by AA Abbott
By contrast, Marty was struggling. He barely maintained his balance, grasping the horse’s mane and using his thighs to grip the sides of the slippery animal. It jolted up and down. He winced in pain, glad his family was complete. He didn’t rate his chances of siring children after this.
The chestnut snorted. “Nice horse,” he repeated.
They stayed by the side of the road. Marty longed to reach Kireniat, which still appeared like an unattainable mirage ahead. Gradually, the city came closer. So did the black Mercedes that had appeared on the horizon.
“Kat,” Marty cried out in warning.
“I know,” she shouted, persuading the grey mare to stop. Dismounting with ease, she used her horse to shield herself from the sight of traffic on the highway. “Get off, Marty.”
“I can’t,” he yelled. “Red Rum doesn’t have any brakes.”
The chestnut, already slowing and looking around out of curiosity, halted when Kat spoke to her. “Now,” she commanded Marty.
He obeyed with speed, if not grace, tumbling off the animal and crouching behind it as the car sped past.
“Was Nurbolat driving?” she asked.
Marty shrugged. “How should I know? I was hiding behind Red Rum, remember?” His thighs and bottom were already stiffening, pain pulsating through them. He forced himself to ask Kat for help to remount. Cursing under his breath, he noted with envy how easily Kat climbed back onto the grey.
They were maybe five miles from the city limits, but they weren’t safe yet. “Kat,” he called to her. “We can’t travel on the road like this. Ken has more than one car. There’s a silver Merc too.”
She persuaded her horse to stop. “We’ll lose time if we retreat to the fields. The ground is uneven, and the hedges between them are too high to jump. The horses will have to push through them, and that takes ages.”
The animals looked athletic enough to him. Whether he was bred to sit on a jumping horse was another matter. There was only one way to find out. “Humour me,” he said. “We ought to try. It’s safer.”
Evidently, the rush hour had started. Traffic passed them every minute or so. Kat guided her mare into a wheat field, with Marty’s mount following.
The ride was definitely slower now the horses were plodding through the field. Marty bounced alarmingly as his mare negotiated hidden potholes and furrows, silver-green stalks of grain appearing to part at her feet, and then entwining them. Fortunately, the first hedge was punctuated by a gate to the next field. Marty watched gratefully as Kat jumped down to open it.
“Remember the Countryside Code, bab. Make sure you close it afterwards,” he said, chuckling as she gave him a filthy look.
They weren’t so lucky the second time. There was no exit to the adjacent field. To Marty’s dismay, Kat was proved right. The horses weren’t interested in jumping. Instead, the grey began to trample her way through.
Marty was considering how he would ever stay on the chestnut once she did the same, when he heard the screech of brakes and saw a flash of silver. There was no time to warn Kat before a shot rang out. Ken Khan had found them.
Overcome by her flight instinct, the chestnut immediately leaped over the hedge she’d previously refused to jump. Caught unawares, Marty was thrown off her back, landing atop the thorny hedge. The prickles drew blood as he clambered down the other side, looking around for his steed and seeing her cowering at the opposite end of the field.
By some miracle, Kat was still clinging on to the grey mare, although the horse was racing to join her companion. Marty ran after them.
“Do you have any apples left?” Kat shouted.
“Only bread,” Marty replied.
“That’s no good,” she said. “It gives them colic. Pick some weeds – dandelions, grass, anything.”
He did as he was told. The grey took the leaves he offered, but the chestnut stayed at a wary distance.
More loud bangs echoed across the field. A bullet whizzed past Marty’s right ear. Another nicked the chestnut mare’s leg. He saw the barrel of an AK-47 poking through the hedge they’d just navigated.
The poor chestnut squealed and recoiled in pain. Marty noticed blood trickling down a hind leg. Panicking, the mare bolted. She galloped around the edge of the field, knocking the gun sideways as she ran past. It was out of commission, but possibly not for long.
Marty saw Kat was in trouble. The grey’s first instinct was to follow her friend. Kat had retained her seat on the mare, but she couldn’t control the horse as it bolted. Worse, Ken was scaling the hedge, the AK-47 slung across his body. It was obvious Kat had seen the rebel leader, and equally, that there was nothing she could do to escape.
Ken cleared the hedge and steadied his Kalashnikov. Marty threw himself to the ground, waiting for the next shot. It never came. Instead, he heard two thuds in quick succession. The sound of galloping slowed.
“Marty!” It was Kat’s voice.
He looked up, and across to the hedge. Kat was no longer mounted. She was standing, rubbing her head, contemplating the prone figure of Ken Khan. Bloodied, his AK-47 bent out of shape, he was lying groaning on the ground. The horses had galloped to the other side of the field.
In spite of their perilous situation, Marty chuckled. It was clear Ken had collided with Kat’s horse. Ken hadn’t won the argument.
“Are you all right?” he asked Kat.
“Bruised,” she said. “I was thrown off.”
“Join the club,” Marty said. He glanced sympathetically at the injured mare. She was the innocent victim of their plight. There was no way he’d be riding her again. The two horses continued to race around the field’s perimeter. They were clearly confused, spooked by the gunfire.
“We have to calm the horses,” Kat said.
“No, let’s run,” Marty said. Ken was badly injured, had undoubtedly broken some bones, and wasn’t doing anything or going anywhere fast. It was improbable that he would be on his own, though. Marty could virtually feel his own blood pressure rise. “Hurry up, bab,” he said.
“We’ve no chance without a horse,” she argued. She gathered sweet leaves for the pair, jogging alongside them, speaking soothing words.
“Kat, we have to get out of here. Ken has friends.” He tugged at her arm. This was more than bravery, it was recklessness. Providence had seen Ken trampled; running too close to the mares, Kat might share his fate.
The horses slowed. Kat nodded. “The grey will be fine,” she said, proving it by stopping the horse and mounting her. “Hop on behind me. You’ll have to leapfrog.”
Marty heard a commotion at the roadside. Ken’s friends must have arrived. While the grey horse looked skittish, he had no alternative. He took a run at the tail and jumped above it, hugging Kat tight, reversing the roles they’d taken on the motorcycle. She gripped the mare’s mane, urging her to trample over another hedge, towards the next field, and the next. They left Ken, his men and the highway far behind.
It was as much as Marty could do to stay on the horse. He tried to follow Kat’s lead and anticipate its movements, flexing his bottom and thighs to stay connected to its warm body as it lurched up and down. Ruefully, he regretted his cavalier attitude towards Kat on the motorbike. “Where are we?” he asked Kat, a panicked edge to his voice.
“Still heading towards Kireniat,” she said. “You can tell by the sun.”
They arrived at a cluster of low white buildings, similar to those where they’d been held. Marty kept his sense of déjà vu to himself. He could tell this was a different farm; there were no apple trees, pigs and chickens. A woman came running out of the property, curiosity written all over her face.
“Forget her,” Kat said. “Look, there’s a lane from the farmhouse. It must lead somewhere.”
“My guess is the highway to Kireniat,” Marty said. “What are we waiting for?” He couldn’t believe they’d encounter Ken’s men in an entirely random section of the road.
He was right. As they neared the road, a square
white patrol car came to a halt in front of them.
“No!” Kat screamed.
Chapter 29
Kat
“Get the horse to stop,” Marty said. “The police carry arms, remember.”
“All the better to kill you with,” Kat said. “I’m turning back towards the farm.”
“Don’t be a fool,” he hissed.
Two men jumped out of the car, hefting their AK-47s meaningfully. Their dark trousers, crisp white shirts and peaked caps signalled their profession. They were youngish, tall and thin, swaggering with an air of menace.
Kat knew she had no choice. They could shoot her as soon as look at her. Scowling, she dismounted from the horse and stood quietly next to it.
Marty climbed down, wincing at his bruises, then smiled and extended a hand.
He was too naive, she thought, unforgivably so. He’d visited Bazakistan often enough to know better. He was behaving as if the police were helpful individuals, the kind of public servants who would rescue his confused old mother when she wandered from her care home, and give directions to lost tourists. The innocent had nothing to fear in Marty’s world. This wasn’t England, however; far from it. Bazaki police were predators.
What might happen now? She and Marty were miles from the city, with no papers, no money, and a stolen horse. Without cash for bribes, she could predict what the officers would expect.
Kat regretted washing herself that morning. She kept her countenance stony, deliberately making herself unattractive. Recalling advice given on a self-defence course at school, she picked her nose. If Ulan had been dangerous without a weapon, how much more threatening were two armed killers with an entitlement complex?
If the Bazaki police didn’t like you, you disappeared. Kat imagined her father’s dread and disbelief when he was thrown into the cells, the agony and violence he must have suffered. Just minutes before, she’d been ecstatic at her escape from Ken Khan, looking forward to flying home to London, falling into her fiancé’s arms, even seeing Erik and admitting humbly that he’d been right. Now, behind her frown, she cowered in terror.
Marty said, in perfect Russian, “Hello. I am Arystan Aliyev’s business partner, and I’ve been kidnapped.”
Chapter 30
Marty
Kireniat was six hours ahead of the UK. It was morning in Birmingham when Marty phoned Angela. “Hello, bab,” he began, “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve lost weight.”
“Marty!” Her voice bubbled with excitement. “Where are you?”
“The British consulate in Kireniat,” he told her.
“You’re safe,” she said. “Oh, thank goodness. When are you coming home?”
“As soon as I can get a flight,” he said. It wasn’t quite true. He had a visit to make first, and he’d need to return to the consulate for emergency travel documents anyway. Still, he planned to leave Kireniat the next evening at the latest. “Will you let Tim and the other children know, please?” he asked her. “I’ll ring them from the hotel in an hour or so. And can you ask Tanya to call me about the flights?”
“Of course.” She sounded elated. “I’ll tell Erik, as well.”
“I know he was right about Bazakistan, but don’t take any smugness from him,” Marty cautioned.
His taxi, paid for by Harry, was waiting outside to whisk Marty to his hotel. In two hours, Harry would arrive there to take him to dinner. Meanwhile, his first priority was to run a bath. He luxuriated in the hot water, ruefully examining his chafed wrists and the bruises and scratches he’d sustained on the horse ride. His hands, cut by thorns, smarted. He eased out a few splinters, then lay still, letting the bubbles dissolve his tension and aches.
For the first time in a week, he’d brushed his teeth and would change into clean clothes. Marty closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of freedom.
The bedside phone rang. Marty leaped out of the tub, slinging the complimentary white bathrobe around his shoulders, shivering with pleasure at its velvety softness. He just managed to pick up the phone before it cut to voicemail after five rings.
“Hello, Marty, it’s Ross.”
“Is Kat all right?” Marty asked, the first thought that came into his head. He couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t be. He’d left her with the consul, after telling the man why Kat was nervous in the presence of the Bazaki police, and suggesting he ensured she didn’t have to make a statement.
“Yes,” Ross said, rather stiffly. “I want to thank you for helping her escape. Also, she wanted me to find out how she could get emergency travel documents without a police report. The consul’s insisting the police must first record her passport as lost.”
That was typical of Kat, expecting others to run errands for her. The fiancé was well under her thumb. “I’ve no idea,” Marty said. “Sounds like red tape to me. Ask your lawyer. Why couldn’t she ring me, anyway?”
“She doesn’t want to speak to you,” Ross said.
He was refreshingly blunt, anyway. “I suppose she’s annoyed that I invoked the name of Satan himself, Harry Aliyev, to get the cops on side,” Marty said. “Tell her it cut through the red tape. I’d have been in the nick and she’d have been walking five miles to Kireniat through fields if I hadn’t.”
“I’ll let her know,” Ross said. He paused. “Do forgive her, Marty. She’s rather overcome with emotion right now.”
“Understood,” Marty said curtly. Hunger and fatigue assailed him. He replaced the handset and raided the minibar for peanuts and Scotch. Catching a glimpse of his stubble in the mirror, he hastily shaved before donning a fresh shirt and slacks. The waistband was loose. He felt smug. Angela would have to stop nagging him about diets.
He took his iPad from the desk where he’d left it a week ago, and called each of his four children on Skype. Next, he sent messages to Tanya, Erik and Amy. He added that Kat was safe and well too. Delighted emails were already hitting his inbox by the time the concierge phoned to say Mr Aliyev was waiting.
Harry wrapped him in a bear hug, his joy apparently genuine. “How are you, my friend?” he asked. “Is your hotel room as you left it?”
Marty suffered the embrace. His opinion of Harry was no higher, for all that the man’s name opened doors. “The room’s fine,” he confirmed.
“Excellent,” Harry said. “I asked them to extend the booking. You were due to return home at the weekend, weren’t you?”
“I’m planning to go tomorrow,” Marty said. “I don’t think we have further business to discuss.”
“What about the properties you wanted to see?” Harry asked.
“On hold.” Marty conceded to himself that Erik was right. Darria might grow like a weed in Bazakistan, but there had to be easier places to farm it.
Harry’s face betrayed disappointment. “That’s a shame,” he said. “I’ve persuaded a friend of mine to do a good deal for you. In fact, I thought we could meet him at the restaurant I’ve booked. It’s a little French place. When Monsieur Michelin begins to give away his stars in Kireniat, this chef will be first in line, for sure.”
Marty coughed to conceal a chuckle. Harry was clearly planning to take a cut for the land purchase. “I’m sorry, Harry,” he said. “I’m rather tired. Couldn’t we just have a steak in the hotel restaurant?” It would probably be horse. He was willing to take the risk.
“Very well,” Harry agreed with barely a flicker of chagrin.
They strolled into the half-empty restaurant.
“Excuse me,” Harry said, as his phone buzzed. He answered the call, occasionally interjecting in monosyllables. “Yes, thank you for letting me know,” he said finally, before turning to Marty with a smile. “Great news, my friend.”
“What’s that?” Marty was intrigued.
“The army have raided the place where they held you. All the extremists are dead.”
Marty was about to say they weren’t extremists, then thought better of it. Local politics was none of his business. His sympathies hardly lay with Ke
n Khan, anyway. It was impossible to believe he and Kat would have left the farm alive if they hadn’t taken matters into their own hands. “That’s good to hear,” he said. “Although, Harry, there is one other thing I’d like to know.”
“What would that be?” Harry asked, unashamedly curious.
“Are the horses all right? The chestnut especially, as she sustained a wound.”
“My friend, I’m glad you asked,” Harry said with discernible warmth. He evidently loved horses as much as any of his countrymen. “I am told it was just a scratch. Both the chestnut and grey have been returned to their owners. I’ll make sure they’re appropriately compensated.”
“Let me know if I owe you anything,” Marty said.
“I won’t hear of it,” Harry replied. “You were our guest in Bazakistan, and if I may say so,” he lowered his voice, “at the highest level, there is a great deal of embarrassment at your difficulties here. So let’s celebrate your release.” He called the sommelier to select some red wine. “A decent vintage, please.”
The ruby liquid was poured into glasses. Harry raised one. “To liberty!” he said.
“To liberty,” Marty echoed, marvelling at Harry’s hypocrisy. He could barely wait for the morning, to receive his documents and take a cab to the airport. There was another task to perform first, but he had no intention of telling Harry about that.
Chapter 31
Marty
In Marty’s opinion, the best feature of the sixties bungalow was that it was mostly screened from view. Tall birch trees around the substantial garden gave privacy from the highway nearby, the adjacent vodka factory, and the fields that bordered one side of the square plot. His taxi swung into a sweeping gravel drive and halted by the front door.
“Wait here,” Marty said, giving the driver a fistful of notes. “There will be more later,” he promised.
Although the weather was dry and mild, Marty had zipped up his Barbour parka and pulled the hood over his balding head, all the better to hide it from prying eyes. Harry would imagine he was on his way to the airport. To make sure Harry was at the factory rather than at home with his loving wife, Marty had just phoned him on his landline and exchanged pleasantries.
