Happy Days (17 page)

‘You think this is the Third World?’

‘That’s what it feels like.’

Kokh was chuckling now. Surprise had given way to amusement.

‘You’re asking me for five million? When you’ve just told me you have no choice?’ He shook his head. ‘You want some more Krug?’

Winter emptied the glass and held it out for a refill. He was beginning to enjoy himself.

Kokh got to his feet and fetched a bowl of nuts from a table near the door. When he returned to the sofa he had a proposition.

‘Three hundred thousand,’ he said. ‘In euros. A third on signature. A third on project completion. The rest when we declare the first dividend.’

‘Three hundred grand?’ It was Winter’s turn to laugh. ‘When we paid you a million and a half?’

‘Things haven’t been easy. These people have cost us a lot of money.’

‘But three hundred grand?’

‘Then turn it down. Stay in the game. Stay at the table. You’re welcome, my friend. We like you. We appreciate your support.’

‘That’s nice to hear –’ Winter tipped his glass ‘– but we can’t afford you any more. Like I say, times are hard.’

‘Then take the three hundred …’ the softness of his hand closed over Winter’s ‘… before I go lower still.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Very wise. I wouldn’t either.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Shall we eat?’

The rest of the evening passed more quickly than Winter had anticipated. The plates of wild boar, despite Olenka’s best efforts, looked like something out of a crime scene. The meat was blood-red and extremely tough. The arty scoops of mashed potato might have come from a tin, and the decorative crescents of red cabbage badly needed seasoning. The wine, on the other hand, was excellent. Winter had the best part of a bottle of Chambertin to himself, and by the time Olenka escorted him off the boat, he was beginning to regret it.

On the fantail he turned to give Kokh a goodbye wave, but the Russian seemed to have disappeared. Conversationally, over dinner, the stand-off on a price for Bazza’s stake in Kubla Khan had given them nowhere to go. Winter’s knowledge of football was rudimentary, and Kokh hadn’t shown much interest in talking about anything else. In the end Winter had found himself discussing the Battle of Trafalgar with the girl. It turned out she had a degree in naval history from St Petersburg University and was deeply impressed by Nelson’s boldness in breaking the French and Spanish line.

As he stepped onto the gangway he gave her a peck on the cheek.

‘England expects.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘That’s all you need to know.’

Olenka smiled and told him to take care. There was something in her voice that might, under different circumstances, have sounded a warning note, but Winter was far too pissed to notice.

The bodyguards were waiting in the black 4 × 4. They watched him plotting an uncertain course across the dock and one of them leaned back to release the rear door. The moment he got in they were on the move, pulling a tight U-turn and
carving a path back into the traffic on the main road. An angry
parp-parp
from an oncoming truck brought Winter to his senses. He forced himself upright on the back seat, steadying himself as the guy behind the wheel weaved around a slowing bus and floored the accelerator.

‘In a hurry?’ he said vaguely.

There was no answer from the front. He was aware of the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, scanning the road behind, and the other guy half turned in his seat, peering back. Winter thought nothing of it, and once they’d cleared the traffic and found a clear road before them, he lay back against the plumpness of the leather seat and closed his eyes, trying to review the evening aboard the yacht.

He and Kokh had been through the pantomime of negotiation, as Winter had planned. The last thing he’d wanted was a decent-sized cheque to get
Pompey First
off the hook – that would have to wait for Skelley – and he’d therefore tabled a bid he knew Kokh would reject out of hand. At that point, in the way of these things, he’d assumed there might be some appetite or room for compromise, but the ruthlessness of Kokh’s counter-offer had taken his breath away. Not for a moment had he believed all the bollocks about extortion rackets and protection money. Neither did he buy how difficult and costly it was to get state backing. On the contrary, according to Bazza the locals were falling over themselves to flog off vast areas of the coast. No, Kokh – like every other Russian businessman – could scent blood in the water. If Bazza’s little empire was haemorrhaging money, then Kubla Khan’s junior partner was there for the taking.

He opened his eyes. They were in the tunnel now, speeding away from Kotor. The traffic was thinner here, but the guy in the front passenger seat was still peering back, checking the road behind. Winter did the same. Maybe four hundred metres behind them he could see a pair of headlights. The vehicle looked like another 4 × 4, white this time.

The guy in the passenger seat murmured something to the driver. Already the 80 kph signs were flashing past, but Winter felt the punch of the big engine as the Audi surged forward. By the time they burst out of the tunnel back into the darkness, the digital speedo was showing 187 kph.

They slowed briefly for an upcoming bend, accelerated hard again, then the Audi began to shudder as the driver stamped hard on the brakes. Winter had time to register the blur of a T-junction before they were drifting sideways onto the major road. The manoeuvre was a punt. They were on the wrong side of the road, still travelling at speed, but luck and blind faith spared them oncoming traffic. A twitch of the wheel took them back to the right-hand side of the road. In the throw of the headlights Winter caught the glitter of broken glass in an approaching lay-by. Seconds later the driver hit the brakes again, hauled the Audi off the road and killed the headlights. Winter, still peering out of the rear window, hung on to a grab handle as the Audi bumped to a halt on the rough gravel.

Back down the carriageway the white 4 × 4 had stopped at the T-junction. After a second or two it turned left, away from the lay-by, towards Budva, and disappeared into the darkness. Winter did his best to compose himself. Maybe, after all, Kokh had been right. Maybe Montenegro was as lawless as he’d claimed. Maybe Winter had stepped into an ongoing turf war, which would explain a great deal about Kokh’s treatment of his junior partner. He turned back, meaning to pursue the thought a little further, but his attention was caught by the guy in the passenger seat. He had a mobile in one hand and an automatic pistol in the other. Mercifully, as he began a muttered conversation, he returned the gun to the glove box beneath the dashboard.

Winter was back at the hotel by midnight. A circuitous route had taken them up through the mountains on one flank of the valley, via a succession of tight bends and dizzying drops,
to a much bigger road that approached Budva from the east. Winter had tried to coax conversation from his minders but failed completely. Knowing his reliance on these guys was total, he sat in the darkness resigned to whatever might happen next. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would take an early cab back over the border. From there he could find a coach north along the coast. By lunchtime, with luck, he could be light years away from the madness of Montenegro. When he finally reported back to Mackenzie, he’d salt the disappointment of Kokh’s offer with a full account of exactly how these guys did business. You’re lucky I’m still in one piece, he’d tell Bazza. Nikki Kokh? Kubla Khan? Melorcorp? Best of fucking luck.

Some kind of celebration was in full swing at the Hotel Neptun. Winter collected his room key from reception, picked his way through a scrum of partying twenty-somethings spilling out of the hotel’s function room and headed for the lift. His room was on the top floor of the three-storey building. He shut the window and pulled the curtains across to soften the noise from downstairs. In the tiny bathroom he cleaned his teeth, rinsed his face and spent a moment or two eyeing his image in the mirror. A couple of years ago an evening like this – especially with Bazza in tow – might have yielded a laugh or two. Now he knew he simply wanted out. He was too old, too battered and – to be honest – just a little nervous. Bazza had a talent for short cuts, but life had a habit of getting even, and Winter didn’t want to be around when their collective luck ran out. No, he told himself. Now is the time to acknowledge the odds and draw the only sane conclusion. He and Bazza had come to the end of the road. What he needed now was deliverance. Back in the bedroom Winter set the alarm, stripped to his boxers and climbed into bed. The party downstairs was as noisy as ever, but thanks to the Chambertin he was asleep within minutes.

Hours later, he’d no idea when, he surfaced again, trying to remember where he was, trying to put together the grey shapes
of the built-in wardrobe and dressing table beyond the foot of the bed. The party was over. Out in the grounds of the hotel he could hear the soft patter of rain. From miles away, through the gap in the curtains, he caught a brief flicker of lightning followed by a low growl of thunder.

He rolled over, wondering what time it was, peering in the half-darkness at the digital clock. 03.41. He lay back for a moment, listening for the next peal of thunder, then he became aware of another sound, much closer. There were footsteps in the corridor outside. They paused at his door. He heard a low voice, male, followed by a muttered reply. Then came the scraping of a key in the lock. His lock.

Winter was halfway out of bed, his bare feet on the carpet, when the door eased open. Against the lights of the corridor outside he could see the silhouettes of two men, then a third. They slipped into his room, turned on the light, closed and locked the door behind them. Two of them were big, thick-necked, heavily muscled across the chest and shoulders. The third was smaller, thinner. All three wore ski masks. The ski mask on the little guy carried a Lamborghini logo.

‘What the fuck—’

Winter was trying to get to his feet. One of the bigger guys lifted him bodily by his upper arms, spun him round, then threw him to the floor. Winter, trying not to vomit, could taste Chambertin. Moments later he felt the bite of cable ties around his wrists. Someone had their foot in the small of his back. He tried to lift his head, tried to struggle, but it was hopeless. Whenever he moved, he took a kicking, first his ribs, then his head. His head was exploding. He knew, at all costs, he musn’t succumb to the waves of blackness threatening to engulf him. That way he’d probably end up dead.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ he managed.

Through one half-closed eye he became aware of a face close to his. He wasn’t sure but he thought it was Lamborghini. He tried to focus on the oblong of scarlet Lycra around the mouth.
The man’s breath stank. He had thick lips, oddly distinctive, and evil little ferret teeth. Winter tried to turn his head away.

‘We have lots of time. Time is not a problem.’ Heavy accent. And a strange high-pitched laugh at the end that told Winter he was probably doomed. These guys were psychos, no doubt about it. Definitely party time.

‘Just tell me what you want,’ Winter mumbled.

Lamborghini had got to his feet again. Winter heard the click of the minibar opening and a rattle of glass. Then came the sigh of bedsprings and a soft
fizz
as someone settled on the bed and pulled the tab from a can of lager.

Lamborghini seemed to be in charge. Winter could see his runners, brand-new Nike High-Tops, just like Makins.

‘Mr Kubla Khan,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Montenegro. Welcome to Budva. You like it here? You like our country? You like that you can make money from us? That makes you feel good? Taking our money?’

Winter tried to explain he’d no intention of taking their money. On the contrary, he’d come to give his stake
back
.

‘To who?’

‘Kokh. Nikki Kokh.’

‘Kokh is a dog. Worse than a dog.’

‘You’re right.’

‘Kokh would screw a donkey if there was money in it.’ He translated the joke for the benefit of his mates. One of them laughed. Then he turned back to Winter. ‘You like Kokh? You think Kokh is OK?’

‘I think Kokh screws everyone. You, me, everyone.’

‘So why do you do business with this man?’

‘Because that’s the way it is.’

‘And now you regret it?’

‘Now I wish you’d leave me fucking alone.’

Winter saw the High-Top coming. He tried to turn his head away, but the blow caught him high on his temple above his ear. More pain.

‘You think we’re joking, Mr Kubla Khan? Because that would be a mistake. Maybe you should have come as a tourist. We like tourists. We treat tourists like friends. But you’re a businessman. And businessmen are dogs.’

Winter was wondering whether they had a white Audi 4 × 4 outside. And whether this encounter would go on until they were tired of kicking the shit out of him. One way or another, he knew he had to move the conversation on.

‘You want money?’

‘Of course.’

‘Take it.’

‘Thank you. What else have you got for us?’

‘Nothing. Money’s all I’ve got.’

‘An apology maybe? You want to say sorry? About Kokh? About Kubla Khan?’

‘Whatever.’

‘Whatever?’ Lamborghini didn’t understand.

‘Yeah. I’m sorry we put money in. I’m sorry I ever heard of Kubla Khan. Is that OK? Is that enough?’

The laugh again – soft, weirdly intimate, a small whisper of delight from someone who very definitely liked hurting people. Winter hadn’t a clue what might happen next and knew there was no advantage in trying to guess. The last thirty years had put him in some dodgy situations, but he’d never been as kippered as this. Karl Sparrow, he thought. But worse.

Someone was at the minibar again. Another finger tugging at a can pull-tag. Winter caught a murmured exchange from the direction of the bed. Then came that same laugh, a gesture of approval.

‘Gin or vodka?’ Lamborghini enquired.

Winter shook his head. The last thing he wanted was a drink.

‘Please … choose …’

‘No.’

‘I said choose.’ The ribs this time.