‘Why don’t we just tell Pyotr and Nino that Neville kidnapped their mothers?’
For all of his inherent Canadian niceness, there’s a deep-seated hard edge to Kevin that I find entertaining – even if on this particular morning he was probably joking.
‘Georgian mafia revenge isn’t our usual method of operation,’ I pointed out.
‘It would be satisfying, though,’ he said.
‘I look at it this way,’ I said, leaning forward in my seat, ‘There’s one thing our old buddy Neville has forgotten.’
‘That we Canadians inflicted Bryan Adams on the world and we’re not afraid to do it again?’
‘Even more alarming,’ I said.
‘Okay, what’s that?’ Kevin asked.
‘He doesn’t know a fucking thing about this wine,’ I said, before leaning back and sipping from my glass of water. ‘And we do.’
‘It’s a good point,’ he nodded.
I continued, ‘If we haven’t been able to work out the customs issues, the heritage problems and the actual export logistics, with all of our knowledge and experience, I don’t see how he’s going to. But then again, maybe the customs issues aren’t of concern to him, like we think they probably are.’
‘Maybe he’s brazen enough to just ship it out now he’s the owner,’ Kevin said.
‘Maybe, but even then, so what? How is he going to approach Sotheby’s?’
Kevin stirred his coffee and nodded.
‘A goldmine operator claiming he has 40,000 bottles of antique Yquem and so on. Unable to really give them any details. It’s unlikely.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘The export logistics demand experts. The only way that cellar gets sold is with us involved. Or he has to start all over again with another version of us going there to do a new audit. As it stands, you and I know more about what’s in that cellar than anybody else in the world, probably including the Georgians. Think about it. We have all of our notes cross-referencing the translated cellar list with the actual cellar, plus our notes authenticating what’s on individual shelves, plus our tasting notes, and your valuation notes. They don’t have any of that.’
‘But Neville owns it, John. He’s ended our agreement. We have no way to go in and get the wine, if he has cut ties with us.’
‘He’s going to need us, for marketing, for authentication and for exporting it out of Tbilisi, if that’s what he wants to do,’ I insisted.
‘If we’re willing to help,’ Kevin said. ‘Because there is the other road which is, pardon my Alaskan, “Fuck him”.’
‘Well, sure. We have that option. I just find it hard to let it go. Think of all those bottles. Dozens and dozens of antique Yquem, Margaux, Latour and Lafite! Most wine industry experts would be amazed to see one nineteenth-century Yquem in their life. We know where hundreds are stashed.’
‘If we can’t sell them, I don’t care,’ Kevin said simply. ‘They may as well be on the moon. Sitting in the Savane Number One, whether owned by Neville or George or Pyotr or Natascha, they’re of no value to us. It’s time to move on.’
We sat silently for a while, alone in our thoughts, until finally I said, ‘We may not be able to actually move on, as it stands. He may well be the sort of guy who will send waves of lawyers after us.’
‘For what?’ Kevin said. ‘The dozen bottles? Then fine, let’s sort that out.’