothing apart from this,” he said, fishing out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

  “He must have keys,” Kat said. “How else would he get in?”

  Marty glanced at the door, seeing the keyring glinting in the afternoon sun. He stepped over the youth’s limbs, barely thrashing now, and pulled it from the lock.

  “There are several for padlocks,” he said. “I’ll try your feet first, Kat.”

  He applied one of the smaller keys to the lock on her ankle chain. It almost clicked. He tried two more before the padlock opened. With a sigh, Kat shook herself free of the heavy chain.

  “Now we have a problem,” Marty said. “I ca
n remove the shackles from my feet, but not my hands. If I unlocked your hands, you could help me, but you’re rather occupied with our friend at the minute.”

  They both looked at the young man’s wrists and ankles, then at each other.

  “Okay,” Marty said with a grin. He released the chain from his feet, and began trussing the prisoner’s ankles with it, finishing by binding and padlocking the lad’s feet and hands. “See how you like it,” he said.

  At last, Marty could unchain Kat’s wrists. She returned the favour. They both stretched.

  “We have to hit the road,” Marty said, locking the youth in their cell. Anxiously, he scanned the yard for signs of life. Apart from birdsong and the clucking of hens, there was none, but for how long? “Ready to start up the bike?” he asked.

  Kat laughed, euphoria bringing back her sparkle at last. “Ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve never tried.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” Marty said. He quickly inspected the motorcycle. “A Ural 650,” he mused. It was a Russian brand old enough to be classed as vintage, but appeared to be in good order. Like many elderly machines, there was no fuel gauge. In the past, he’d checked petrol levels by sitting on his bikes and shaking them from side to side, but there was no time for that now. They’d just have to take their chances. Travelling anywhere was safer than staying.

  He was prepared to hotwire the bike, but saw its owner had left the key in it. Marty jumped on, turned the key and kicked back with his left foot on the ignition pedal. The engine roared into life as the ignition lever’s recoil delivered a thump to his ankle.

  Marty cursed, then relented. “Well, the engine’s sweet as a nut,” he said. “That boy knew what he was doing.” He smirked. “As a mechanic, anyway. Hop on the back, Kat. There are no grab handles, so you’ll have to hold me tight. Very tight, because that track is as bumpy as any I’ve seen. It’ll be a rough ride.”

  Kat perched daintily behind him, putting her arms around his abdomen reluctantly.

  “This is no time to stand on ceremony,” Marty growled. “You’re holding on for your life.”

  As soon as he skittered across the yard, she clutched him with all her might.

  “Ouch,” she complained, as he sped onto the dirt trail, throwing a shower of mud and stones around their feet while he bounced across it.

  “Get used to it,” he cautioned her.

  At first, they passed apple trees, then a forest of firs. The scent of resin freshened the air. After a mile or so, the track ended at a metalled road which bent sharply in both directions. The land was level, with nothing in sight except road, trees and sky.

  Marty slowed the bike to a halt. Kat gratefully slid off it, rather inelegantly rubbing her bottom.

  “That hurt,” she said, adding hastily, “but it’s worth it. Which way now, Marty?”

  “You tell me,” he said. “Who knows where Kireniat is? There are no helpful road signs. Let’s flip a coin.” He made a show of emptying his pockets. “Oh dear. I’m short of cash today.”

  “Our friends have spent it all, I bet,” Kat observed. “Marty, they’ve probably gone to Kireniat. If we ride there, we may meet them coming back.” Her eyes betrayed her fear.

  “Then you’ll have to hang on even tighter,” Marty said. “I can outride anyone on this beast.” The motorcycle was extremely well maintained and he’d enjoy a high speed ride on tarmac. “Say what you like about Russian workmanship, they know how to build a bike. We’ll take the right hand road. Wherever we go, it’s better than here.”

  As an afterthought, he told her as she remounted, “I’ll be leaning over when we take a corner. Don’t worry. The momentum will keep us going. Just imagine you’re a sack of potatoes. Don’t try leaning for me, otherwise we’ll both be off.”

  “Okay,” she said, her voice almost lost in the engine’s noise as he revved the throttle.

  Marty hoped she’d understood. The road zigzagged somewhat, so he took it slow at first. Thankfully, Kat did exactly as he’d asked and he sped up, arriving at a larger highway after a few miles. While straighter, this too was notable for a total absence of signage. They were still in a heavily wooded area stretching for miles ahead. The dark green trees, higher than houses, closed in on them. Marty shrugged. It was still a few hours until nightfall. They wouldn’t meet a wolf yet; the creatures were nocturnal. Anyway, there was easier prey for them in these dense forests.

  Again, he turned right, aiming to travel further away from the farm. The road started to slope gently downwards. Marty began to nurture hope that Kireniat lay ahead. It was logical if they were riding on the route from the mountains. After a few minutes, the trees thinned out and fields came into view, mostly pasture for horses. Darria shrubs grew freely at the roadside, some intertwined into rough hedges. In the distance, the skyscrapers of Kireniat glittered.

  Marty almost punched the air, but his triumph was short-lived. The bike coughed and stuttered to a halt, almost sending him sailing over the handlebars. Kat fell forward into him.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “We ran out of fuel,” Marty said, winded. “There should be more in the reserve tank, enough for twenty miles. Hold on.” He dismounted to look for the lever, finding it easily only to discover the machine had already drawn on its reserve. “It’s empty,” he told her. “Fancy hitch-hiking?” He knew it was common practice to pay for a lift, but was sure he could sweet-talk a driver into waiving the charge.

  He stuck out a thumb. After ten minutes, only one car had appeared: an ancient Lada, being driven in the wrong direction. Marty fidgeted. They were sitting ducks if the kidnappers returned.

  “I know what we should do,” Kat said. “We can get to Kireniat in half an hour on horseback.”

  It was Marty’s turn to feel apprehensive. “I’ve never ridden anything I can’t put petrol into. The closest I’ve got to a horse is Anna’s stew.”

  “It can’t be hard. Everyone in Bazakistan can ride,” Kat said, with the unshakable confidence of a girl who’d sat on a pony before she could walk. “I’m bound to find you a decent mount in that field over there. I won’t let on you ate its cousin last week.”

  “I suspect its owners will object,” Marty said.

  “Do you see them anywhere?” Kat asked. “A single herdsman will look after scores of horses.” She gestured in a wide arc. “He’ll be back before nightfall to put them all in stables, so let’s take a couple while we can. We can bring them back later.”

  Marty grudgingly agreed. He didn’t have a better plan.

  Kat made a beeline for the nearest gate. “It isn’t locked,” she said. “Come on, Marty. I think we’re in luck.”

  There were just two mares in the field, a chestnut and a dappled grey. They were the short, stocky breed that was seen everywhere in Bazakistan. Kat walked over to them. She patted each one, whispering in Bazaki as if starting a conversation. Amazingly, they listened, ears flicking towards her as they spoke. The intelligent brown eyes softened.

  Marty hoped they liked her. Those powerful thighs and heavy hooves would deliver a hefty kick.

  “They’re like most horses round here,” she said. “Not much bigger than ponies. Quite old, I think. The grey is the dominant one, so if I take her, the other will follow. Marty, do you have any food in your pockets? It will help us make friends with them.”

  He still had a couple of apples and chunks of bread from their breakfast. “Do you want it all?” he asked.

  “One apple at a time.” She held the sweet fruit out to the grey mare, who munched it happily.

  “See? Friends now,” Kat said. She grasped the lower edge of the grey’s mane and swung herself on its back in a single fluid motion. The horse stood at ease while Kat said, “Now you, Marty. Feed her first, then scramble on.”

  Marty approached the chestnut mare with trepidation, the remaining apple cupped in his palm. He felt her hot breath as she took it.

  “Now I’m going to ride you, girl,”
he said. He grabbed a length of hair and attempted to vault onto her.

  The poor chestnut moved half a step. Unbalanced, Marty slithered back to the ground, landing on his bottom with a thud. He was glad he was well-padded.

  “This is impossible,” he muttered.

  Kat dismounted. “I’ll hold her still,” she said. She patted the chestnut before crouching down and offering Marty her shoulder for a leg up.

  “Grab the mane,” she said.

  Marty clutched a handful of hair just as the horse swayed forward. He felt himself slipping. “I’m going to fall off,” he warned Kat.

  She laughed. “No you won’t. Hang onto her mane. Sit up straight and relax your legs.”

  “Relax?” Marty spluttered.

  Kat ignored the interjection. “Pat her. Tell her she’s a good horse.”

  “Nice horse,” Marty said in his best Bazaki. Patting was out of the question. He needed both hands to grip the mare’s mane.

  “Watch me, and do as I do,” Kat said, remounting the grey. “Don’t be scared. She’ll know if you are.”

  That was easier said than done, Marty thought sourly, as his steed followed Kat’s out of the gate. He heard the rattle of an engine, and broke into a cold sweat. The chestnut pricked up her ears.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Kat yelled. “Just a tractor going past.”

  Luckily, whoever was driving it thought nothing of the riders slipping through the gate. Marty took a deep breath. It failed to quell his anxiety, and he found he was still perspiring. He concentrated on staying on his mount.

  To his relief, the chestnut mare appeared content to follow the grey. He had no idea how Kat communicated any sense of direction to her horse, though. She appeared to steer it by patting, stroking and whispering to it. Like all Bazakis, she rode effortlessly, seemingly born in the saddle. Horses were far more than a food source; they were beast of burden, mode of transport and leisure activity as well.