***
The day had dawned fine for Malenkov. Sales were up, and the latest special offer on an excellent selection of televisions was bringing in the business. It had been three months since Oleg’s offer of assistance had been rejected, and the shopkeeper had given it no further thought.
Some of Oleg’s more recalcitrant clients were becoming difficult, wanting to negotiate rates, even delaying payments, until a couple had gone up in smoke. It was all because Malenkov had shouted his mouth off at a meeting of local businessmen during a government-organised trade fair some weeks earlier. He had even got a write-up, admittedly close to the back cover, in a prominent newspaper stating that the only way to deal with the increasing crime levels was to stand up and be counted.
Nine o’clock that night, Malenkov was working late in the small office he kept at the back of the store. The day had ended as well as it had started, and he wanted to ensure that all the paperwork had been dealt with and that he had placed the orders for the following week’s special offer. The office was modest; he had a better one at his home, but it sufficed. He would on most nights have gone home and continued working from there. However, he decided to conclude at the shop, then go home and take his wife out to a favourite restaurant by way of a celebration.
Oleg Yezhov only wanted to teach him a lesson. Killing a person, accidentally or otherwise, was not ideal, especially in the protection racket. It only caused the police to become involved. Covering up a death cost a lot more in bribes than getting the authorities to look the other way when it was arson, or a bomb, or a petrol tank exploding.
The first rocket-propelled grenade had hurtled through the front window of the shop at two minutes after nine o’clock, the second followed thirty seconds later. Within two minutes, the shop was ablaze. Artur Malenkov had been trapped in his office. He died of smoke inhalation, his body almost reduced to ash by the intense heat.
His mysterious brother appeared the next day. He was indeed a big wheel in the government, a senior officer in the KGB who, by choice, kept a low profile and his name hidden from view as much as possible.
***
With the combined resources of the KGB, it was not long before Oleg and his gang of protection racketeers were exposed. Three of them died in a shootout, two disappeared, either courtesy of the KGB or simply of their own accord. Oleg gave everyone the slip and departed the city of his birth with haste. There was no way he could claim his BMW M3, or even pick up some clothes from his apartment, where the lovely Natasha was waiting with a bottle of champagne and a soft bed.
Sensing no possibility to return, he made the move as far away as possible, as quickly as he could.
His options as to where he could go were limited by his language skills ‒ Russian, the only language he knew. He felt that Moscow was the best possibility, and it was relatively easy to get there. It was clear, however, after a few weeks in the Russian capital that the KGB were omnipresent and, whereas they concerned themselves in espionage, they were willing to make an exception in his case.
The move out of Moscow was clearly urgent, the intended location unclear. The West served no purpose; he had no contacts there, and he knew he would have been reduced to petty crime and hustling on the street. He saw himself as a better type of criminal than that. The only contact he did have was in Tajikistan, suitably distant and remote. Pavel Suslov owed him a favour after he had rescued him from a few tricky situations some years previous.
Suslov, the son of a police officer, had been incarcerated in the same rehabilitation centre as he had. He was an effeminate boy of thirteen when he had been locked up there, an effeminate man when he was released at eighteen. His crime had been to crack a glass bottle over the head of a sixteen-year-old in the school playground. The older boy had attempted to pull him round the back of the toilet block to rape him. It had been the same when locked up in a foreboding reform institution surrounded by young men in their sexual prime, frustrated in the releasing of that tension.
Many had tried to seduce him by sweet words and, failing that, by violence. Oleg had become his protector, although not out of any abiding affection for Suslov. For some unexplained reason, he felt that Pavel Suslov was important to his future.
His intuition proved to be correct and, in his time of need, he realised that Pavel was the person to contact. They had maintained contact over the years, email mainly, the phone sometimes and there was an address in Dushanbe. It seemed far enough from the clutches of the KGB, yet close enough in culture to be, at least, partly Russian.
***
The train trip out of Moscow had not been uncomfortable, apart from the tedious monotony of four days of continuous motion. When it pulled in at the railway station in Dushanbe, Tajikistan, the capital of the former satellite of the Soviet Union, Pavel Suslov was waiting on the platform. It was then that Oleg decided he was a city person and St. Petersburg, his kind of city. He had not heard from Natasha for some time and hoped she was well.
Initially, she had been just another lay. Over time, however, he had come to appreciate her homely manner, her welcoming dinner when he arrived at night, and her complete unwillingness to pry into the details of his business ventures.
Pavel Suslov had changed little. He was still effeminate, still openly homosexual. He greeted Oleg as a long-lost friend when they met.
‘Oleg, it’s good to see you.’
‘And you, Pavel.’
‘What brings you to this part of the world?’
‘There was some trouble back in St. Petersburg.’
‘Trouble we can deal with. It seems to be our lot in life to be always moving from one disaster to another, interspersed with moments of pleasantness,’ Pavel philosophised. He was a painfully thin man with fair-coloured hair and intense blue eyes. He spoke in the mincing tones of a homosexual, yet he was not promiscuous and only available to a select few.
Pavel was certainly of no interest to Oleg, who found no attraction in ramming his dick up the arse of another man. He liked women, the more beautiful, the more sexually daring the better. Since leaving St. Petersburg, he hadn’t felt the warmth of a woman. He was decidedly horny, in need of screwing someone, although not the man he had just met.
‘What brought you here?’ Oleg asked as they sat in a small café not far from the station.
‘A lover, he was a Tajik.’
‘And what of him now?’ Oleg was neither shocked nor concerned by Pavel’s statement.
‘The way of all relationships, intense or otherwise. We drifted apart, no more than that.’
‘Why did you not go back to Russia?’ Oleg could not understand why anyone by choice would stay remote from the homeland.
‘I just settled in here. I’ve got a good little number here, and life is agreeable, if not always good. Besides, I found myself another lover. Do I shock you with my talk of male lovers, Oleg?’
‘No, of course not. What you do is your own business, as long as we remain friends separated by a handshake.’
‘Enough of such talk. Oleg, what do you want from me? How can I help?’
‘I took on the wrong person. I can’t go back to Russia, at least for the foreseeable future. I need to stay here, and make some money, get myself some wheels.’
‘Then I will vouch for you. There’s a thriving industry here shipping heroin up from Afghanistan into Russia. I assume you’re okay with that?’
‘Pavel, that’s great. Money is money. Where it comes from does not concern me.’
‘Then your troubles are over. I am sure I can find you some employment and no doubt some wheels as well.’
***
It soon proved clear to Oleg that Pavel’s amenable and inoffensive nature had given him easy access to one of the most powerful men in Tajikistan.
Yusup Baroyev had been an amateur wrestler in his youth, a chess player of some note in his mid-twenties, but both belonged to the past. He was approaching his mid-forties and prided himself on his physical prowess and his sh
arp mind. Once a week he would visit a wrestling academy, just to keep his hand in. No one dared to beat him too convincingly or to throw him forcefully to the floor. It annoyed him, but he realised they saw him as a man of importance and a benefactor to many.
He headed up the largest drug smuggling ring in Tajikistan and his network spread wide throughout the country and the region. He knew all the key players, the politicians, the police, the military, and as long as they were in his back pocket, they were fine. If they weren’t, then he would ensure they were isolated or removed, peacefully or otherwise.
‘Yusup’s as tough as they come,’ Pavel said.
‘What’s his history?’ Oleg asked.
‘He’s a smart man, well-known in Tajikistan. Apart from that, I don’t ask too many questions, and what I know I keep to myself.’
‘So how come you know him?’
‘I came to Tajikistan with his brother.’
‘And he didn’t disapprove? I thought they were strict about that here?’
‘They are, but he saw me as a calming influence on his brother, and with me, he has always been approachable and friendly. Even gave me a job. I still work for him. He’ll find you something. He’s that kind of person. Loyal to those who are loyal to him, ruthless beyond belief to anyone who crosses him.’
***
The trip to Baroyev’s estate took thirty minutes down some remarkably good roads. The entrance to the estate, a sprawling expanse of over one hundred hectares of mainly manicured gardens, was impressive. Security was tight, the entrance manned by men uniformly dressed in dark suits carrying pistols in holsters, clearly visible. Two men, one either side of the gate, sat up high on observation posts holding AK-47s across their chests. To Oleg, they looked professional.
It was to his immense relief that Pavel was accorded a welcome reception as he approached the first of the two gates into the estate in the late model Mercedes that he drove. The mansion, set on a slight rise, shone in the setting sun of a late afternoon. Oleg could not help noticing the exquisite pool at the front of the main entrance with some stunningly beautiful women sunbathing in the skimpiest of swimwear. After his period of enforced celibacy, it was as if he had died and gone to heaven.
Yusup Baroyev, pleased to see Pavel, gave him the warmest of welcomes. He was dressed only in a pair of swimming shorts, blue in colour, with a large white towel draped around his neck. He quickly turned towards Oleg.
‘Oleg, I’m told you’re a good friend of Pavel’s. Helped him out in the past.’ Baroyev gave him the same warm welcome. It was clear that he was a gregarious, extroverted man with a love of life, especially women, judging by the two beauties hanging around his neck, aiming to pull him free and entice him out to the pool.
‘What can I say? They love me,’ Baroyev continued, increasingly distracted by the obvious charms of the women. ‘At least, they love my money and the lifestyle I give them. If they weren’t here, they’d be selling themselves on the street.’
‘They’re beautiful,’ Oleg said. There was one down by the pool, dark-haired, buxom with a red bikini that had caught his eye.
‘Oleg, tomorrow we will talk,’ said Baroyev. ‘Pavel’s recommended you; that’s good enough for me. I can always use a good man, but enough of business. Today is for pleasure, and if we can’t have pleasure, what is the point of money?’
‘Then we will see you tomorrow,’ Pavel said.
‘Nonsense, stay and enjoy the fun,’ said Baroyev. ‘Oleg, I assume you’re not averse to some good drink, good food and the most beautiful women you’ll find in Tajikistan?’
‘Pavel’s purely a friend, no more,’ replied Oleg. ‘If you are agreeable, then I will stay and enjoy your hospitality.’
‘Call me Yusup. And any women apart from the blonde, she’s mine. Pavel, you can watch television or sit by the pool. Oleg and I are going to get laid.’
‘Thank you,’ Oleg replied. ‘I know which one I’m going to take.’
***
The next day, Oleg, still exhausted after the woman he had chosen, met with Yusup and Pavel in the main room of the mansion. He could not help but notice the original works of art on the wall, the fitted carpet of the best quality and a television screen that covered almost the entire width of one wall.
‘Oleg, Pavel, yesterday was fun, today is business.’ The gregarious man of the previous day was gone, replaced by another who was strictly business. The shorts and the towel of the party replaced with a dark blue suit, white shirt and a striped tie. His hair was combed and parted to one side. Oleg couldn’t help but notice that his fingernails had been manicured as well.
‘Thank you for yesterday,’ Oleg said.
‘Yesterday was yesterday. I’m glad you enjoyed it and let me make it clear. Do right by me and there will be plenty more opportunities to enjoy my hospitality, but cheat on me and you’re dead.’
‘That’s fine by me.’ Oleg had been warned by Pavel that Yusup Baroyev was a ruthless man who did not tolerate disloyalty or incompetence.
‘Pavel told you what we’re involved with here?’ Yusup asked.
‘A broad overview only.’
‘We’re facilitators of a particular commodity. We move it from one place to another and make a profit, a substantial profit.’
‘Heroin,’ Oleg responded.
‘Correct. How do you feel about that?’
‘I’ve no problem, as long as the money is right.’
‘Fine, then let’s discuss business. You’re a new broom, untainted by local corruption; I need someone I can trust. Pavel trusts you and so will I, until proven otherwise.’
‘You can trust me.’
‘Pavel is a good operative, but he’ll never be a ruthless player. It’s not in his makeup. Sorry about that, Pavel, but it’s the truth.’
‘That’s fine, Yusup. Say it as it is,’ said Pavel.
‘Okay, let’s continue,’ said Yusup. ‘I need someone to coordinate the shipments from the border and up through the country. I’ve got plenty of people, but they’ve become corrupt, think they can do side deals, cheat on me. I’ve no problems with them being a little entrepreneurial, but some are now cheating big time, and that annoys me. I’ve had a few liquidated, but some still remain.
‘Firstly, I want you to follow the route from down south, up through Dushanbe and on into Russia. Secondly, ensure an unobstructed flow, grease the palms of anyone who needs greasing. Thirdly, any person on my payroll who’s causing trouble, impeding the operation, well… you can either call me, and I’ll arrange, or you can deal with it yourself.’
‘That’s okay by me,’ Oleg replied. ‘And if a few need removing, I’ll let you know and get the all clear from you.’
‘That’s fine. You’ll need some spending money, somewhere to live and transport. Mercedes alright by you?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘There’s an apartment in town you can move into. I’ll ensure the car is delivered tomorrow morning at the latest. You’ve got three days to settle in, then I expect you to be out here ready for instructions.’
‘Sounds great.’ Oleg was stunned by the generosity but realised that it came with great responsibility, and Yusup Baroyev wanted results, not excuses. He would not let him down.
‘Asiya, the dark-haired woman you enjoyed at the party will be yours for the three days. After that, find your own women.’
***
The apartment in the new building, third storey with three bedrooms, was expansive and luxurious. The Mercedes, two years old, was superb and the woman never-ending in her demands for sexual favours. He knew it was because she had been paid, but she acted as if she wanted to be there. He did not care and, either way, at the end of the three days he was glad of a rest.
On the fourth day, Oleg made the trip out to the mansion. It was again down to business. No more pats on the back, friendly chats and harmless banter.
‘I need you to get down to the border, check it out,’ said Yusup. ‘Find the weak spo
ts and give yourself some time to evaluate the situation. It’s a wild place down there; a Russian is not going to be the most popular person that close to the Afghan border. One thing an Afghan does well is remember. To him, a Russian is only good if he’s dead.
‘Don’t expect a favourable reception and five-star accommodation. You’ll be lucky if you get a bed. There’s a contact, Farrukh Bahori, a Tajik from Dushanbe. He’s only one of many I have down there, but he’s the most astute. I’m pretty certain he’s involved in some side deals, but if it’s in moderation, let it go.
‘Otherwise, you can make your own decision. Just remember, if you do decide to change anyone out, they’ll need to be replaced, and close to the border, it’s not so easy. You’ll hate the place and the women down there are whores who have struck out here in Dushanbe. They’ll be rough, so be careful. They’re probably riddled with every kind of disease.
‘Meet Farrukh, find out how it works and then follow up from there and as far as Russia. Take your time, get it right. It’s working well enough at the present moment, so do not be rash.
‘If you prove your worth, I’ll consider letting you deal with the improvements, taking control of the whole transportation, but there’s only one rule. You know what it is?’
‘Don’t cheat on you,’ Oleg replied, although he saw there may be a possibility at some stage.
‘That’s right. Cheat on me and you’re dead.’
‘I’ll not cheat. It seems I’ve got a good deal here.’
‘Oleg, remember it well. You’re here in my country for a reason. You either cheated someone, or the authorities are after you, so don’t give me any nonsense about being an honest man. None of that crap, please. It will only insult my intelligence. You’re a villain, same as I am. The only way we can work together is for me to be aware that your temptation to cheat will always surface, and yours is to know that you will be caught. And remember, I will ensure that, before you die, you will curse your mother for giving birth to you. Are you clear on this?’
Malika's Revenge: A Powerful Mix for a Complex Noir Novel. An Organized Crime Thriller - not for the faint-hearted Page 4