Malika's Revenge: A Powerful Mix for a Complex Noir Novel. An Organized Crime Thriller - not for the faint-hearted

by Phillip Strang

  The women he kept until he had tired of them. As for the influential jobs, what use were they to him? At least the degrees had given him the business acumen and the computer skills that he needed.

  His two heavies, Anatoly and Georgy, were strong and loyal and, where he was going, he was going to need protection. The first ventures were simple enough. Buy a succession of commercial properties through a number of shelf companies and false names. Ensure they were suitably insured and then arrange for them to be burnt down, nothing obvious, perhaps a gas leak or some faulty wiring. Some insurance companies suspected, but what could they do? If the insurance assessor started to make disparaging remarks or asked too many probing questions, he always had Anatoly and Georgy to call upon. If the attempt at a bribe failed, the assessor invariably had a family and ‘you wouldn’t want anything to happen to them.’

  Nobody, not even the insurance company or the assessor, ever saw Dmitry. To him, it was too simple and the money, good as it was, came nowhere near the flawless fraud that his father had committed.

  His inheritance from his father and grandfather had ensured his wealth and, to Dmitry, crime was an agreeable pastime. He thrived in its environment. Money laundering proved worthwhile; substantial partnerships in a few casinos, highly profitable. Then there were always the fraudulent real estate swindles. He boasted an impressive collection of expensive paintings in his mansion in Moscow and an appreciation of the best that money could buy. In time, a wife, Katerina ‒ a former model and someone he truly loved ‒ gave him the air of the complete man.

  The phone call he received one afternoon in the office at his mansion intrigued him. He realised the person on the other end of the line was not the sort of person he would normally have communicated with, but business had become stale. The voice promised some degree of excitement. He accepted the invitation to meet.

  ***

  The meeting convened twenty-four hours later at the Pushkin Café on Tverskoy Boulevard. The café had been modelled in the style of pre-revolution Tsarist Russia, with ornate wood panelling and its central chandelier the primary focus of attention. Even Dmitry Gubkin approved of the chosen location.

  ‘I’m from the Brotherhood, the Bratva,’ Grigory Stolypin announced as they met.

  ‘I came in good faith, assuming that we were to discuss a business deal,’ Gubkin replied. A pregnant pause ensued while he considered his position. The menu, elaborate and expensive, was presented by a waiter dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt complete with a bow-tie. They both chose blinchiki, Russian pancakes, the speciality of the house.

  ‘That is why I am here,’ said Stolypin. In his late forties, the self-pronounced gangster was well-dressed in an expensive suit. He sported a small, pencil-thin moustache above his upper lip, unfashionably inappropriate. His swept-back hair was a little too heavy on the hair cream for Gubkin’s liking. Stolypin was tall in stature, but rotund. He had the ruddy complexion of a man who drank too much.

  Gubkin took an instant dislike to him. Stolypin wasn’t the suave businessman’s type of person and associating in public with villains was not his usual modus-operandi.

  ‘We have a proposal for you,’ Stolypin continued.

  ‘I don’t do business with the Russian mafia or common criminals.’

  ‘We are not common criminals. This is a business offer you will find hard to resist.’

  ‘Continue, but I must warn you if I see a familiar face enter the door, I will leave in an instant.’

  ‘No one will come through any door while we are here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The statement so clearly stated, caused Gubkin, some concern ‒ the frown on his face visible to the gangster.

  ‘The restaurant is closed until I leave.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Gubkin realised he was compromised. He had no option but to continue with the meeting.

  ‘We’re all criminals here, don’t you agree?’ Stolypin said in an almost sneering manner.

  ‘I am an honest businessman.’

  ‘Please, do not treat me as stupid purely because I do not have your social airs and graces.’ Stolypin had little time for the eloquent Gubkin with his superior attitude. ‘We know who you are and how you operate. It is why we are here talking today.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We want to employ you. We want to grant you the leadership of a select group of mafia, on a project of the utmost importance.’

  ‘I don’t work for anybody and why would I want to lead you?’

  ‘It’s a valid question. It’s certainly not for money or influence.’

  ‘Then why?’ Gubkin realised that Stolypin was not as stupid as he first appeared.

  ‘Your vanity.’

  ‘Why should my vanity be of any interest to you?’

  ‘It is because you will want to take the leadership.’

  ‘What is this project?’

  ‘Drugs!’ the gangster said. ‘How do you feel about drugs?’

  ‘For a headache?’

  ‘Don’t be obtuse. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Personally, I’ve no issue either way. If people are weak-minded or weak-willed to be seduced by them, that’s their problem, not mine. Is this what this is about?’

  ‘Yes, that’s precisely what this is about.’

  ‘I am a busy person. You are wasting my time,’ Gubkin replied impatiently. ‘Give me the facts and be quick about it.’

  ‘My colleagues and I, we’re gangsters. Old-fashioned gangsters who came up through the ranks from hustling on the streets, knife fighting, killing when we had to. I’m one of the survivors, but I and others know our limitations. This is too big and too complex for us. We’ll only end up fighting and cheating amongst ourselves.’

  ‘What would be different if I became involved?’

  ‘We’d swear an oath of allegiance to your leadership. No arguments, no debates and no fighting.’

  ‘How could you hold an oath? The Russian mafia is not known for its sense of decency and fair play.’

  ‘Gangster’s oath. There’s nothing stronger. Besides, anyone who breaks it is dead.’

  ‘What’s the project, assuming I’m interested?’

  ‘You’ll be interested. I guarantee you that.’

  Trapped in a restaurant with a senior figure of the Russian mafia was not Dmitry Gubkin’s idea of a good situation ‒ he was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He was a respectable member of society, who carefully maintained the illusion of honesty, even though he knew he was not.

  Anatoly and Georgy were not far away, and unless he gave them a signal, they would sit mute, observe all and do nothing. He had no intention of doing anything rash. If there were to be a shoot-out, it would be Anatoly and Georgy who would be dead, probably himself. If he were killed or seen by the reporters in the aftermath, his respectability would be blown. He could see the headlines clearly. ‘Dmitry Gubkin, patron of the arts and successful businessman, in shoot-out with leading member of the Russian mafia.’

  He shuddered at the thought. He decided that it was best to sit it out and listen to what Stolypin had to say.

  ‘Dmitry, I’ve told you I am a gangster, nothing more. I’m neither proud of the fact nor ashamed.’

  ‘Get on with it. I don’t want to hear that you came from a broken home, and you had no chance in life, or that you were abandoned on the street. Give me the facts.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get on with it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There’s an intensive operation in Afghanistan, to increase the amount of opium poppies under cultivation in that country substantially.’

  ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘At present, a third of the processed opium, heroin as you well know, is shipped up through Tajikistan into Russia from Afghanistan.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘We want to take it up to sixty per cent, maybe more.’

  ‘Why do you need me for that?’

  ‘As I
said before, we would only allow greed and double-dealing to confuse the operation. We still have to deal with the person who controls the majority of the current thirty per cent.’

  ‘I operate behind the scenes. I don’t get involved in day-to-day operations, and I’m certainly not going to sit in an office and attend meetings.’

  ‘That’s what we want, you behind the scenes,’ replied Stolypin. ‘Look, there’s enough money here without any need for you to get personally involved. We want your organisational skills and, as I said before, we will swear fealty to you. What you say goes, no questions asked, no dispute or argument.’

  ‘And what’s in it for me?’

  ‘Five per cent of the profits, after expenses.’

  ‘Five per cent? It doesn’t sound like much.’

  ‘Your five per cent will amount to several hundred million American dollars over time. It’s more than generous.’

  ‘Assuming I’m interested, how would you set this up with your colleagues?’

  ‘You let me worry about that. You do not need to meet them. We’ll just need to set up a line of communication. You will control the whole operation. It’s as if we were trading in wheat or coal.’

  ‘Instead of misery and despair,’ Dmitry added.

  ‘I thought you didn’t care what happened to the weak-minded or weak-willed.’

  ‘I don’t, although, with your sixty per cent, there’s going to be a lot more people with their weaknesses exposed.’

  ‘And you with your fortune. What do a few more junkies matter?’ Stolypin said.

  Dmitry Gubkin could only agree with the gangster’s statement.

  Chapter 2

  Helmand Province in Southern Afghanistan had been a thorn in the side of the American invader, but they were no longer present, and the poppies were starting to grow in abundance once more. The Afghan army had attempted to control the increased production, but they were mostly ineffective and easily bought off.

  Kandahar, the main city in the region, provided a suitable venue for two of the men involved in the audacious plan to substantially increase the amount of opium poppies under cultivation to meet. They were both dedicated to the plan outlined by Grigory Stolypin in Moscow, although for differing reasons. The two Afghans neither respected nor liked the other and communicated with grudging disdain.

  ‘Will Ashraf Ghilzai be able to process all the opium that we send him?’ Ali Mowllah asked. He was what the Taliban needed – an organiser for the venture, which would corrupt and demoralise the youth of a previous invader, the Russians.

  Not only that, it would also resurrect the power of the Taliban. The hoped-for resurgence of the fundamentalist organisation had stalled after the last invader had pulled out. It was clear that the central government in Kabul was secure, not because of American support, but because the Taliban did not have the manpower or the military might. It was one thing to bribe an Afghan officer down in Kandahar, but it was another to march on Kabul. The army would fight, and they would not be beaten.

  Arif Noorzai, the man that Ali Mowllah sat with while drinking tea, had seen the situation clearly, even though he was a Taliban Warlord.

  ‘Ghilzai says there is no issue,’ he replied, ‘although he will need to bring in some equipment to speed up the process.’

  As a Taliban military commander, Noorzai was exceptional. He had led raids against the Americans and killed many. As an organiser of such a plan, he knew he was not capable. Ali Mowllah had been his saviour, but he knew he was not a believer, just a businessman looking for profit. He would let him have his profit for now. Another day, another year, he would deal with him.

  ‘Will you be able to arrange the transportation of the additional equipment that Ghilzai requires?’ Noorzai asked.

  ‘My colleague will have no difficulty smuggling it in from Pakistan,’ said Mowllah.

  A shortish man, Ali Mowllah prided himself on his appearance. In his late fifties, he always wore a magnificent turban. His wealth was regarded as substantial in the small community of Sarobi, his ancestral home. The town, a hotbed of fundamentalists in the past, was located on the road between Kabul and Jalalabad in Nangarhar Province, close to the border with Pakistan and the Khyber Pass.

  His affluence had come from Pakistan, which was all that he had revealed. The local community imagined it was trading. They never knew it was drugs. It was a secret he kept carefully guarded. He hoped he would remain a silent partner, behind the scenes, organising as much as it was possible for the forthcoming upsurge in heroin production. He knew it was his analytical skills that the Taliban commander and his other colleagues, further to the north of the country in Kunduz, required.

  ‘Good, then we tell Ghilzai to proceed,’ Noorzai said.

  ‘And the production of poppies, can we keep up with the demand?’ Mowllah double-checked.

  ‘I am assured we can, at least here in Helmand. What about down in Nangarhar Province?’

  ‘We will maintain our quota.’

  ‘Then soon we will have our revenge on the invader to the north and sufficient weapons and money to retake Kabul,’ Noorzai said in triumph.

  Ali Mowllah was not as enamoured of the impending fight; however, until he had milked as much money as he could, he would only nod his head in acknowledgement. Besides, if the country degenerated to barbaric Taliban control, he could always retreat back across the border into Pakistan.

  ***

  Latif ‒ he had only the one name ‒ was an honest man involved in a dishonest pursuit. He was neither a fundamentalist nor a businessman. He was a family man who spent his working hours in the production of a repugnant product. It gave him little concern. He saw that a conscience was a luxury for the wealthy and the smug. It was poverty that drove him – or, at least, the innate desire not to return to the poverty that he had known.

  His father had worked for the Russians during their occupation. A simple man with an aptitude for fixing motors, he was soon taken by the invaders as a motor mechanic working on their military vehicles.

  Badakhshan in north-eastern Afghanistan, home to Latif, was a desolate, remote place before the Russians had arrived. It changed little after, except they offered employment and, coupled with a severe and prolonged drought, his father, Tahir, had no option. He was forced to enter through the gloomy and depressing gates that constituted the entrance to their army’s compound. He hated them for what they had done to his country and to his family.

  His brother, Latif’s uncle, had stood in front of one of their tanks as they entered the provincial capital, Fayzabad, early one morning, two months previous, and they made had no attempt to stop. The mangled remains, after the tracks on the left-hand side of the tank, had chewed him up, barely recognisable. The Russian commander apologised in a language he did not understand, but Tahir could see his men sniggering.

  With no income, a wife and six children, he had no option but to work for those who had deprived his nephews of a father. Local custom decreed that he would take responsibility for them as well as his own children ‒ an honour he accepted gladly. He took the opportunity of the invader’s money to give the male children a rudimentary education, and he learnt their language. In time, the hatred dissipated, but the anger always remained.

  ‘Latif, take advantage of what they offer,’ he would say.

  ‘But they are our enemy, is that not so?’ Latif would respond. However, he was young and, to him, everything was black and white, not grey as with his father, who had to provide for an extended family.

  ‘They are our enemy,’ Tahir had said, ‘but they have knowledge and wisdom. We can learn from them. Hopefully, we can use what we learn against them when the time comes.’

  Tahir’s wish was to come true, when the Russians retreated back across the border to the north, some years later. He was not fixing vehicles then. He was ensuring that the weaponry to use against the Russians was in good working order. It was the final day of their retreat. He decided, in an act of defiance and s
tupidity, that he would at least, once in his life, fire a weapon in anger against those who had devastated his country and his people.

  Standing up unprotected, as the last vehicle cleared the city limits, Tahir fired a rocket-propelled grenade at a Soviet-built T-62M battle tank. He hit it with little effect, but the Russian soldier who raised his head out of the hatch on the top of the turret had no such problems. He was not more than ten metres away. The soldier took one shot from his Makarov pistol. Tahir was dead, and Latif was without a father.

  Latif, now the only male of adult age, was thrust the responsibility of being the provider for his family. With a limited education, although better than most in the region, he opened a small pharmacy. It was basic, and the medicines were invariably old and of dubious quality, but he was a health-giver in a community sadly lacking in qualified doctors.

  ***

  Business had been good that day when the man who was to change Latif’s life came into the shop. He had sold several packets of aspirin, some cough mixture and a few bandages. That day he would be able to feed his extended family, even be able to buy a couple of scrawny chickens. He realised the day after would be dependent on the business, and it may just be a weak broth with some pieces of lamb thrown in for flavour and some local bread.

  ‘How much do you make here?’ Ashraf Ghilzai asked as he casually checked the goods for sale. Latif knew him to be Taliban, but it did not concern him greatly. The shopkeeper was a pious man, pious enough to avoid any castigation from the increasingly evident and zealot black-turbaned men in the region.

  ‘It is a modest living, but it provides for my family, thanks to Allah.’ The pharmacy, a converted shipping container ‒ the term ‘modest’ summed up the situation. Most days, it would keep his family fed, but there was no chance of an education for those in his care. Latif appreciated his father’s insistence on his receiving a sound education using the money he had been paid by the Russians.