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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Yes, it’s clear.’

  ‘Good, and keep in contact. Updates every second day or I start to get nervous.’

  Chapter 4

  It took a couple of days to get organised before Oleg left for the northern border of Afghanistan. He had hoped his favourable reception by Yusup Baroyev, would have ensured a better position than checking transportation routes. Dushanbe was not St. Petersburg, but it was still civilisation, and the women were available and beautiful. Still, he reasoned, if he proved his worth, it wouldn’t be too long before he’d be back in the capital of Tajikistan enjoying the hospitality and the pliable women out at his employer’s mansion.

  The distance to the border was not far, only one hundred and seventy kilometres, but the change in the surrounding environment was profound. The capital was modern and cosmopolitan, the countryside austere. The people he could see were becoming more conservative the further south he travelled. The ubiquitous burka the women in Afghanistan were known to wear was to be seen more often as he closed in on the border town. The drug smugglers avoided the main roads as much as possible, but he had come to meet with Farrukh Bahori, not to travel by four-wheel drive across the desert, and the hastily set-up villages were not always easy to reach.

  Bahori had made it clear that a stranger in a drug smugglers’ village would only raise questions. He had established his credentials; he didn’t want them being undermined. A Russian would cause concern and, although there were some in the area, they were never trusted and always watched.

  Panj-e Payon, the main crossing point into northern Afghanistan, had been agreed as where they should meet. The Mercedes was back in the garage at his apartment. Oleg had swapped it for a cheap Toyota for the journey, although the road surface was sealed and in remarkably good condition. As Bahori had told him, a luxury Mercedes could be stolen and across the border into Afghanistan while they were having lunch.

  ***

  Panj-e Payon was typical of border towns the world over. Full of trucks waiting to cross in each direction, customs inspectors aiming to look competent and incorruptible, but being neither. The Tajikistan side of the border did have the benefit of some semblance of civilization, where, as Farrukh Bahori had informed him when they met, the other side did not.

  ‘It’s a mongrel place over there,’ Bahori had said, ‘full of rabid Mullahs and vicious tribesman. Cut your throat for the price of a bag of wheat and you, with your Russian clothes, would be strung up while they slowly remove your skin purely for entertainment.’

  ‘They hate Russians that much?’ Oleg asked.

  Farrukh Bahori, a native of Tajikistan and avid admirer of the capital Dushanbe, looked more Afghan peasant than he did a cosmopolitan Tajikistan citizen. To Oleg, he had the appearance of those he had just so vehemently criticised. He was a youngish man, no more than mid-thirties, but it was hard to be sure as his face was covered with the substantial growth of an unkempt beard. His head was covered with what may have been a turban, although it looked as if he had just wrapped a piece of cloth around his head a few times, and the clothing ‒ Oleg was not sure how to describe it.

  ‘Apologies for the look.’ Farrukh had noticed that Oleg had turned his nose up, in a disparaging manner, when they first met. ‘Down here, it’s best to look inconspicuous. If you’re trying to deal with the slime that comes across the border, then don’t look as if you have money and don’t look like an educated Tajik or a smart-arse Russian, which is what you look like now.

  ‘There was a Russian in the village, he went by the name of Sidorenko, and he never learnt that lesson. He roughed up one of the younger whores and received a knife in the chest from her pimp. They dumped his body not far from the village for the dogs to eat.’

  Oleg had no great love for mankind, but Farrukh’s bitterness and hatred came as a surprise. Oleg only needed money in his pocket, plenty preferably, as many good-looking and sexually willing women as he wanted, and a decent set of wheels. The money was not as good as he had been making in St. Petersburg, but the woman, Asiya, was beautiful and willing, as long as she was paid and the wheels were great.

  ‘I was right to tell you not to bring the Mercedes. You’ll be leaning up against it one minute and the next, when you turn around, you’ll find they’ve replaced it with a donkey.’

  ‘You sure hate them,’ Oleg said.

  ‘It’s not hatred. It’s their bigotry I can’t stand. They come across the border smuggling drugs, which is against their religion, then they start pontificating about their piety, and their God, and how it’s all in a true and just cause. The moment they’ve finished attempting to cheat me, they’re into the whisky and the whores with the scraps of heroin they managed to conceal.’

  ‘But you dress like them?’

  ‘Sure, what do you expect? Get yourself down to one of the villages, more like camps where the drugs are bought and sold, and you’ll understand why. It’s best to blend in. Otherwise, you’re likely to end up dead. Don’t go there looking for a room with a view and a hot shower because neither exists. You’d be lucky to find a bed unless you give a whore enough to share hers for the night. Even then, you’re likely to be sleeping with a few thousand fleas and God knows how many diseases she’s got.’

  ‘It was a good idea we met here,’ Oleg said. Farrukh had suggested meeting in the border town. He had agreed without hesitation. He had tried camping out as a child in St. Petersburg, local Boy Scout troop.

  ‘Good for the spirit, good for the soul,’ his father had said, but the young Oleg had neither the interest in the spirit nor his soul, and the weather had been abysmal. It was not an experience he was anxious to repeat, even though the weather down where he had met Farrukh was neither cold nor wet. On the contrary, it was dry and too dusty for his liking.

  ‘Farrukh, what’s the set-up where you are? Yusup has asked me to check the operation, from the border down here up to Russia.’

  ‘Down here, it’s fine. At least, as fine as it can be. The Afghans process the drug over on their side and then smuggle it across to the village. There are other villages, by the way. I oversee them from my village and coordinate the transportation. A local is responsible for the buying at the other villages.

  ‘The routes the smugglers take varies, and the villages move every few months. The first we see of the Afghans is when they arrive in the villages, sometimes on a donkey, mostly on foot. They do the deal, get drunk, pray to Allah and screw the whores.’

  ‘The women, what are they like?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘They’re not the smooth-skinned beauties you meet up with in Dushanbe. Did you ever get an invite to one of Yusup’s parties?’

  ‘The first day.’

  ‘Then just think the opposite of them. Most of the women in the village would have been beautiful, some still show it; but once they’re hooked on heroin, they’re finished. To feed their habit in Dushanbe, they would need to be beautiful and fresh to make the money, but the drug withers them, hardens their features. Soon they can’t get laid enough to buy sufficient heroin. Eventually, they end up down at the border, where money is not the issue, only their ability to open their legs or suck on an Afghan’s dick.’

  Farrukh paused to take a drink of water from a water flask.

  ‘Nozia, one of Yusup’s women is down here,’ he continued. ‘She was a knockout, screwed with a vengeance, even tried her myself in the capital. Now her breasts are hanging around her waist after every other tribesman has squeezed, prodded and sucked on them. If I feel the need of a woman, I pick her. I just hope I don’t pick up too many diseases. As soon as I get the opportunity, I’ll be in to the first clinic for a good check-up. Mind you, that’s not too often. This is my first time out of the village in a month, and a clinic in this flea-bitten town won’t be the most hygienic. More likely to catch something there than be cured of anything I might have picked up. I’ve got a nasty rash on my balls as it is, and the local experts, all amateurs, tell me it is “whore’s balls”. Too much scre
wing, not enough praying to Allah. Screw Allah, I’d rather have itchy balls than pulling myself off every night just to maintain my sanity.’

  ‘How do you deal with the smugglers?’ Oleg enjoyed listening to Farrukh’s honest and entertaining account of life in a drug smugglers’ village.

  ‘They’ll come in with a couple of kilos, sometimes as much as five in a sack. It’s top grade, even comes with a quality stamp. They’ll say a price, always too high, I’ll counter with a ridiculous offer, and we’ll meet somewhere in the middle. The final price varies, plus or minus ten per cent, depending on supply and demand. Lately, the demand has been high; they’ve been getting a better price. After that, I figure out the best way to get it up to Dushanbe. Once it’s there, I don’t follow through. In fact, I have no idea what happens after that.’

  ‘What’s the best way to get it through to the capital?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘Depends on who can be bribed.’

  ‘You mean the police, the military?’

  ‘That’s it. You know how it works.’

  ‘Farrukh, the whole world is corrupt. It’s only the cost that varies.’

  ‘Some are incorruptible, though. They believe it’s their sworn duty to stamp out the pursuit of profit.’

  ‘And what do you do about them?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘Set them up with a better class of whore to weaken their resolve, offer them a substantially higher bribe and occasionally threaten their family, although that’s rare.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If we threaten, then we may need to follow up, which is not the issue, but the police or the military will feel the need to mobilise in numbers and come down here and teach us a lesson. If we can’t corrupt them with a whore or some money, then normally we bypass them. Mind you, there’s always a senior officer who can transfer them and Yusup Baroyev has all of them in his pocket.’

  ‘So you send it by road up to Dushanbe?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the usual way. We’ll split the consignments, use several trucks, ensure everyone on the way is suitably bribed in advance. Sometimes we lose some when it’s found, but that’s okay as it keeps the authorities off our back.’

  ‘You set it up for them to find some?’

  ‘Yes, why not? They can show their superiors that they’re achieving results. We can then do a deal and buy it back at a discount rate from wherever it was confiscated and send it back up on the next shipment. That way, everyone in the police and military is seen as honest and competent when nobody is either. It’s an ideal arrangement.’

  ‘The bribes, substantial?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘Horrendous, but we still make plenty. What we pay to an Afghan is a pittance compared to what a junkie spends on the streets in Moscow. Everyone wins, whether they are pretending to be an honest lawman or just a two-bit hoodlum, living in a village full of whores and charlatans on the border with a country stuck in the dark ages.’

  ‘You don’t sound like a two-bit hoodlum to me,’ Oleg admitted. He had warmed to Farrukh’s endearing personality and his comprehensive knowledge of how everything worked, at least in his neck of the woods.

  ‘That’s what I feel like down here. I was meant to be here for a couple of months, ensure everything was working and then back to Dushanbe. I was hopeful of trying out a few more of the women that Yusup has out at his mansion.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Oleg said. ‘Although, I suppose the reality is that you’re doing a good job down here and that you’ve made yourself indispensable.’

  ‘Maybe I should make myself a little more dispensable. Stuff it up now and then.’

  ‘Please, never do that. You know what will happen if you intentionally disturb the flow of drugs north.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Yusup Baroyev, the affable and generous host and supplier of beautiful and exotic women, will have me strung upside down over a termites’ nest with my balls dangling around my neck on a piece of string.’

  ‘You understand as well as I do.’ Oleg realised that Yusup Baroyev was the ideal boss. He was generous to a fault, yet vicious without deviation if anything less than total loyalty was not forthcoming.

  Oleg had been satisfied with Farrukh and his explanation of how the business worked. He realised that he was probably involved in some fiddles down on the border, but who wouldn’t be? And unless they were severe, he would give a good report on him to Yusup the next time they met.

  Asiya, the dark-haired beauty that Yusup had given him as a housewarming present for the first three days, had proved to be an exciting lay, but now he was paying, and she was expensive. Natasha, back in St. Petersburg, had been wild and, as long as he looked after her well, she was willing to stay. But she was a long way away, and the KGB was still sniffing around. They had even accosted her a few times, threatened her with unpleasant consequences if she withheld information regarding a known murderer.

  No, there was no point in bringing her down to Dushanbe. Besides, he had an inexhaustible source of women to choose from. All he had to do was to find one or two ‒ three sounded about right ‒ who were available, not too expensive and screwed like there was no tomorrow.

  And he knew that, in his business, tomorrow could not always be guaranteed.

  ***

  On his return to Dushanbe, Oleg’s meeting with Yusup to debrief him on operations down south did not go according to plan.

  ‘You meet him in some border town, where he’s not known, and then spins you a story.’ Yusup was dressed immaculately, in a different suit from the previous time they had met.

  ‘I thought he was a decent man,’ Oleg replied.

  ‘I know that Farrukh’s a good operator, cheats a little, but not excessively. I’d bring him back here, but there’s no one else I can trust who could do the job as efficiently. If you come back here again with a placid, warm and fuzzy “he’s doing a good job” report, you’ll be down there doing his job.’

  ‘I understand.’ Oleg had assumed because it was a Saturday and the girls were around the pool, that it would have been a cordial discussion. He had dressed casually – open neck shirt, beige slacks and a pair of brown suede shoes.

  ‘I hope you understand,’ continued Yusup. ‘Tomorrow you get back down to that village and find out what’s actually happening. He didn’t tell you that someone is trying to muscle in on my business, did he?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘He may be trying to cut a deal with them, and you know what happens to people who do that.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Farrukh told me.’

  ‘There’s been a few who thought they were smart. I even used one as a frightener for a dozen others who were tempted. I made sure they sat through and watched his death while we all sat drinking beer. I don’t want to use either you or Farrukh as an exhibition, so you better find out who’s muscling in and why he didn’t tell you. And next time you come here, do not dress casual assuming you’re going to get laid at my expense. And don’t come with some wishy-washy report of what a lovely trip you’ve had. It’s a no man's land down there, full of the most unscrupulous, foul-minded and devious people you’ll find anywhere, and the Afghans are the worst of the lot.’

  ‘I will return today. I’ll need to phone Farrukh to guide me in.’

  ‘Do it tomorrow.’ Yusup Baroyev’s manner changed abruptly. ‘You’re allowed one mistake, don’t make it two. Is that clear?’

  ‘It will not happen again.’ Oleg Yezhov, a man who had killed and maimed, was suitably frightened. He would be more diligent in future.

  ‘Okay, get into some shorts, eat some food, down some good drinks and get yourself laid. There’s a good selection here today, some new ones even. Remember to check with me. I get the first pick.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll check.’

  ‘Don’t mess up again.’ Yusup smiled as he took off his jacket and loosened his tie.

  ***

  The next day, suitably worn out, Oleg made the trip south again. He phoned Farrukh in advance. He wa
s neither affable nor welcoming.

  ‘Yusup’s seriously annoyed with me for not visiting you at your place of work.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be gained by you coming here,’ replied Farrukh. ‘Besides, a Russian in the village will only cause suspicion and distrust. I don’t need you ruining my operation.’

  His response concerned Oleg. Is it because he has something to hide? he thought.

  Oleg decided to give Farrukh the benefit of the doubt. He understood the hatred felt by the Afghans towards the Russians; he felt the same towards them. Even the people in Tajikistan were not crazy about anyone from Russia. He had heard it mentioned a few times, mostly in jest, but he was never sure if there was still a deep-seated dislike. He had no issues with the people of Tajikistan, especially their women. The two at Yusup’s party had been exceedingly beautiful and generous with their talents. He could only smile to himself on the trip south.

  The instructions from Farrukh had been clear. ‘Meet me at the road junction, forty kilometres north of the border. You’ll see a sign saying “Police post ahead, prepare to stop”. There’s no police post, but it will let you know where to wait for someone to pick you up. It may be me; it may be someone else.’

  Oleg had sensed an air of resignation in the Tajik’s voice when he realised he had no option but to comply.

  ‘I’ll be there, twelve noon as agreed.’

  ‘And don’t come wearing a suit and try to look less Russian.’

  ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘Just look how the locals move. They saunter, not march as you do. They slouch, not look as if they’re about to stand to attention and salute.’

  ‘I’ll put in some practice,’ Oleg replied, attempting to put some humour into their conversation.