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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘What we don’t want is for these Russians to know we’re onto them,’ he had said. ‘It’s best to keep it as secretive as possible. If your cover’s broken, then run for the border the quickest way you can. If you can go with Najibullah, so much the better.’

  ***

  Early the next day, Najibullah and Farrukh ‒ with two donkeys to share the load of the semi-automatics ‒ set off. Farrukh felt a rush of adrenalin; Najibullah just felt another slog back for a meagre financial return. He had even heard of one Pashtun, down in the south, who was making millions; but he cared little and, even so, what could a peasant do? Life was hard enough without considering others, and Allah would always remember him when the day came to travel to Jannah, to Paradise.

  The border was twenty kilometres away and, for the first fifteen, Najibullah kept to the valleys. As the light dimmed and the border came closer, he became more willing to take the tracks leading up and over the hills on either side.

  Farrukh had ceased to enjoy the adventure. He was now exhausted, and his feet ached. His calf muscles burnt as they breached every rise on the track they were taking. The Afghan appeared impervious to the privations and just kept on a relentless, if tediously slow, pace. He had little sympathy for the pampered city man who accompanied him. He wasn’t sure what the outcome would be, but he had reasoned that he would either help him, or he could sell him to those who would be very interested as to why someone from Tajikistan was asking about the Russians.

  He had heard the rumours, even gossiped about them and it was clear that the Russians were, or had been, in Kunduz. He cared little who was running the drugs, only who was paying the most, and had heard it stated that the Russians would pay more.

  His assistance to Farrukh, a man he cared little for, came at a price. He saw him as decadent; he knew the Tajik saw him as backwards and primitive. The relationship was financial, nothing more, nothing less. He had not told him that, although he was barely literate, he came from an influential tribe in his region and knew who to contact for advice. His reluctant colleague was seriously slowing him down as they approached the river and the border guards.

  ‘When the snow melts, the river is a raging torrent. Men have drowned on their way up to you,’ Najibullah said.

  He had been quiet for a couple of hours as he attempted to maintain a low profile. There had been reports of a new police commander on the Tajikistan side; apparently, he had been making statements about how he was going to stamp out the drug trade once and for all.

  The Afghan assumed it was just rhetoric, angling for a bigger bribe or aiming to impress his superiors, who were already on somebody’s payroll.

  ‘We’ve dealt with them,’ Farrukh responded when Najibullah mentioned the reason for the enforced silence. He was glad of the opportunity to breathe freely again.

  ‘Dealt with whom?’ Najibullah asked.

  ‘The guards, at least on this side of the border. I made a phone call up north. They fixed it so it would be quiet for us tonight. You don’t think I’m going to take unnecessary risks?’

  ‘It won’t be so easy on the other side, and if they see me with you, they’re bound to be hostile. If I give you the word, just get low, jump into a ditch. Whatever you do, don’t come up until I give the all-clear.’

  ‘I’ll follow your lead,’ Farrukh said. It had been an uneventful trip so far, apart from the fact that every bone and muscle in his body ached. It appeared that, on the other side, it may not be the case. He had only ever seen Afghanistan across the river. This would be his first time there.

  The river was wide and slow-moving, only waist-deep. It was easy to wade across, but it still maintained the ice-cold of the mountains. By the time they reached the other side, Farrukh was convinced he could go no further. Najibullah reminded him of the situation.

  ‘Come daylight there will be fisherman up here, as well as a truck loaded with Afghan army conscripts. Do you want to stay here and explain to them why you are on their side of the river?’

  ‘Let’s move on.’ Farrukh appeared to find a new lease of life and, within five minutes, he was moving just behind the Afghan, pace for pace. The cold of the river had dulled his aching muscles; he felt sure he could make the drop-off point for the guns.

  ‘It’s another ten kilometres,’ Najibullah said. ‘When we’re within two, I’ll get you to duck off to the side. There’s an old building there, which will provide some respite from the cold, and no one’s going to look in there for you.’

  ‘Why?’ Farrukh asked.

  ‘It goes back to when the Taliban were aiming to take control up here. The local warlord, he was against them, captured thirty and locked them in the building. Then he ordered some men from his private army to machine-gun them and set it on fire afterwards with a petrol bomb. The locals, even the Afghan army, see it as cursed.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go in there, even if there was a gun pointed at my head.’

  ‘But you can ask me to,’ Farrukh said.

  ‘You’re from Tajikistan, educated. You don’t believe in such nonsense, am I right?’

  ‘You’re right, but it will give me the creeps thinking about it.’

  ‘You’ll survive. Give me two hours while I deliver the donkeys and the guns, and then we can go and find some hot food.’

  ***

  It took another hour to reach the cursed hut. The invigorating effect of the cold river had worn off, and Farrukh’s muscles ached as they had before. He was glad of the chance to rest his weary body, even if the building was as Najibullah had described. The signs of the carnage were all too apparent, with bones randomly scattered around. Whether they were human or not, he could not tell, but he had made the assumption that they were.

  The intense cold, the wind whistling through the building and the remembrance of Najibullah’s story were enough to make him seriously frightened, even to imagine that the building was cursed as others believed it to be.

  He was glad, two hours later, when Najibullah returned. This time, he was without the donkeys and the guns.

  ‘I’ve got some news for you,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Those that took the guns off me were talking about some Russians in Kunduz. They only wanted to string them up. They couldn’t understand why they were being given preferential treatment.’

  ‘We need to go to Kunduz then,’ Farrukh said.

  ‘We? You’re presuming too much. If we go sneaking around, we’re likely to get ourselves killed. I’m not doing that just because you have a problem with some Russians.’

  ‘It’s our problem. If they take my business, it may be the end of your drug smuggling days.’

  ‘I could always go and work for them.’

  ‘They could pay enough to take it across by road at the legal border.’

  ‘True, but I’m not going to get myself killed for you.’

  ‘I’ve not come here to be killed, either. Let’s find out what’s being said on the street and then we can decide what to do. With the money you can make helping me here, you will not need to make the drug run for at least a year.’

  ‘I’ll help. By the way, how was it waiting for me in that building?’

  ‘I swear I could hear voices screaming.’

  ‘Probably the wind. We’re a superstitious people.’

  ‘It sounded like voices to me.’ Farrukh was glad to be out and moving again.

  Free of the donkeys and momentarily revived, Farrukh and Najibullah made the trek to the small village of Imam Sahib. Farrukh spoke Tajik, but his was with a slightly different accent and, as long as he kept his conversation limited, his voice low and let Najibullah do the majority of the talking, then nobody would question him.

  Farrukh could only reflect on the barrenness of the village. It barely had five thousand inhabitants and at least as many donkeys ‒ a large number of them pulling carts ‒ as well as a fair number of camels. By the time they had reached the village,
the early morning sun had risen sufficiently to allow its warm rays on their weary bodies. Even Najibullah admitted to being exhausted as they sat down for a meal of lamb kebabs with some rice and the ubiquitous drink of green tea.

  ‘Nothing saps your strength as much as complaining about the situation,’ he said. ‘Finish what you have to do and then complain. How much energy you lost? How your morale was dampened and all because you complained excessively?’ Farrukh had to admit there was wisdom in what he had said.

  ‘Where do we go from here?’ Farrukh asked.

  ‘We’ll take a bus into Kunduz.’

  ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘As long as you don’t tell everyone on the bus how backwards we are.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘It’s what you think.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Farrukh. ‘But then, maybe I complain too much.’

  ‘We are backwards, I’m backwards,’ replied Najibullah. ‘There was never the chance of an education. We were either too poor, or there was a war, or someone had burnt down the school. I make sure my sons go to school. They can read and write, but for me, it’s too late.’

  ‘Your daughters?’

  ‘What value is an education to them? They will learn all they need from their mothers on how to look after the house, cook and breed sons. That is their purpose.’

  Farrukh said nothing. He only thought about what Najibullah had just said and his apparent lack of concern for the females in his household.

  ***

  With the meal finished, they boarded the bus. It was overloaded, cramped, and full of men in the front. The women, Farrukh noticed, were confined to the back in steerage. It slowly made its way to Kunduz, the major city in the region.

  He virtually shared his seat with a goat, while the women sat on luggage haphazardly stored in the rear. He knew that, in his own country, such practices occurred, but to see it thrust into his face were disturbing. Nevertheless, he was enjoying himself and, so far, the people had been courteous, although any attempt at familiarity with their women would have been tantamount to a death sentence. He hoped that his time in the country would not be for too long, and then he’d have to report to Yusup Baroyev. Maybe even get an invite to one of his parties.

  The thought brought a smile to his face, so much so that a stern-looking man, a Mullah judging by his clothes, looked over at him with a perplexed stare. If only he knew that I was idly screwing one of the most beautiful prostitutes in Tajikistan. He’d probably have a heart attack on the spot, Farrukh thought.

  The distance to Kunduz was not far, about sixty kilometres, but it still took close to two hours, what with the loading and the off-loading of the baggage and everyone having to get off while the person in the back pushed his way to the front, and then everyone back on again.

  Twenty kilometres west of Imam Sahib, they met up with the road from Panj-e Payon, the Tajikistan border town, down to Kunduz. There, the bus turned in a southerly direction for a relatively easy run into the city on a sealed road. After Imam Sahib, Kunduz looked like civilisation, although it was comparative. There were no street lights, most of the back roads were dusty tracks and the few women he saw concealed in an Afghan burka.

  Most were in a colour that could only be described as ‘Afghan Blue’, although some were white. Farrukh had seen a few in Tajikistan, especially close to the border, but here they were everywhere, and he didn’t like them. The men swaggered around, some carrying rifles, some machetes, while the women in the taxis, old Russian Volgas ‒ mainly yellow in colour ‒ were confined to the boot, with one of the women holding the lid up with a stick. The men, as befitted the society, sat inside, full of piety, smoking.

  ‘So, what now?’ Farrukh asked.

  ‘We’ll find some accommodation and then later we’ll walk around, keep our eyes open and our ears pricked,’ said Najibullah.

  ‘That seems a random way to conduct an investigation.’

  ‘What do you want me to do? Stand on a box and make a public announcement?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then leave it to me,’ Najibullah replied. He hadn’t figured out what to do regarding the Russians and Farrukh. He needed to talk to his cousin.

  With Farrukh safely ensconced in a guest house, some distance from the centre of the city, Najibullah went to visit his cousin. It had been his cousin that had found the drug smuggling job for him and, although it was dangerous, he was thankful.

  Chapter 7

  Ahmad Ghori had the benefit of a wealthy father and, during the various insurgencies in his country, he had relocated his family throughout the region. He had enjoyed a good education which, in time, rewarded him with the title of Chief Financial Officer, Kunduz Province. The title and the position afforded him great respect, easy access to the ear of the Governor of the Province, Ismail Samani, and a share in the lucrative drug trade that the country viewed as abhorrent, but constituted almost half of its Gross Domestic Product.

  Ismail Samani was also a warlord with a private army numbering over ten thousand. He was a good man, steeped in the traditions of his people, who tried his best in a difficult situation. It had not stopped him personally filling his pockets with ill-gotten gains and drug money, but to have not done so would have been stupid and naïve in a country where everyone else was doing the same.

  Ahmad Ghori had fought with Samani, ensured he was elected and looked after the finances of the province, legitimate or otherwise. The otherwise was where the real money lay, although it remained largely undeclared and totally hidden from view.

  As the most affluent of his extended family and the village where he was born, as well as his tribe, Ahmad Ghori was also their benefactor, a position he held with honour.

  He was the protector and saviour of close to one thousand and, whereas most were of limited intellect and talent, he always ensured a job ‒ menial if necessary ‒ and the food to look after their families. It had been to him Najibullah had turned when the poor crop he had been aiming to grow and sell in the bazaar had failed, due to a severe frost. It was he who had found Najibullah a new occupation as a drug smuggler.

  ***

  Ghori was a good-looking man with a luxuriant silver beard that hung down half-way to his waist. He would dress for work in Kunduz in a suit of the finest cloth, produced in Iran. At the weekend, he would retire to his country estate, dress in a shalwar kameez and administer and offer his opinions to those who came for his advice and assistance.

  The wealth he had acquired afforded him the luxury of three wives. The first was old and respected. She was the mother of his eldest son, who had become ‒ due to his spoilt upbringing ‒ an adult of little worth and a great disappointment.

  The second wife, a beautiful, beguiling creature twenty years younger than he had been when he had married her at the age of forty, had delighted him then as she did now, twenty years later. He felt a great fondness for her, a strange emotion for an Afghan warrior, but she suffered from premature arthritis and inflammation of the kidneys. It troubled him that she would not see her fiftieth year. She had provided him with two fine sons and three daughters. He treated them all equally, and all were receiving the benefit of education in Dubai.

  The third wife, he had married three years previous when he was close to fifty-seven and she, a mere child of eighteen. It was a politically opportune move as she was the daughter of the Governor’s brother, a wayward day-dreaming man, and the marriage gave the brother importance, as the daughter was neither wayward nor dreamy. She was articulate, opinionated and, as the Governor had told his brother. ‘Think of the sons the marriage will bring: A son with her common sense, her strength of character and Ahmad Ghori’s intelligence. It is a formidable match, possibly a future president of our troubled country.’

  The Governor’s brother had no chance to complain as he was financially indebted to his brother. The young female, Hammasa, disappointed that she could not marry her second cousin, Nasir, relented and
agreed.

  The marriage had not been a great melding of the minds. Ahmad Ghori had, for a while, felt the reawakening in his loins and she had been compliant, willing and understanding when his erections invariably failed. A dose of Viagra on a couple of occasions had ensured a pregnancy – two, in fact, both of which had resulted in sons who did give the indication of being remarkably bright, even though they were no more than babes in arms.

  Hammasa, her responsibilities completed, made it clear to her husband that there would be no more intimacy. A fact that did not concern him greatly as, combined with his age and a waning libido, he had ceased to have the overriding need to procreate or even make love.

  He was free to give his attention to his second wife, who relished his company, although the pain she suffered troubled him greatly. She never complained, never rejected his advances, even though they were few and increasingly far between.

  ***

  The visitor at Ahmad Ghori’s residence in Kunduz was unexpected.

  ‘Najibullah, what brings you here?’

  The reception room where they met was splendid in its decoration, with the finest wall hangings, the exquisite carpets on the floor and the luxurious leather chairs where they both sat. A man such as Najibullah would not generally have been afforded such a privileged setting. Najibullah and Ahmad Ghori were first cousins and, although the hour was late, and Najibullah was still unwashed after several days of travelling, it was not enough to deter a welcome reception.

  ‘Advice, confidential advice.’

  ‘Anytime. Sit down and tell me your story.’

  ‘I am not an educated man.’ Najibullah knew that being humble was a requisite of meeting with his influential cousin.

  ‘Let me be your education,’ Ahmad said.

  ‘There are some Russians in the city.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Is it true?’ Najibullah asked nervously.