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

by Phillip Strang

Her condition continued to improve. The bruising and the scarring on her body, after years of selling herself, ceased to be visible. The addiction continued to trouble her, but she resolved not to be tempted and, with her mother by her side, the guilt was acceptable.

  Her father had been a good but weak man, and his throwing himself under a bus was a sign of that weakness. It was what her mother would always say when he was discussed, but Malika wasn’t sure if her mother was saying it for her benefit or for her own, or even if it was true.

  The tattoos, unpleasant as they had been in the village, mellowed in their intensity and, with minimal make-up and a long-sleeved blouse, were barely visible.

  Malika quickly found a position at the hospital, but it offered little interest. She tried other jobs, but with the same indifference. She had one skill; and so, with the months passing and her beauty re-emerging, she felt there was no reason as to why she should not become an escort of a wealthy man or two. I had been one of the highest paid in the city, why not again? she thought.

  At several of the jobs she had tried, she had been propositioned. At one interview, she recognised an old client sitting across the solid wooden desk, asking about her typing skills, her clerical abilities and what experience she could bring to the position. He knew full well what her experience was, but he was seated next to his wife, a stern, bitter-looking woman with the figure of a melon and the face of a pig.

  She failed to get the job, the ugly wife saw competition. Besides, she didn’t want him attempting to plant his unsheathed penis into her mouth while she was trying to reorganise the filing cabinet.

  ***

  Her mother had been distraught initially when Malika outlined her plan for the future.

  ‘Mother, it’s what I’m good at. As long as I keep away from drugs, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘It is a sin.’

  ‘It is a sin I have committed many times in the past, and I will look after you.’

  Malika knew that her mother would never accept totally, but she saw no option. She phoned up the managing director with the ugly wife and offered her services to him at a very reasonable price, more out of charity than anything else. As she explained to him later, as they both lay naked on the queen-size bed in the upmarket apartment she had rented, ‘If you have to go home and screw her, the best I can do is offer you a special rate as my first customer on my return.’

  ‘Screw her? Fat chance there is of that,’ he said. He was a decent man who treated Malika well, even if his skills were limited and his belly extended. He was the type of man she would cater to, had catered to in the past before the drugs had gripped her.

  The customers came fast, mainly from referrals. The majority that visited were decent, hard-working and successful men with stressful jobs and non-caring wives.

  She always made it a condition that she would meet a potential client at a restaurant, to ascertain that his manners and etiquette were of a suitable standard. If he failed to pull the seat back for her to sit down, he was rejected. If he burped, passed wind or scoffed his food down, disqualified. Her standards were high, her skills at satisfying her clientele immeasurable and, within six months of taking the apartment, she was at the height of her profession and commanding a substantial fee.

  Some of the men came only for companionship, the opportunity for conversation and a pleasant, relaxing diversion from their normal stresses. Most came for sex, but they all treated her well.

  ***

  Her mother grudgingly accepted the situation and, although she would not visit the apartment, she would sometimes assist in vetting the men. Life had been hard enough for both of the women and, as her mother rationalised, her daughter was coming to no harm.

  Malika, to the world, seemed a balanced and successful woman. There was a decent car in the garage, a small Audi, plenty of clothes in the wardrobe and a fridge full of food. There was only one chink in the armour, her hatred for Oleg.

  She had maintained a passive approach to her clientele. She saw them as friends, no more. The latest man came as a surprise. He picked her up some distance from the apartment. She always kept the address secret, until she was certain the man was worthy of a visit. The green, chauffeur-driven Bentley was like no other car she had been in.

  The black leather, wooden trim and drinks cabinet in the back made her feel as if she was royalty. She reflected as they drove to the restaurant some thirty minutes away, as to the difference between being on her knees giving a blowjob to a disgustingly dirty and smelly Afghan tribesman, to the opulence she felt now.

  The man, who sat to one side of her in the rear seat, was distinguished and handsome with the first signs of ageing. He had heard her mentioned by one of the visitors to his mansion and had decided to try her for himself. He knew he would need to pass a test to be allowed into the inner sanctum of her apartment and her body.

  She knew him by reputation, although he had not given his full name. He said his name was Yusup, although she knew of only one person who owned a Bentley and fitted his description. She knew it was Oleg’s boss, Yusup Baroyev.

  There was no question of relaxing her demanding standards, even for a chance to exact her revenge; but arriving with a Bentley, transporting her in resplendent luxury to the best restaurant and buying the best champagne, Dom Pérignon, was an almost automatic acceptance. His manners were exceptional, his conversation enlightening, his etiquette superb. She arranged to meet him again on the following Wednesday.

  ***

  Dmitry Gubkin had been enjoying the opera that night in Moscow. The performances had been excellent, and his wife had been in a good mood for once. His latest corporate takeover had been a dazzling success, netted him a few million dollars more, but the money and the challenge were small-fry to what he was now involved in. The elite of Moscow society congratulated him on his business acumen and the beautiful wife on his arm.

  She had come courtesy of another successful man, whose business he had crushed. Dmitry knew, the moment he showed failure, she would be off wiggling her arse to some other man. He suspected she was having an affair with a much younger man, a more virile man. He could have employed a private investigator to check. He certainly had the money to hire the best, but he didn’t want to know. Not yet, anyway.

  The thrill of working with Grigory Stolypin had given him a new lease of life. It wasn’t what he had imagined when he first agreed to work with him and his colleagues. He still suspected that, somehow, Stolypin was working outside the mafia code, but he had neither the proof nor the inclination to enquire further. The amounts transporting up through Tajikistan were stable and showed promise for a substantial increase. The money was flowing in, and the number of addicts continued to rise.

  He had ensured that he had been elected to the government committee charged with the control of drug addiction in society. He knew it was a contradiction. He smiled inwardly each time the committee met.

  True to his word, Grigory Stolypin had kept him isolated. The only communication they would commit to was by email and phone. It was proving to be an ideal arrangement.

  It had been during the final thirty minutes of Verdi’s ‘A Masked Ball’ when Dmitry received the text message on his mobile. He had muted it as demanded, not switched it off as required.

  Afghans giving trouble. Demanding a better deal. We need to talk.

  He had learnt that an urgent message did not require an immediate response. Invariably, the problems were easily dealt with if careful consideration was given. It would wait until he arrived back at the substantial house he owned. He would wait until Katerina had gone to bed, although the tablets the doctor had given him were working wonders, and he could have easily visited her in her bedchamber and seduced her for the second time that day. However, business was business, and she would be there later, whereas the Afghans may not.

  ‘Grigory, what’s the problem?’ he asked over the phone from his office.

  ‘They want a better deal, and now the Afghan army is sniffing
around. We need to do something fast.’

  ‘I don’t work like that. That’s why you asked me to take the lead role here,’ Dmitry reminded him.

  ‘Fine, but what do we do?’ Grigory sounded edgy.

  ‘Let’s deal with each item separately,’ said Dmitry. ‘The most pressing issue is the Afghan army.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘We have less control over them. The Afghans’ money demands we can deal with. They were always bound to renege on the initial agreement. We all knew that.’

  ‘The Afghan army are threatening to close down the operation over their side of the border.’

  ‘Why?’ Dmitry asked.

  ‘The usual reasons: abhorrent trade, show the world they’re serious, increased aid money.’

  ‘So, it’s just rhetoric.’

  ‘Maybe, but they’ll do it anyway.’

  ‘Well, there are two options. We either pay them or someone to stop it, or we offer a token compromise.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Grigory asked.

  ‘It’s simple. Someone needs bribing, but the Afghan army and their government want to show they’re serious.’

  ‘How can they do that without closing us down?’

  ‘We get our Afghan colleagues to offer them an alternative target, ensure they find some drugs, slow down the operation for a few weeks while they take the accolades. Let them grab the aid money, then we ramp up to cover the lost time.’

  ‘Can we do that?’ Grigory asked.

  ‘We have no option. Who do you have in Afghanistan?’

  ‘Oleg Yezhov?’

  ‘Do you trust him?’

  ‘Not really, but he’s an opportunist. He’ll do what he’s told.’

  ‘Otherwise?’ Dmitry asked.

  ‘Otherwise, we’ll hand him over to the Afghans. Tell them he was cheating.’

  ‘Okay, gangster’s justice. Get Yezhov on a phone conference. Don’t use my name.’

  ***

  It was two o’clock in the morning when Oleg was woken up from a deep slumber. It had been a long day, and he was glad of the rest. His dream, rudely interrupted, was the same as usual: a woman, exceptionally long-legged and sexually demanding. The ringing of the phone had started just at the moment of climax.

  ‘Fuck!’ he said. ‘Who the hell is phoning at this godforsaken hour?’

  He turned on the bedside lamp and picked up his mobile.

  ‘What do you want?’ he bellowed, not caring who was on the other end.

  ‘Oleg Yezhov, we need to talk to you,’ Dmitry said.

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I am the person who is coordinating this operation.’

  Oleg realised that his previous outburst had been inappropriate. ‘My apologies. It’s early morning. I just woke up cranky.’

  ‘Apology accepted. You are aware of developments where you are?’

  ‘Yes, it was me who passed them on.’

  ‘And what are you planning to do about it?’ Dmitry asked.

  ‘Firstly, we’re planning to go to Kabul to see how we can resolve the bribe situation.’

  ‘That’s fine, but it won’t stop the Afghan army attacking our operation.’

  ‘It will if we talk to the right people down there,’ Oleg said, still anxious to go. Alam had told him about some Chinese prostitutes that were available down there, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could go without a woman.

  ‘We need an agreement with whoever is responsible for the attack, but at a location of our choosing. Can that be arranged?’

  ‘Our Afghan colleagues are planning to do that anyway. They will let the Afghan army show everyone they’re competent and determined, then carry on as normal afterwards.’

  ‘Just make sure it happens,’ Dmitry said.

  ‘And their demands for the extra money? The people we’re dealing with, I mean?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘We’ll deal with that later. First, stop the army interfering.’

  With that, Dmitry and Grigory Stolypin, who had been listening to the call, hung up.

  ‘Dmitry, what do you reckon?’ said Stolypin.

  ‘If he can pull this off, he will have our trust. We will ensure he is given a better deal. Maybe bring him in closer to the operation, maybe into Dushanbe.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ Grigory said.

  Oleg attempted to return to his sleep, but it was impossible. It was a bleary-eyed Russian who greeted Alam on his early morning arrival at the guest house.

  ‘The flight is at nine,’ said Alam. ‘We’ll need to get to the airport early if we want to miss the chaos.’

  ***

  There must be something worse than an internal flight in Afghanistan, aboard a fifty-year-old Russian twin turboprop aeroplane, Oleg thought, but he did not want to experience it. Not only did it spew oil out from the engine casings on the ground and in flight, but it rattled incessantly, and the seat in front of him was either fully upright or collapsed almost onto his lap. The cabin smelled of burnt oil and the people, crushed in tight, were uncommunicative.

  He was a Russian and realised that if some of them knew that fact, there was a distinct possibility that his return to terra firma would have been earlier rather than later and at a speed faster than the forward motion of the plane. He sat quietly, said little and breathed a sigh of relief when the plane finally touched down in Kabul with a bone-shattering thud.

  After that episode, he vowed ‘never again’. However, as Alam explained later, the other option was multiple hours traversing the Salang Pass, risking the bandits, the Taliban and the lunatic drivers. Better your life in the hands of whatever God you pray to for an hour or two, than fifteen, possibly twenty, at a slower speed, but no less dangerous.

  The guest house in Wazir Akbar Khan, the diplomatic area of Kabul, was reasonable, although his house in Kunduz was better. Although Oleg felt comfortable, relaxed and at ease, it was not to last for long. There were people to meet, palms to grease, deals to be made and plans to be formed. The pressing issue was how to defer the impending attack on their operation by the Afghan army.

  ‘Why do I need to be here, Alam? Surely your people could have dealt with this.’

  ‘You are right, but who can you trust? With you, there will be a degree of honesty. Credibility is paramount, and no Afghan will openly admit to being corrupt, especially in front of a fellow Afghan, if there is a foreigner present.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s cultural. In the north, they are Tajiks. Down here, they are mainly Pashtun.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘It’s not a big problem. Your presence will ensure the corruption is moderated, not eliminated, of course.’

  ‘Okay, so who are we going to meet first?’

  ‘The Minister of Defence.’

  ‘Why him?’

  ‘He controls the army.’

  ***

  At ten o’clock the following morning, Oleg and Alam presented themselves to the Minister. A little man with greying hair and a ruddy complexion, he was hardly Oleg’s idea of a senior politician. It mattered little as the man was affable, polite and spoke good Russian.

  ‘I went to school during the occupation,’ said the Minister. ‘If you wanted to do business Russian was vital. Nowadays it is English. The invaders change, but life goes on.’

  ‘Thank you for seeing us,’ Oleg said.

  ‘It is my pleasure to assist our Russian brothers.’

  ‘It is good to meet someone who does not openly despise me.’

  ‘I am a pragmatist. The Russians were not good people, but time moves on. Dwelling on past events does not help anyone, and we Afghans are regrettably too good at remembering the past.’

  ‘It must have been difficult,’ Oleg said.

  ‘Yes, but my family prospered. We kept the Russian army fed; they paid us well. Sometimes, the quality was not so good, but they still paid.’

  ‘We have a problem in the north.’

  ‘Yes
, I am aware that commerce is being impeded between Afghanistan and Russia. This concerns me greatly. We are a poor country and interfering with any commercial venture is non-productive. What can I do to help?’

  Minister Nazif Arsala, the son of a Pashtun father and a Tajik mother, had been born in Kabul. He was an educated man, who realised that a commodity he should condemn was also responsible for a significant proportion of his country’s wealth. He could stamp out the trade, let it flourish, or he could compromise. He chose to compromise, not only because it was better for his country, but because it was personally profitable to him.

  He had no great affection for the Russians, no great animosity either. They had been cruel, heartless and had attempted to subjugate his people. He also recognised that the Afghans were cruel and, with the Taliban gaining in influence, it was better to ensure his family’s well-being in the eventuality that they may need to make a hasty retreat to a more agreeable country.

  Foreign Aid money was all very well, but there was only so much that a politician could syphon off, even a politician as skilled as he was. If he had been questioned as to whether it was right or wrong that taxpayers’ money, mainly Westerner taxpayers’ money, was being diverted to his and his cronies’ pockets, he would have replied that it was only fair.

  Afghanistan had not asked the foreign invaders to come to the country to loot and plunder and wage war, but they came anyway. If they wanted to hand out compensation to ease their consciences, then it was not for him to criticise. Life was tough, he would have told them and taking a little off the top for expenses was neither criminal nor corrupt. It was the way it had always been, and those who had not learnt that lesson were out on the street looking for a handout. Let the foreigners deal with the handouts; he had a family to provide for, and they were more important.

  ‘Are you able to assist in ensuring the impact on our business will be minimal?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘I cannot see how. I am aware there are activities in the north of my country, which are abhorrent,’ the Minister said. Oleg recognised a lie when he heard it.