‘How? I just don’t know where to start. If you go asking too many questions around here, you end up dead in a gutter with a bullet in the head or a knife to the throat, and I don’t fancy either of those options.’
‘Neither do I, but I’m not going back to Yusup with a statement that we think the Russian mafia are here, but we don’t really know. Tomorrow, you and I will spend time discussing our strategy. Tonight, we’re going to get laid. Bring on the whores and let’s try for the best lookers. We’re about to put our lives on the line. I wouldn’t want to think we had cheap-skated ourselves just before we ask too many questions and stick our noses in where they’re not wanted.’
‘Tomorrow. Agreed,’ Farrukh said, hopeful that he had directed any concerns about his loyalty away from Oleg.
Chapter 5
Oleg had made a decision before arriving in the village not to become involved with the women. He still maintained a detached fondness for Natasha back in St. Petersburg, although he thought it unlikely he would see her again. The woman in Dushanbe offered suitable compensation, but those he had seen on the trip into the village had filled him with no great desire. However, he was a man with an overactive libido and the need of a woman overrode his good common sense.
The woman sitting at what constituted a bar ‒ although it was no more than a piece of old wood supported by a couple of trestles ‒ enticed him. She had a look that appealed to him, even if her appearance portrayed the depth of depravity she had sunk to.
She said her name was Malika, although whether it was true did not concern him. Quick with her life story, she told him that she had come from the Dushanbe and her life had been hard and tough. However, he was not a sentimentalist. Besides, he did not believe the story. Life was what you made of it, that was his motto. He hadn’t chosen her to hear how her life had been difficult, or how her father had abused her because she was the prettiest, or even how she had wanted to be a model or an actress.
Why does every whore want to tell you their ambition was to be a model or an actress? he thought. Why not a motor mechanic or a secretary?
He had to admit that she did not attempt to tell him about her desires, or her regrets and her conversation was agreeable. She even spoke passable Russian and, as they sat and talked, he found her increasingly desirable. It was good that she had not stated her desire to be a model. Those he had seen, the truly successful, were rake-thin with small breasts and legs that looked barely capable of supporting them.
She was a pleasant-looking woman, probably had been beautiful in the past. The needle marks on her arms and the tattoos, apparently placed there by one of the other women during a lull in business, were poorly constructed and barely understandable as to what they were. One, the most recent, still showed the signs of infection.
She reminded him of Natasha. Similar bone structure and hair colour, although Natasha’s was natural, whereas Malika’s was out of a bottle.
She had a rather pronounced nose which, on others, would have been off-putting, but it lent a certain allure to her. He felt confident he would choose her. Whether she was riddled with any diseases, he was not sure. If he had had a condom, he would have used it. He was going to take a chance and, once back in Dushanbe, he’d check into a clinic for a full check-up.
The women at Yusup’s parties came with a doctor’s certificate giving the all-clear. As he had told Oleg, ‘I don’t want to be giving any of their diseases to my wife.’
It had come as a surprise to Oleg when he told him he had a wife. It was even a surprise to Pavel when Oleg told him later.
It was only much later that Oleg would learn that the wife was willowy, blonde, and exceedingly attractive. The two children, a daughter of nineteen and a son of fourteen, resided with their mother in another mansion fifty kilometres to the north. Apparently, Yusup was devoted to all three, but he was a larger than life character, and gangster leaders are not satisfied with a wife to whom they go home at night and make small talk around the fire.
His wife accepted the fact as long as he visited twice a week, invariably by helicopter, mansion to mansion, spent time with the kids, laid her regularly and ensured her gold-plated credit cards had no limits.
She cost him a fortune, but the kids were strong and healthy, and he begrudged her nothing, as long as she looked after them well and acted as the ideal hostess when he was meeting and greeting politicians and honest business leaders alike.
Oleg, increasingly at ease with Malika in the village, eased his tensions and spent time with her, even bought her a meal. She had proved to be a welcome distraction, well-skilled and made him feel as though it was he that she wanted and not the heroin he supplied.
‘You would not have been able to afford me two years ago,’ she said during a brief interlude in proceedings while he gathered his strength.
‘Why’s that?’ he asked.
‘I had been a good student at school, full of ambition. I knew I could act, but that wasn’t the driving force. My parents had struggled, pushed me to excel and made sure I wanted for nothing as long as my grades were good.’
Oleg breathed a sigh of exasperation at the actress revelation, but let it pass.
‘And then what?’
‘I could see that a professional career such as a school teacher or a doctor paid nothing,’ continued Malika. ‘I knew of the hardships my parents had gone through and vowed not to let it happen to me. I saw it as my responsibility to look after them as they got older. I had always taken part in school plays at the end of the year, so I thought I’d try. Besides, the money’s decent if you’re reasonably successful.’
‘And were you?’
‘Oh, yes. I soon found a part on a weekly series on the television. It was the life I was looking for, but then the series folded due to low ratings. The station found it cheaper to import from overseas and dub the voices.’
The soft, dulcet tones of her voice reinvigorated him, and they made love again.
‘I was out of work. My parents had become used to my monthly cheque. I didn’t want to disappoint them, so I looked at the options.’
‘More television?’
‘That had dried up, so I looked at the theatre, but the only job I could find was at a high-class strip joint.’
‘Did you go there?’
‘I had no option. But even though it was hands-off, no grabbing, the sleazy men were masturbating in the front row. I was kept two metres from the men, apart from when they wanted to stuff some money down my G-string or bra. Soon I was being asked to perform private shows, where they expected my act to be more provocative.
‘Not long after I left and set myself up in business as a high-class escort. Some of the clientele had given me their business cards. They told me they’d be interested to see me out of the club.’
‘Business good?’
‘The clients were gentlemen. Some of them even took me on business trips and paid me exceedingly well. Two hundred American dollars for a few hours, one thousand for overnight and business was booming. I couldn’t believe my luck. The sex was good, and I had no guilty conscience.’
‘Then how did you get here?’
‘Bad luck. I’d never done drugs, not even a cigarette, but one of the businessmen took me to a party in one of the top hotels. There was some cocaine. I couldn’t say no to it without seeming to be critical of them.’
‘Then what?’
‘I liked it. I’d never been interested, never once took anything, barely a tablet for a headache, yet there I was, giddy-headed and looking for more. After that, the money I used to send to my parents was being spent on drugs. It was only a matter of time before I was hooked on heroin.’
Malika, as with Oleg, had not been entirely truthful in her explanation. The high-class escort had been true for a while, but it was not for long as the drugs were affecting her desirability. And, as for cocaine and barely a tablet for a headache, that was pure fabrication.
‘You’d rather go back to the capital?’
Oleg asked.
‘Sure, but I’m a spaced-out junkie. It’s just not possible. I’ve got a habit to feed and here’s the only place that can satisfy it.’
‘But what if you could?’
‘Anytime. But how could I break the habit?’
‘With treatment, it should be possible.’ Oleg weighed up the possibilities. He knew she would be loyal and honest with him and, without the drugs, beautiful and desirable. He planned to keep her for himself.
‘I’ll help you if you will try to break the habit.’
‘With your assistance, I will try,’ she said.
***
The next day, feeling refreshed, Oleg revisited the question of the Russian mafia with Farrukh.
‘What’s the best way to find out about the Russians?’
Farrukh had spent time the previous night with Nozia, who no doubt had an equally harrowing tale as that of Malika’s. However, he had merely satisfied his lust, paid her fee in some good-quality heroin and left.
‘That’s the problem,’ said Farrukh. ‘They’re not here in the village.’
‘I contacted Yusup this morning on a satellite phone,’ Oleg said. ‘He’s expecting results, so we better deliver.’
‘Assuming they crossed into Afghanistan, we should contact the border guards.’
‘Anyone you trust?’
‘There’s one. He’ll need money, plenty probably. No one’s going to tell tales on the Russians down here. As much as they hate them, they’re scared of what they’ll do to anyone who crosses them.’
‘Then we’ll go and see him.’
‘The day after tomorrow, and then I can only afford a couple of days,’ Farrukh said. ‘There’s a big shipment coming through.’
***
The following day, Farrukh confided in Oleg. ‘There’s a problem with the shipments I was waiting for from Afghanistan.’
‘What problem?’
‘I was led to believe that up to forty kilos would be coming over. With the other villages, it should have amounted to close to one hundred and fifty, maybe a little more.’
‘And what did you receive?’ Oleg asked.
‘No more than eleven here and the other villages are reporting similar numbers.’
‘Problem?’
‘It’s the lowest I’ve seen it.’
‘What do you think?’
‘It may be circumstantial, but if the Russians are across the border, they may have made some deals, figured out a different way to get the drugs out of the country.’
Farrukh was concerned. He knew that Yusup Baroyev would be nervous, even angry, and his anger, which was legendary, would be levelled at him, the innocent messenger of the bad news, not the perpetrator.
‘Oleg, can you tell Yusup the situation down here? I don’t think I can deal with his anger at this time.’
‘Okay.’
Oleg took the opportunity later to make the phone call, uncertain of the reaction. He was as nervous as Farrukh had been earlier. A drug lord, especially Yusup Baroyev, did not want to hear about problems, only solutions and results.
‘Yusup, there’s a problem down here.’
‘What problem?’
‘The shipments coming across the border are less than normal.’
‘Farrukh Bahori involved?’
‘Not sure, but I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway.’
‘What’s the plan?’
‘We’re going to meet up with a border guard and find out where the Russians are.’
‘Will he know?’
‘Apparently, but he’ll need plenty of persuading.’
‘Do what is necessary and get someone across the border to find out what’s going on. If it’s the Russians, as Farrukh suspects, then we’ve got big trouble. Those guys are dangerous; we could have a battle on to control them.’
Yusup’s reaction had come as a surprise to Oleg. He had expected him to be seething with anger, but he had remained calm, almost too calm. Oleg had yet to learn that his boss was a rational man who dealt with facts, not hyperbole. He was letting Oleg run his race, see what his calibre was and whether he was worthy of a higher position in the organisation.
Farrukh was relieved when he was told of the reaction from Dushanbe.
‘Okay, Yusup’s fine,’ Oleg said. ‘It’s up to us to find out what is going on. He said we need to get someone across the border to follow up.’
‘Count me out!’ Farrukh exclaimed. ‘I’ve seen enough of rabid Afghans over here. I may as well put a gun to my head now. You know what they do to people spying on them? Flay them alive.’
‘That’s what they did to my father, apparently.’
‘And one of us is expected to go across? Count me out.’
‘Let’s talk with your border guard friend first.’
‘He’s no friend, just bleeds me for money every time I go near him.’
‘Friend or otherwise, we need to talk to him,’ Oleg said.
***
The following morning, Oleg and Farrukh set off to meet with the border guard. They travelled in an old UAZ-469 Russian off-road vehicle. It was basic, grossly underpowered and uncomfortable, but it was also simple, easy to fix. There were thousands still around from the time of the Russian invasion of Afghanistan. It was ideal in a region where motor mechanics were few and badly trained.
Oleg missed the comfort of the Mercedes; Farrukh missed nothing. In fact, he delighted in the opportunity for a couple of days out of the godforsaken arsehole of a village.
The vehicle, nicknamed the ‘Goat’ by the Russian troops due to its ungainly appearance, bumped along the dusty track, its engine misfiring every couple of minutes due to the low-grade fuel that was available in the region. The worn synchromesh on the gears complained every time Farrukh attempted to change gear.
‘But out here,’ he explained, ‘it’s the best vehicle there is. One thing the Russians do well is build utilitarian vehicles, fit for purpose.’
Upon reaching their destination, they headed off to meet with the border guard, an officer charged with stamping the passports and saying who would cross or not. He occupied a small, brick building fifty metres from the Tajikistan-Afghanistan Bridge.
The bridge across the fast-flowing Panj River had been constructed by an Italian company and financed by the US Army Corps of Engineers. It was concrete, two-lane and of good quality.
Oleg could only think of the irony of how much contraband, bribery and corruption the US Government had, by default, been responsible for by financing its construction.
The bridge was making the border guard, Yuri Drygin, rich. The BMW parked to one side of Drygin’s office, five years old at most, was not the mode of transport for an officer in the pay of his government, where the equivalent of five hundred American dollars a month would have been regarded as a good salary. Not that it seemed to concern the government employee, that his ostentatious display of wealth should have raised questions as to where he got the money. But then, Oleg assumed nobody asked very much as long as the palms were greased all the way up to Dushanbe, and into the hands of every grubby politician and greedy lawman.
***
‘Yuri, I’m pleased to see you,’ Farrukh said as they met with the border guard at a small tea house, less than a kilometre from the bridge that Drygin guarded zealously.
‘Your friend is not from around here, is he?’ Yuri Drygin asked.
A small man, he showed the first signs of ageing with the grey flecks starting to appear in his otherwise luxuriant head of hair. He wore the uniform that befitted his position. His trousers resplendent with a vivid red stripe down the outside of each leg, clearly identifying him as an officer. His shirt, blue in colour, with epaulettes.
Oleg could not help but be bemused by the fact that, as much as the Tajiks professed dislike for the Russians, they still maintained the look of the Russian military. Nothing could achieve that aim more than a Russian military hat, which always looked two sizes too big for its wearer ‒
the band above the brim, red to reinforce Drygin’s officer status. He was an affable person, especially when pressing Farrukh about his favourite subject.
‘It’s going to cost you,’ Officer Drygin of the Tajikistan Border Service said.
‘I haven’t asked you for anything yet,’ Farrukh replied.
‘But you will. You wouldn’t be here with me if it were only a social visit.’
‘You’re right. I need information about some people who may have crossed over the border here in the last week or so.’
‘That’s classified. Why do you want to know?’
‘We like to know who our competitors are.’
‘You still haven’t mentioned who your friend is.’
‘Oleg Yezhov.’
‘Russian, am I correct?’
‘Any problems with that?’ Farrukh asked.
‘Not at all, but if a Russian wants information it can only mean one thing.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘It’s important, and it will affect the price.’
‘Yuri, the price is reflected on the information you provide,’ said Farrukh. ‘It’s supply and demand. You provide what we want and then you can demand your price. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Oleg Yezhov.’ The border guard purposely ignored Oleg’s presence and leant over the table at Farrukh. ‘Can he be trusted?’
‘I vouch for him. He’s one of us.’
‘It is strange bedfellows we make,’ Drygin mused out loud. ‘One minute we’re at each other’s throat, aiming to kill and maim, and then here we are drinking tea, old friends, almost.’ Farrukh translated for Oleg’s benefit.
‘That was my father’s generation, not mine,’ Oleg said in Russian. He assumed that the border guard did not understand. ‘I’ve got no problems with anyone.’
‘Farrukh,’ Oleg then addressed his associate in frustration, ‘we’ve had enough of the niceties. It’s time to find out who crossed the border, when and who they were going to meet.’
Malika's Revenge: A Powerful Mix for a Complex Noir Novel. An Organized Crime Thriller - not for the faint-hearted Page 7