Dmitry Gubkin was fiercely patriotic, but he didn’t go killing his own people, which the Russian mafia had a habit of doing with predictable regularity.
But isn’t this what I’m doing now if I’m party to bringing drugs into Russia? he thought. He let it pass and focused on his second concern.
‘Maximise the profit return. How do you intend to achieve this?’ he asked.
‘From Afghanistan and through Tajikistan and finally up to the Russian border,’ replied Stolypin, ‘there are middlemen, facilitators, corrupt policemen, army personnel, border guards and politicians to pay off. They all want a cut; it all adds up. Remove as many of those as you can, and there’s another five per cent, as much as ten if it is added on to the profit for us to divide amongst ourselves.’
‘That seems reasonable. We’ll discuss the transport route later. Thirdly, why take the thirty per cent of Afghanistan’s output up to sixty per cent and how?’
‘There are several components here,’ Stolypin explained. ‘We’ve already been in contact with the Afghans. They’re ramping up production for us.’
‘That explains the sixty per cent, but how do you distribute that much product?’
‘You can leave that to us.’
‘I need to know,’ Dmitry asked.
‘We’ll create the demand.’
‘How?’
‘We’ll saturate the marketplace with a low-cost product for a few months and then jack the price up, standard business practice. If the demand is not there, we’ll create it.’
‘So you intend to create thousands more heroin addicts?’
‘Yes. Do you have a problem with that?’ Stolypin asked. ‘Enough to forego the money?’
‘Not that much of a problem,’ Dmitry replied.
***
Two weeks later, Dmitry Gubkin travelled the fifty kilometres to the north of Moscow to meet with Stolypin’s associates. He had argued that he was to be known only to him, but Stolypin had been insistent there needed to be a chain of command, backup if he was unavoidably not available. To the businessman, it sounded like a euphemism for being detained by the police or dead. He did not ask for a clearer understanding.
He agreed that he would meet the others this time, and from then on it would only be face-to-face with Grigory Stolypin. The gangster agreed, as it also suited him.
Dmitry was not in a good mood on his arrival. His wife had insulted him, told him he was impotent, and she was going to find a man who could satisfy her. He knew she wouldn’t; she was a trophy wife and only there because he was rich and she had been poor. He still loved her, but she cared little for him. He knew that, but as long as the money flowed and the trinkets, overly expensive, were hers to have, then she would stay.
Now in his sixties, it was true what she had said. He needed Viagra to keep the blood pumping, but there was a slight heart problem so the dose was small and the erection not as firm. Hormonal replacement therapy, aiming to maintain his testosterone levels, had limited effect and the tablets made him nauseous.
Grigory Stolypin arrived at the mansion on the outskirts with two other men. One was red in the face, bloated and wore an ill-fitting suit that looked as if he had slept in it. The other was solid and muscle-bound.
‘Dmitry, allow me to introduce my colleagues. This is Boris Sobchak.’
The red-faced, bloated man put out his hand and gripped Dmitry’s right hand firmly. It felt as if the bones in his hand were about to be broken. He would later find out that Boris ‘the enforcer’ Sobchak had earned the title by his habit of accepting no excuses from those who worked for him. His solution for disloyalty or incompetence was death.
Ivan Merestkov, the second of the introductions, was a more agreeable person; Dmitry warmed to him immediately. He was of average height, well-rounded, not fat and polite in manner and bearing.
‘I used to be a weightlifter in my younger days,’ said Merestkov. ‘I represented Russia at the Olympics once. I still lift the weights, but my shoulders are not what they were.’
‘Boris will ensure the men, Ivan, the marketing of the product and I’ll work with you, ensuring your plans are implemented,’ said Stolypin. ‘After today, you will only have contact with me.’
‘So why has my cover been broken?’ Dmitry reiterated his concerns when told he would need to meet with the two new men.
‘It’s necessary we pledge our loyalty to you,’ replied Stolypin. ‘There are three of us here, and two will always ensure the other one does not cheat or scheme against us.’
‘Can that work?’ Dmitry asked.
‘Yes, all three of us know the consequences if we don’t, and besides, you’re going to make us wealthy beyond belief. Why would we cheat?’
‘It is in your nature. You told me that before,’ said Dmitry, reminding Stolypin of their previous meeting.
‘You’re right, but here we are, and here we stay, loyal to you.’ Boris Sobchak and Ivan Merestkov acknowledged their agreement.
Dmitry realised he needed facts and time, but there were still some concerns that needed to be raised.
‘The Afghans, do you trust them?’
‘We have met with them,’ Merestkov said.
‘It was mentioned at my first meeting with Grigory, but do you trust them?’ repeated Dmitry.
‘An Afghan, slit your throat as soon as look at you. Murdering savages, but as long as we give them the business, they’ll be fine.’
‘They’ll still aim to cut a deal with Baroyev,’ Boris Sobchak said.
‘That would be a logical assumption,’ Dmitry said.
‘Do we liquidate Yusup Baroyev now?’ Grigory asked.
‘He’s safe until we’ve got the operation running successfully. Also, we need someone on the inside. Someone who feels they’ve been done an injustice, someone smart.’
‘I’ll work on it,’ Boris said.
‘The transportation routes, are they in place?’
‘Another few weeks and they will be,’ said Ivan. ‘We need to deal with some very senior politicians and their demands are proving difficult. Some may even be slated for removal.’
‘Can you arrange that?’ Dmitry asked.
‘In time, we can. Time is not of the essence here. The demand is not going away, and the supply is intact.’
‘We do this right,’ Dmitry said. The other three acknowledged with a nod of the head.
‘Is there any more to discuss for now?’ Grigory asked.
‘No,’ said Dmitry. ‘I will maintain contact with you and wish Sobchak and Merestkov a goodnight.’ The meeting concluded with each man hugging the other as they left.
Chapter 9
In the six weeks since Farrukh had returned from Afghanistan, his position within Yusup’s inner circle had continued to improve. He had also met Negareh, a beautiful, decent woman and she had moved into the apartment with him.
Negareh’s father, a prominent businessman, imported cars from the West, even imported the Mercedes that Farrukh continued to enjoy. Her father had disapproved of her actions when she had moved in, but she was independent of mind, and he had little to say on the matter. Farrukh was a known confidante of Yusup Baroyev, and that came with a certain respect and a great deal of fear. The parties continued at the mansion and those weekends always seemed a good time for her to spend a few days with her parents.
Oleg, meanwhile, continued to fester down at the border. Malika kept him occupied, but he was tiring of her. Her attempts at moderating her drug intake seemed in vain. She was a hopeless drug addict and the belief that a good clinic in the capital could fix her seemed unlikely. And then there was the question of when he would get there. He had phoned, almost pleaded with Yusup the last time, but the answer was always the same.
‘Not until we’ve resolved the issue with the Afghans. Farrukh’s the only one who’s had any personal contact. He’s staying here, and you’re staying there.’
Oleg realised his situation was not good and, whereas the money continued to
come in, there was nowhere to spend it unless it was on vodka and food. Malika only needed heroin, and he could get that for free, although the number of smugglers coming over from Afghanistan had continued to decline and Najibullah, always so regular, had not been seen for a few weeks.
He had noticed that his personal hygiene and his appearance had continued to decline. Always so punctilious about his appearance, he now looked as Farrukh had. He dressed in a shalwar kameez, dirty after six days of use, complimented by a beard that was dark and wiry and an expanding girth. It raised him to anger, and it was only at the end of the day, when he was with Malika, that it was moderated, and even she was making him angry.
‘You said you were going to take me to Dushanbe. Put me in a nice apartment, buy me nice clothes and drive me around in an expensive car, but it was all lies. You only said it so I wouldn’t screw anyone else. You just wanted me to yourself, that’s all,’ she had screamed the night before.
It served no point to explain that life was not always straightforward. He could have told her he had a boss, a responsibility, and that the two days in the village had expanded out to months, and he couldn’t leave. Not if he wanted to hang on to his balls.
He just told her to shut up when she started complaining, even hit her once or twice, had wanted to throttle her on another occasion.
He had rarely left the village, apart from the monthly trips to grease the palms of the border guards, Yuri Drygin included, along with the local police and the commander at the Army barracks not more than forty kilometres away.
‘We’re getting a better deal from the Russians,’ Drygin said the last time they met.
Oleg could not help but like the man. Sure, he was a rogue pretending to be an honest man, but he could hold a conversation. More than could be said in the village, with its disparate collection of Afghan tribesman and Tajikistan rejects from the capital, scratching around, aiming to buy a few hundred grammes to sell on the streets of the capital. Most of the Tajiks seemed to give the majority of it to the whores in the village anyway.
It had even snowed on a couple of occasions, and he was constantly cold. The intermittent electricity from a small and smelly generator allowed him to run a two-bar heater in the room that constituted his living quarters and office. It was one of the rare occasions when he felt a moment of relaxation.
***
‘Tell me about the Russians?’ Oleg asked in the comfort of Yuri Drygin’s office at the border crossing. He had to admit that the customs official’s surroundings were better than his own.
‘Not much to say. They’re paying someone very senior, who then orders us to stand down at certain times of the night. The gates are opened, and we’re to look the other way.’
‘How senior?’
‘Government level,’ Drygin replied.
‘I thought we had them all sewn up.’
‘Maybe you did, but someone’s paying more. Does your boss know?’
‘Which boss is that?’ Oleg feigned ignorance.
‘Yusup Baroyev.’
‘How do you know his name?’
‘We may be isolated from the city down here, but we’re not stupid. I’ve always known who he was and the Russians who went down through here some months ago mentioned his name.’
‘They told you.’
‘No, of course not. The pig-swilling son of a peasant bitch is what they called me when I questioned their dubious visas.’
‘What did you do about the insult?’
‘Nothing. On one hand, they were slipping me five hundred American in crisp new notes and, on the other, swearing about me in Russian. They assumed I was a pig-swilling son who only spoke Tajik. I would have killed them on the spot if they had said it anywhere else. Besides, what’s a few insults? I’ve suffered worse in my life. Mind you, I made sure a goat tied up at the back of the building urinated on their luggage before they left. It would have stunk after a couple of days.’
‘You’re letting them transport drugs through here unhindered?’ Drygin’s tale of the Russians had amused Oleg; he could only smile.
‘Yes, that’s the directive, although what they’re carrying? Well, I don’t know.’
‘You know it’s drugs.’
‘Officially, no. Unofficially, what else could it be?’
‘Why didn’t you let us take drugs through?’
‘I occasionally did, but it wasn’t safe for me to do it more than a few times.’
‘So I’m stuck out at the arse-end of the world waiting for a few Afghan tribesmen, while the Russians are coming through here in air-conditioned luxury?’
‘Air-conditioned?’ said Drygin. ‘Judging by the vehicles, the only air-conditioning they would have is when the window is open.’
The conversation continued with Oleg progressively getting warmer and Yuri, progressively richer. If Oleg wanted him to keep talking, he wanted more money.
‘You never explained why we don’t just transport the drugs across the border.’ Oleg returned to the question that concerned him most.
‘Basic economics, I would assume,’ said Drygin. ‘Paying off politicians and the law authorities in this country is expensive. It must be cheaper to buy it direct from the smugglers after they’ve crossed the river on foot.’
‘But it’s complicated, with so many people involved in getting the merchandise up to the capital. After there, I don’t know what happens to it.’
‘The Russians are getting a clear run. The road blocks are letting them through.’
‘They can’t keep this quiet for long. Someone’s bound to notice and then the clamps will be applied?’ Oleg posed a rhetorical question.
‘Why?’ replied Drygin. ‘If the Russians are paying the right people, no questions will be asked. Anyone who sticks their head up will either have it shot off, or they’ll be paid to shut up. It seems foolproof to me.’
***
Oleg decided to spend the night in the border town. He found a cheap boarding house, which had a rudimentary shower and hot water as well as a lady to wash his clothes.
He realised, in the relative luxury of his accommodation, that his time in the drug smugglers’ village was coming to an end. He would talk to Malika and see if she was willing to go with him. First, he had to make contact with the Russians, although he was not sure how. He knew he would rot in the village and that Baroyev cared little as to his fate. Farrukh was in his apartment, driving his car, wearing his clothes and screwing his women. He vowed to deal with that piece of slime at a later date.
He retired early for a good sleep in a clean bed, snug and warm. No one to screw, though, he thought. So much the better for when I meet with Malika tomorrow.
He had become adept at driving the ‘Goat’ ‒the old Russian jeep ‒ and he now knew who to bribe as he took detour after detour to reach the village. He was feeling good, more confident than in a long time. He would honour his agreement with Malika. He was sure she was a good person, maybe even worthy of a longer commitment.
The Mercedes and the apartment still enticed him and, if Yusup Baroyev ‒ high and mighty, omnipotent Yusup Baroyev ‒ wouldn’t give them to him, he’d find someone who would. It was clear the Russians were the ‘someone’, and he spoke their language. They’d take him on board in an instant ‒ a Russian who could speak Tajik. His success in learning the language had been astounding and, apart from a few words, he considered himself almost fluent. He had to find the Russians, but how? The only person who would know was Najibullah, but he was across the border in Afghanistan, and there was no way he could contact him.
***
Oleg returned to the drug smugglers’ village the next morning. It was a depressing sight as it came into view, covered as it was with a thick blanket of snow. The track had been difficult, but the tyres, mainly bald, had managed ‒ although he nearly ran off the track a couple of times ‒ and, compared to Farrukh, he was a sedate driver.
He had been away for a couple of days, and the first thing he int
ended to do was visit Malika, to exercise his manly right to a quick cuddle and some serious sex. He had given her some heroin to tide her over, not as much as usual, as she had convinced him that she was slowly cutting down on the quantities. He hadn’t been sure, but he had been pleased and had acceded to her request.
Her room, basic and invariably cold, apart from when he had been able to buy some wood from a passing farmer for the wood-burning stove, was at some distance from the track. It was a three-minute walk, two today and he was in a good mood. He wanted her to hear of his plans first.
It was as he entered her room that he heard the sounds of groaning. Malika, naked, was down on her knees giving a blowjob to an Afghan tribesman who, several days before, had sold him two kilos of the very best-quality heroin. The tribesman, even by Afghan standards, an unsavory character with no teeth, a disgustingly old and smelly shalwar kameez and breath that had forced Oleg to stand to one side when negotiating with him.
His breath reminded Oleg of the smell of the donkey dung that littered the village as it stewed in the midday sun, and here was the woman he cared for, aimed to rescue from her depravity, down on her knees. It was evident from the state of the bed, a cheaply constructed canvas construction with an old, green sheet and a blanket that she had already screwed him, already kissed him.
His anger rose to a level he did not know he was capable of. He always carried a knife, big and sharp, as necessary protection and, with it, he lurched at the Afghan. The Afghan suffered an immediate deflation of his erection and Malika quickly retreated to the rear of the room, attempting to grab the blanket to wrap around her naked body. Oleg’s first lunge with his knife missed its mark. The second did not and the Afghan collapsed to the ground, with the knife firmly planted where his heart was. He was dead, and Malika was next.
‘You whore! Why didn’t you wait?’ he screamed.
‘I needed a fix. You didn’t give me enough.’
‘I gave you what you wanted.’
‘It wasn’t enough. I only gave him a blowjob.’
Malika's Revenge: A Powerful Mix for a Complex Noir Novel. An Organized Crime Thriller - not for the faint-hearted Page 11