The Vodka Trail Page 4

  They toasted Europe and America before choosing from a menu of delicious dishes, the prices reflecting the luxurious ingredients used. Alana selected low carbohydrate options and refused offers of bread. Davey had no such restraint. He ordered crab risotto and steak.

  “We can match wines to your meal,” the waitress offered.

  Alana simpered at Davey. “Champagne goes with everything.”

  “We’ll stick to that,” he said.

  “You mentioned it was a long day,” Alana said, topping up his glass.

  “Yes,” Davey said. “After the conference tomorrow, it’s just twenty-four hours until the weekend. I can’t wait. I’ll take my sons rugby training, then I’ll be doing some serious running to limber up for the Iron Man. Another American invention.”

  “Whereas rugby is a fiendishly complicated British gift to the world,” Alana said. “Davey, after three years in London, I’ve got my head round soccer, but rugby defeats me.”

  “Oh? Which soccer team do you favour?” Davey asked, somewhat sceptically.

  “I’m rather fond of Crystal Palace,” Alana replied. “It’s great to see them holding their own in the Premier League.”

  Davey, who had spent his formative years not far from Selhurst Park, was astonished. “They’re my favourite team,” he said. “I watch them whenever I can. As a matter of fact, I nearly bought a house next door to Andy Johnson a few years ago.” Laura had quashed that idea, he recalled with disappointment.

  As he spoke about childhood heroes and the state of the current team, he was pleasantly surprised by Alana’s knowledge of football and Crystal Palace in particular. Conversation flowed easily, as did the second bottle of champagne.

  Predictably, Alana declined pudding, leaving Davey to tackle a deconstructed tiramisu alone. She ignored the sweets that were brought with their coffees. As Davey sipped his latte, Alana reached across the table for his hand. “I love London,” she said, “but it’s a lonely place. And so isolated at the top. Don’t you feel it too, Davey?”

  Her action was so unexpected that he didn’t struggle, but she swiftly withdrew her hand anyway.

  “There’s a connection between us,” Alana announced. “I can be myself with you. If I want to listen to Slayer instead of this goddamn jazz they’re playing here, I know you won’t judge me for it.”

  Davey was almost rendered speechless. Again, he would never have taken Alana for a kindred spirit, yet it seemed she shared his guilty pleasure. As a teenager, he’d loved heavy metal. He occasionally listened to it on his daily commute, although Laura thought Classic FM was more suitable for his station in life, and his car radio was tuned into it to humour her. “Did you say Slayer?” he asked Alana. “The metal band?”

  “The very same,” Alana said. “I listen to them each morning to start the day with energy. My iPhone’s loaded with every track they ever laid down. Look, I’ll prove it.” She grabbed the phone from her valise.

  Davey scanned the buzzing restaurant. “Maybe not here,” he said.

  “As it happens, they have a few rooms here, and I’ve booked one,” Alana said. “I’m so bored with seeing all the London insurance faces at the Hyatt. I just wanted to be in a place where I didn’t need to pretend. Come on up with me. We can get more coffees, listen to music.” She patted her phone.

  Relaxed after more than his fair share of champagne, Davey was tempted. He could have another coffee with Alana and take a cab back to the Hyatt. “All right,” he said.

  Alana asked for the bill to be charged to her room and ordered more coffee to be brought there.

  Davey glanced around the reception lobby as she collected her key. He was sober enough to be concerned that no one he knew would see him. However innocent his intentions, they’d be easily misinterpreted. He didn’t relish explaining to Laura why he’d been alone in a hotel bedroom with an attractive young woman, even if she was the insurance CEO who had fired him the year before.

  Alana’s room was painted in neutral shades of caramel and cream, not dissimilar to most of the business hotels where Davey stayed. A tray of coffee was already waiting for them.

  Alana ignored it, taking a Bose Bluetooth speaker from her valise. She pressed a few buttons, and the unmistakable sound of heavy metal filled the room. “Do you believe me now?” she asked, flicking back her sleek bob.

  “Yes,” Davey said. He shook his head rhythmically backwards and forwards. “This was better when I had hair,” he admitted ruefully.

  “Like this?” Alana asked, copying his motion. Her bob swung across her face.

  “You’ve got it.” Davey found he was grinning like a madman.

  Alana sat on the bed, stretching her long, slender legs. Her skin, the colour of the tiny espressos she drank, had a silken sheen. Caught up in the heat of corporate deals and the upheaval of his exit from Veritable, he’d never appreciated before how alluring she was. He felt the heat rise in his groin.

  Alana reached for his hand again. Davey let her take it. He ignored the rational mind that told him infidelity was wrong, that Laura deserved better. She would never know. He didn’t resist when Alana brushed her lips against his, or when she kissed with more passion, her tongue probing and licking the tip of his. He gently pushed back, tasting the coffee on her breath.

  Alana seemed to be enjoying herself. She placed Davey’s left hand on her leg, letting him feel her smooth skin, then guided his fingers to the inside of her thigh and up to her lacy panties.

  “It’s getting a little hot in here,” she said. Drawing back from him, she unzipped her dress, letting it fall to the ground. Skimpy, bright red underwear contrasted with her dark, toned body. Her brown eyes shone.

  Davey told himself he’d be crazy to refuse her. He leaned forward, kissing Alana’s lips, neck and shoulders, while unclipping her bra strap. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

  “And you’re so fit,” Alana said. “When I saw you this morning in your shorts, I was blown away by those muscles.” She loosened his shirt, biting his neck, nipping at his nipples and hairy chest, then unbuckling his belt, kneeling and nibbling his thighs.

  “I want to go further than this,” she said, suddenly producing a condom from her valise.

  “What are you doing?” Davey asked, smelling the scent of chocolate as she unwrapped it.

  “Trust me,” Alana said. “It’ll be great.”

  She put the condom on him and applied her mouth to his groin.

  The sensation as she moved her lips and tongue over him was almost too exquisite. “Alana,” Davey groaned, shuddering. He began to thrust towards her throat, almost caught unawares as a rush of hot liquid arrived without warning.

  He felt obliged to apologise. His performance left much to be desired. “I’m sorry,” he began.

  Alana put a finger to her lips. “There’s no need to be. The night is young,” she said, cupping his hands around her breasts. Stroking Davey’s bottom and thighs, she nibbled his nipples again while he squeezed hers.

  “Oh God. Alana.” He moaned her name, over and over again.

  “You’re a fit guy,” Alana said. “Well, I bet you can last for hours.”

  She slipped off her panties, encouraging Davey to fling his clothes on the floor while she retrieved another condom from her bag. Gently, almost with reverence, she stroked the sheath onto him.

  He entered her, the excitement nearly too much to bear. Alana mirrored it. She sighed with delight, writhing beneath him as he pounded steadily.

  “You like that, don’t you?” Davey murmured.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice husky.

  He did his best to compensate for his earlier gaffe, taking Alana to the brink of ecstasy and then, tantalisingly, withdrawing. All the while, he kissed and caressed her. Her iPhone played Slayer noisily in the background.

  Alana surrendered to him completely, squealing as he teased her, clasping him closer to draw him back within. Eventually, her arousal was complete. As she gasped and moaned, wriggl
ing beneath him, Davey finally reached a climax too.

  “That was awesome,” Alana said.

  “I know.” Davey smirked. “I’ve always wanted to make love to Slayer.”

  Chapter 6

  Marty

  It was twenty four hours before Erik returned Marty’s call. Meanwhile, Marty considered asking Amy to sound out his partner on the possibility of selling darria tea and developing a prescription drug in parallel. He forbore from contacting her, in the end. She’d made it clear she didn’t want to be involved in the dispute.

  While he was impressed by her market research, he wasn’t going to tell her. She’d only ask for a pay rise, or pester him again for a transfer to his vodka business. It was a magnet for young people, who believed marketing a high end vodka meant an endless round of promotional parties and visits to clubs. Every year, he received dozens of unsolicited job applications from marketing graduates like Amy. He conceded she knew her stuff, though. His elder daughter currently managed the Snow Mountain brand for him. If she tired of it, or decided to start a family, he could always call on Amy. She was a safety net, at least.

  Erik phoned when Marty was meeting his bank manager. Seeing the number, Marty immediately excused himself and stepped outside.

  “Did you get my message?” he asked Erik.

  “Of course,” Erik replied. “We need to talk.”

  “Let’s do that over a pint,” Marty suggested.

  He drove to the Jewellery Quarter. Parking nearby, he walked through the winding cobbled passage where the old workshop was located. The property was unrecognisable from the shabby building he’d bought at auction. On the ground floor, there was now an open plan office, its brick walls painted white and its salvaged oak floor varnished. Aluminium pipes carried utilities across the ceiling and down the walls. The lighting was industrial-chic, the air scented with the aroma of a coffee machine in a dining area at the back. Four young people sat in front of laptops at pale wood desks: Erik, Amy and a couple of web developers who also rented flats in the building.

  Amy glanced up at him, her eyes pleading. Marty dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. “Ready, Erik?” he said. “I don’t want the pub to sell out.”

  Marty gave him the news as soon as he’d bought beer. “I’m going to fund research trials,” he said. “However much it costs, I’m in for it. And…”

  “…we’ll be selling tea to pay for it,” Erik said.

  Marty feigned astonishment. “You took the words from my mouth.”

  “I’ve been talking to Amy,” Erik said. “She’s explained that the tea will fund the research. It could work. We need to source enough darria, that’s all. That will take time.”

  “No, it won’t,” Marty said. “You told me it grows like a weed in the mountain valleys of Bazakistan. So, I’ll go there, buy up land, establish a plantation, and in two years we’ll have a harvest.” Land and labour were both cheap in Bazakistan. His plan was faultless.

  Erik had a different opinion. “Bazakistan is too dangerous,” he said solemnly.

  “I’ve been doing business there for over twenty years,” Marty pointed out. “Look. Not a scratch on me.”

  “You haven’t offended anyone important,” Erik said. “Yet. Don’t forget how we first met, and what happened afterwards. My father might have owned a vodka factory, but that didn’t save him when he annoyed a petty official. He ended up dead.” He looked away, shuddering. “My sister and I would have been killed too, if we hadn’t been studying in the UK.”

  “It was a huge shock to me when your father was arrested,” Marty said. “I paid his legal bill, and your sister’s school fees, come to that. I did what I could to help.”

  “Kat doesn’t think so,” Erik said. He swigged beer, emptying his glass.

  Silence hung like a curtain between them. After a while, Erik added, “I’m not saying I agree with my sister. But Bazakistan brings challenges we shouldn’t take lightly. Even if you’re friendly with the old régime, don’t imagine it will be in place forever. Your business partners almost certainly haven’t mentioned that young people in Bazakistan are increasingly becoming radicalised. Fundamentalist preachers are stirring up trouble among some of the Muslim youths, but mostly, my countrymen simply harbour grudges. The President has allowed his buddies to grab land for building developments and minerals extraction. Bazaki clans have long memories.”

  Marty was sceptical. “I’ve told you before, Erik. I’ve seen nothing of this on my visits to Bazakistan. Harry Aliyev is completely relaxed about the political situation.”

  Erik’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the man who’d supplanted his father at the Snow Mountain distillery. “He wouldn’t want you to find out,” Erik said. “Why would he frighten you away, and risk his little goldmine? He’s lucky the British media isn’t interested in a country far away. But it’s the talk of the Bazaki expatriate community back here, especially the political exiles. Ken Khan is the name on everyone’s lips as the likely leader of the revolution. He’s clever, a graduate who’s served in the Army and made good connections in it, and he’s got the students on his side. His wife’s in London. She slipped out of Bazakistan through the mountains when she heard the security services were after her. We both know they wouldn’t be gentle.”

  “I’ll get you another beer,” Marty said, hoping to divert Erik’s thoughts from the horrors of the past. The younger man needed to relax.

  He reflected as the pints were pulled. Erik’s view of Bazakistan was at odds with his, for understandable reasons. Marty was merely an occasional visitor to the country, appreciated by the government and his business contacts for the foreign currency he brought them. Even if Erik was right about the risk of revolution, there was no reason why a new government wouldn’t be sympathetic to him too. Whoever was in power, they’d welcome another venture that brought them plenty of sterling – and dollars, euros and more, if darria was as big as he expected it to be.

  “You’ll have to trust me on this, Erik,” he said, placing their pints on the table. “This drug has a bright future. The sooner we can commercialise it, the better. So I want to grow plenty of darria and launch the tea at the earliest opportunity.”

  “Yes, but we shouldn’t grow it in Bazakistan,” Erik said. “I’ve been telling you we should be able to replicate ideal conditions for darria elsewhere. All we need do in Bazakistan is test the climate and soil conditions, then seek a more stable country in which to cultivate it.”

  “That’ll take too long,” Marty said, reasonably, in his view.

  Erik rolled his eyes in frustration. “It’s unwise to put all our eggs in one basket. We should be looking for supplies from multiple sources, not just one.”

  He had a point. “Okay,” Marty said. “We can do all that, and diversify our supply chain, while the first crop is growing in Bazakistan. We need to start there, because darria cultivation is totally untested anywhere else.”

  “You’re too impatient,” Erik said. “I can see I won’t persuade you. But, as you British like to say, it’s your funeral.”

  He spoke in the plummy tones of his English boarding school. Marty had to bite his tongue to avoid sniggering. He realised Erik’s fears were no laughing matter, albeit he didn’t concur with them.

  Darria wasn’t Marty’s only concern when he thought of Bazakistan. His conversation with Charles was nagging him. “Erik,” he said, “Am I right? Amy’s father works with your sister’s fiancé, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Erik replied. He looked puzzled.

  “It’s beginning to make sense,” Marty said. “Her father said a colleague was planning a business trip to Bazakistan. I’m guessing that business isn’t insurance. Kat thinks the Snow Mountain factory is rightfully hers.”

  Erik said nothing.

  “Just suppose,” Marty said carefully, “that her boyfriend’s going to Bazakistan to try to get it back for her? Or worse still, she’s travelling there herself?”

  Erik jumped t
o his feet. “She’s crazy! She’ll be killed.”

  “You’d better tell her,” Marty said.

  Chapter 7

  Davey

  She didn’t call. He’d said to her he’d never done this before, and she’d laughed merrily and said she hoped they’d do it again soon, many times.

  He’d left her room, then, and taken a cab back to the Hyatt. He’d only seen her from afar the next day, networking with others, or standing on the podium while her audience hung on her every word. Then he’d returned to London, to another day at the office and the longed-for weekend that somehow had lost its sparkle.

  After a week, he called her. “Alana? It’s me.”

  “Davey?” That same throaty laugh. “When can we see each other?”

  “How about tonight?” he said.

  “Sorry, I’m busy.” She suggested a date another week hence.

  He took her address and made excuses to his wife about working late next week. He stopped asking Laura for sex. She didn’t remind him. He imagined she was wrapped up in the children.

  At the appointed hour, he buzzed Alana’s doorbell. She lived in the City, near Moorgate and the old offices that Bishopstoke had occupied before they took over the Veritable building by the Thames. Alana had his old view of the river, his former PA, his former friends. Once you were over the hill, when redundancy hit you like an express train, you found out who your real friends were.

  He hadn’t realised Alana was one of them.

  She greeted him as if it were he who’d made her wait. “I’ve missed you so much,” she breathed. “Here, fix us both a bourbon, and let’s chill. I’ll put music on.” She handed him a bottle and two crystal tumblers.

  The bourbon was aged and smooth, another American triumph. They clinked glasses. Slayer was playing, louder this time. “My apartment’s soundproofed,” she said.