The Vodka Trail

  THE VODKA TRAIL

  by A.A. Abbott

  Copyright © 2016 A.A. Abbott

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. With the exception of lawyer Katherine Evans, the names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are a product of the author’s imagination. So, alas, is the wonder drug, darria. Any other resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events, is entirely coincidental.

  A.A.Abbott asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Perfect City Press.

  Kat White ended up a penniless teenager marooned in London when her parents died in a foreign prison. She blames Marty Bridges, her father’s business partner, for their deaths.

  Now Kat wants to recover the family vodka business and stop Marty’s gravy train. But when she’s taken hostage by terrorists, Marty holds her life in his hands...

  A compelling crime thriller, sizzling with suspense, seduction, tension and twists.

  Prologue - 1991

  Marty skidded his battered silver Triumph Bonneville to a halt in front of the boxy concrete building. Removing his helmet, he shook his curly blond hair out of his eyes so he could read the red Cyrillic letters above the rusty metal door: Kireniat Number Three Vodka Factory. Now the motorbike was stationary, he was aware of the late summer heat, the sweat starting to trickle onto his upper lip.

  The young policeman who had been slouched in the entrance suddenly looked interested. He dropped his cigarette, reaching instead for the AK-47 semi-automatic rifle strapped across his chest.

  Marty was quicker. He took two ten dollar bills from his pocket, flourishing them as he approached the man. In his best Russian, painstakingly learned, he said, “Ten dollars if you tell Mr Alexander Belov I’m here. And another ten if my bike’s untouched after I’ve met him.”

  “One moment.” The policeman took one of the notes. His accent was thick. That, and his stocky, swarthy appearance marked him out as a Bazaki rather than a Russian incomer. He probably claimed descent from the Mongol hordes who had swept through Bazakistan centuries before.

  “Mr Belov’s expecting me,” Marty added, in case the young man saw an easy target for a shake-down. He wasn’t afraid. While he didn’t have a gun, he had a knife, and his fists; most of all, he had the swift reactions of an amateur boxer. Up close and personal, he could lay any man out cold before his adversary had the chance to shoot.

  The policeman opened the door and disappeared inside, returning with another man wearing the khaki overalls of a factory worker. Tall, thin and pale, the face below his short, black spiky hair was unlined. Marty, not quite thirty himself, supposed they were around the same age.

  “I’m Alexander Belov,” the man said, in English. “Welcome to Kireniat.” He offered his right hand to shake Marty’s, pointing with his left to the flaxen-haired toddler clinging to his leg. “Don’t mind my daughter, Katya. She follows me everywhere.”

  “It’s no problem at all. I have three of my own, and another on the way,” Marty said. “Your English is good.”

  Belov smiled. “Thank you.” He was clearly flattered. “I see the West as an opportunity for me.”

  “As the East is for me,” Marty said. “I’m keen to work with you to our mutual advantage.” He’d taken a big risk, leaving his business in Birmingham unattended to travel to this former outpost of the Soviet Union. It had cost time and money he could barely afford.

  Belov nodded. “We will be brothers.” His handshake was firm. “Together, we can sell Bazaki vodka in the West. Capitalism is new to me. I know nothing of marketing, only making. But the President wants Bazakistan to learn. This country needs foreign currency.”

  Marty had seen the evidence of that, in the petrol and food shortages that Belov had mentioned when they’d exchanged telexes. “I’ll pay you in dollars,” he said. He’d brought plenty with him, prepared to buy vodka on the spot if necessary.

  “Would you like to see my factory?” Belov asked eagerly.

  “Yes, and taste the product,” Marty said. Belov had sent samples which he’d had analysed for purity; they were fine, but the only way to be sure was to take vodka from the production line.

  “Very good.” Belov clapped an arm around Marty’s shoulder, ushering him inside. His obvious excitement was encouraging.

  Little Katya shadowed her father. She looked up at Marty, an enigmatic expression in her wide green eyes.

  Chapter 1

  Kat

  Orphaned and destitute at the age of sixteen, desperate to scratch a living, Kat had made some bad decisions. She’d narrowly avoided a criminal record, and although that was luck of a sort, nothing could fill the yawning chasm that had opened in her life when her parents died. Love, security, and even her future had vanished. She’d imagined her father’s business would be hers, but at the stroke of a clerk’s pen, it was taken away. Now, nearly twenty-five and ready to follow her ambitions, she wanted it back.

  Ross could give her the means. He was prosperous enough to pay lawyers to wrest the factory from its current owners. That wouldn’t happen without a fight, probably an expensive battle through the Bazaki courts, but she was sure Ross’ pockets were deep enough.

  She’d made an effort for him tonight. There was champagne in the fridge and candles flickered in the master bedroom. Kat wore nothing but a wispy negligée. The eau-de-nil silk clung to her curves and highlighted her jade-green eyes. “Because you’re worth it, Ross,” she whispered to herself.

  That wasn’t the whole truth. Yes, Ross was rich, handsome and fit. His penthouse flat in Fitzrovia was perfect, set in a quiet residential street a stone’s throw from London’s busiest shops and bars. His generosity was lavish: flowers, designer dresses, holidays, and now the huge diamond ring that sparkled on her finger. Yet Kat didn’t want to be a trophy wife. She craved independence and success in her own right, and knew she was capable of running a vodka business. That was only going to happen with Ross’ help, though. Did he care about her dreams? She was about to find out.

  It was after ten when Ross returned. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “That dinner was so tedious.”

  “You went to Sketch,” Kat said, puzzled. “At those prices, it should have been wonderful. I only wish I could go there myself.” She twisted tendrils of her long blonde hair around her fingers.

  Ross laughed. “I’ll take you, then. The food was out of this world, and the wine to die for. You’d love it. I just wish I’d paid the bill myself and taken you. I only agreed to go because Wheldons are the best head hunters in the business. When they invite you to a meeting, you don’t say no.”

  “I didn’t know you were looking for another job,” she said. “I thought you liked working for Davey Saxton.”

  Ross shrugged. “Yes, he’s a nice guy, but whether I like my boss or not isn’t important. He pays me well, which is what matters. Wheldons didn’t have anything to tempt me, as it happens. The money wasn’t enough. Anyway, if I stick around, I’ll have Davey Saxton’s job one day.”

  Kat believed him. He was clever. It was reassuring to know that, while her fiancé was already wealthy, he would be even richer in future. “Champagne?” she offered.

  “You read my mind,” Ross replied.

  She went to the kitchen, expertly caught the cork with a towel as she opened the bottle, and poured the effervescent liquid into crystal glasses. “Cheers,” she said. “We’ve been together exactly eight months. Let’s celebrate!”

  He clinked his glass against hers without returning the toast. “Did I mention I’m off to a conference in Birmingham next week?” he asked.

  “No.” Kat knew she would have remembered. As a teenager, she’d lived there briefly, t
raining as a croupier before setting off to London to seek her fortune. Her brother, Erik, was working on a cancer cure in his laboratory near the centre. To cap it all, it was in the city’s plush Malmaison hotel that she and Ross had spent their first night together. Should she return with him next week? It was months since she’d seen her brother. She was briefly tempted, until she realised Erik would try to dissuade her from following her dream. Worse, her brother would also do his best to deter Ross from helping her.

  Ross switched on his iPad.

  “Hang on,” Kat said, “before you start playing poker again, I want to tell you what’s on my mind.”

  He frowned. “Can it wait, darling? There’s a tournament about to start. I should make a few thou from it, tax-free.”

  “It won’t take me long,” Kat said. “Remember what I told you about Snow Mountain vodka? It was my family business, and I want it back.” Despite the years that had passed, she resented the injustice that had led to her father’s imprisonment, the distillery’s seizure, and ultimately her parents’ deaths. Ross needed to understand what it meant to her. “Will you help me?”

  Ross frowned. “I’d rather you forgot all about Bazakistan. Frankly, I thought you’d want to, after…”

  She interrupted. “After what happened to my parents?”

  Ross reached out and took her hand. He stroked the diamond as the stone sparkled in the candlelight. “I don’t want you to be reminded of the past, darling. Anyway what can I do? I’m an actuary, not a distiller or even a lawyer. You could ask Ted, of course. He’s the best lawyer I know. Personally, I think your chances are slim. The factory’s in a country with a less developed legal system than the UK. I’d rather you focused on planning our wedding – and the honeymoon.”

  There was a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. He began to caress her arm, reaching through the negligée up to her shoulder.

  Kat pulled away from him. “I’ll ring Ted tomorrow, then.” She’d make sure he sent the bill to Ross. She added, eyes flashing, “I was brought up to run the distillery. I could do so much to make Snow Mountain a big name brand. Marty Bridges doesn’t market it properly.”

  Ross started to untie her silk garment. He seemed to have decided that poker could wait. “You’re not a marketing expert yourself, darling, are you? I suppose you could ask that girl who shared your flat. Amy, wasn’t it?”

  “Amy works for Marty Bridges, with my brother,” Kat said, exasperated. “They’re crazy. The man’s a snake.”

  “I love you when you’re angry,” Ross murmured, apparently serious. “Drink your champagne.” He kissed her lightly on the lips.

  It was hard to resist him. As his deep blue eyes gazed into hers, Kat responded to his kisses. There would be plenty of time to pursue her plans in the morning.

  Chapter 2

  Marty

  Marty was proud of his silver Jaguar F-Type. It was locally made, swift and showy, a symbol of his success. As he parked by the Rose Villa Tavern, he was satisfied that his car outclassed the others lining Warstone Lane.

  The pub was a gabled red brick structure dwarfed by the white oblong next to it. This was the Big Peg, a huge office building. Marty thought it out of place amid the Victorian architecture of Birmingham’s Jewellery Quarter, but it had its uses; offices within it were often advertised for letting, a convenient benchmark for the properties he owned in the area.

  Marty was late, and reflected that it was fortunate Erik had a placid nature like his father. The young man wouldn’t be watching the clock, although he’d be halfway through a pint already. The converted jewellery workshop where Erik worked on their joint venture was just a few minutes’ walk from the pub, after all.

  To Marty’s surprise, however, his business partner was nowhere in sight. Instead, Marty spied Amy in a lively discussion with a man he recognised as her father, Charles.

  They were sitting in the old-fashioned leather armchairs that dominated the little snug off the bar. Amy had a cocktail in front of her. She was twisting a strand of her long, copper-coloured hair around her fingers, frowning as she spoke. Charles, listening avidly, was drinking real ale. Marty approved.

  He ordered his beer, overhearing Charles say, “It’s profits that pay all our wages.”

  “Telling the wench what’s what, are we?” Marty said, placing a hand on Charles’ shoulder.

  Amy blushed and looked away. Marty wondered what she’d been saying about him.

  “Amy was just telling me all about your cancer research,” Charles said. “It sounds like you have a blockbuster drug on your hands.”

  “I believe so,” Marty agreed. “My partner could say more about how it works. He’s synthesised the active ingredient from darria, a shrub that’s reputed to have anti-ageing properties. My wife certainly believes in it. She drinks darria tea every day.” Angela had tried to inflict it on him too, but so far, he’d won that battle. It wasn’t as if the tea would bring hair back to his bald patch, or return his physique to the athleticism of youth.

  He added, “Clinical trials on darria extract have been promising, but of course, marketing is key in deciding on the next phase.” He nodded at Amy. “You’d find it hard to believe darria was a wonder shrub if you tripped over it. It’s a twiggy little thing, nothing to look at. You wouldn’t bother growing it in your garden.”

  “Dad doesn’t have a garden,” Amy said. “He’s got a flat in Shoreditch.”

  “It used to be a rough part of London, but no longer,” Charles said. “It’s handy for my work in the City, and good for bars, too. New ones are opening all the time.”

  “That’s similar to the Jewellery Quarter,” Marty said. In his youth, it had been crammed with metal-bashers and artisan workshops. His first wife’s wedding ring had been made there. Rather than try one of the shops on Vyse Street, with their tempting displays of gold, he’d taken her to a workshop where her finger was measured and the ring priced by weight.

  “This is a great place to live,” Amy said, adding swiftly, “And work.”

  “What brings you to Birmingham?” Marty asked Charles. He knew Amy rarely saw her parents. Charles had visited the city only once before, when he’d as good as interviewed Marty and Erik before Amy accepted their job offer.

  “I’m at an insurance conference for a couple of days,” Charles said.

  Marty whistled. “Sounds exciting.”

  “It will be,” Charles said. “I’m running a workshop on cyber security.”

  “Dad’s not ashamed of his inner geek,” Amy said.

  “The hottest ticket in town, no doubt,” Marty said. “Glad to see you supping a local brew, meanwhile. If you want to try some more later, come with me. My wife’s out with the girls tonight, so I’ve got a pass for the evening.” He wagged a finger theatrically at Amy. “You’ll be needing an early night, bab. I’m expecting to see you bright-eyed with those market research results first thing tomorrow.”

  A waitress brought burgers to Charles and Amy. Marty looked at them longingly. “I think I’ll order one myself,” he said. “My wife’s insisted I join her on the five:two diet. Yesterday was a fast day, so I need to catch up on my calories.” He winked. “I can’t allow the diet to work, or she’ll keep me on it forever.”

  “I highly recommend the chips,” Charles said.

  “I’m definitely having them,” Marty said. He studied the other man, noting that Charles was in good shape despite the chips and beer. His figure was trim and his face youthful, only a few laughter lines radiating from his eyes, and his short back and sides still dark. With a twenty-three-year-old daughter, he must be in his early forties at least. Marty thought ruefully of the image in his own mirror: a rotund middle-aged man with a horseshoe of grey hair circling his pate. He didn’t need darria tea, he needed a miracle.

  Erik arrived just as Marty had chosen from the menu. Marty ordered food for both of them and bought more beer. They settled into seats around the corner from Amy and Charles, beneath a semi-circular stai
ned glass window. The nineteenth century bones of the pub had been polished, painted and wallpapered with birds and flowers. As well as the real ale clips, there was an excellent selection of vodkas. Snow Mountain wasn’t one of them, and Marty made a mental note to speak to the manager again.

  “Busy day?” Marty asked.

  “I wanted to process some results before our brainstorming meeting tomorrow,” Erik said.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Marty said. “Let’s have Amy present her market research first, then we can talk about next steps for the business. We should review costs as well. I’ve been running financial projections and I’ll share them with you.” He wished Erik would focus on cash too; darria wasn’t bringing in an income, yet the overheads of developing it were high. There were outlays for running an office, clinical trials and market research, as well as Erik and Amy’s wages.

  Erik’s response was enthusiastic, although he totally ignored the monetary aspects of the project. Green eyes animated, he started describing improvements he’d made in extracting darria’s essence from the shrub. He looked so like his father at the same age that Marty blinked once or twice. Erik could have been Alexander Belov, or Sasha as Marty had learned to call him, spelling out the purity of his vodka.

  A drink with Erik was always just that, of course, not a long session in the pub. After a pint and a burger, he rose to leave.

  “I’ll just see if Amy wants a lift back,” Marty said.

  “Is she here?” Erik’s eyes softened.

  Marty jerked a thumb at the snug. “With her father. I’m going to take him out, show him the sights. Well, a decent pub or two, anyway.”

  Amy and Charles were just finishing brownies.

  “On expenses?” Marty asked, tongue in cheek.

  “How did you guess?” Charles flashed him a grin. Noticing Erik, he shook the young man’s hand. “I’m glad to hear Amy’s enjoying working with you. I hear your office isn’t far.”