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

by Phillip Strang

  ***

  It was on the return trip into Kunduz that Oleg asked Alam about a subject that worried him.

  ‘What do you do for women here?’

  ‘This is not Kabul,’ replied Alam. ‘There are no Chinese whores here.’

  ‘I realise that, but men are men. There must be some opportunities?’

  ‘I am not sure if I should tell you.’

  ‘I would appreciate it if you could.’

  ‘There are some local women, abandoned wives, young girls who do what is necessary to survive.’

  ‘Am I able to meet them, or are they shunned in society?’

  ‘I will see what I can do for you. And, yes, they are shunned.’

  Satisfied with Alam’s answer, Oleg returned to the primary reason for his being in Afghanistan.

  ‘When will I meet with the chief person in Kunduz?’ His only contact so far had been Alam and briefly, Ali Mowllah in Kabul. However, although Alam had been accommodating, almost friendly, it was clear that he served as a dependable lieutenant, no more.’

  ‘Soon. Baroyev’s representative is coming here in the next week.’

  ***

  With some time to spare before Farrukh’s arrival, Oleg and Alam busied themselves checking the bill of quantities for the merchandise leaving the country and ensuring they aligned with the recorded amounts in Dushanbe. Oleg had to admit that, as chaotic as it looked, the Afghan side of the operation proved to be efficient.

  ‘They run a tight operation down here,’ Oleg said to his contact in Dushanbe.

  ‘We thought they did. Has the issue with the army been resolved?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I assume it cost a substantial amount,’ the man in Dushanbe asked.

  ‘That would be the case.’

  ‘What’s next?’

  ‘Baroyev’s representative is coming down soon.’

  ‘We’re aware of that. He’s trying to re-establish himself, take our share of the business.’

  ‘We’re not going to let him, are we?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I will represent our side?’

  ‘Yes, and unless something unforeseen comes up, you can deal with it.’

  ‘And if it gets complicated?’

  ‘I’ll come down, but it’s an arsehole of a place. It’s yours for the time being.’

  ‘Thank you. How much longer do I have to stay here?’

  ‘Until we are confident that the business is secure, and we trust you.’

  ‘I can be trusted,’ Oleg said. There was a glimmer that he could get out and back to civilisation.

  ‘That may be the case, but you worked for Baroyev. How do we know you are not in contact with him?’

  ‘Baroyev would have me killed if given the opportunity,’ said Oleg.

  ‘Maybe, but we’ll deal with Baroyev when the time is right,’ said the man. ‘Do you understand his operation?’

  ‘Not totally, but I’ve a fair idea,’ Oleg replied.

  ‘That may be advantageous. We may have a place up here for you. Fix up the situation with the Afghans and then come back to Dushanbe.’

  The conversation with Oleg in Kunduz was quickly relayed to Dmitry Gubkin via Grigory Stolypin. He was in agreement with what had been discussed.

  ‘Oleg Yezhov may be to our advantage,’ said Dmitry. ‘We only need to remove Baroyev and then we will have no competition – or, at least, no viable competition.’

  ‘Are we discussing liquidating Yusup Baroyev?’ said Stolypin.

  ‘Any problems from your side?’ Dmitry asked.

  ‘Not from my side, but taking out a prominent member of Tajik society may cause some issues.’

  ‘I’ll think that through,’ Dmitry said. ‘We may have to discredit him first.’

  ***

  The situation in Kunduz had become tense. What had been started by the Afghans to put pressure on the Russians to front up with more money was being complicated by Yusup Baroyev.

  Ahmad Ghori, the local government minister in Kunduz, was reluctant initially, but he could see the wisdom of playing the Russians and the Tajik drug lord against each other. He would have preferred not to have become directly involved in the discussions, as he was still a senior politician in the region and a possible future key player within the central government in Kabul.

  Outwardly, he portrayed the competent and non-corruptible leader of society, while secretly acting as the senior member of an Afghan consortium trading in heroin. It was a knife edge, and he was not pleased, but there was no alternative. He had to take control. Otherwise, Noorzai, the Taliban leader, would assert his aggressive manner onto the proceedings and, without a doubt, ruin all the good work he had done.

  Farrukh had arrived in the city and was staying in a reasonable hotel close to the centre. He did not want to be there. His apartment, the car, his woman Negareh suited him fine, and the occasional party at Yusup’s mansion pleased him no end.

  His boss had been insistent on his crossing of the border.

  ‘Get down there and find out what’s going on. We can’t let the Russians come marching in and take our livelihood.’

  ‘But what can we do?’ Farrukh had said. ‘The quantities they are moving are much larger than we’ve been able to sell.’

  ‘Find out what’s going on,’ Yusup had said. ‘Isolate the Russians and then we’ll strike a deal with them to move it to the border with Kazakhstan, as we did before.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? We can’t just sit here and watch our business go down the drain.’

  Reluctantly, Farrukh had crossed the border and headed down to Kunduz. He decided to take the Mercedes. The Afghans had agreed to a vehicle to follow him at all times and to protect it with their lives.

  ‘The Russians have someone down there in Kunduz. It could be Oleg,’ Farrukh had reminded Yusup.

  ‘If you don’t fix this up, you’ll be down there permanently with him. If it is Yezhov, then you can deal with him as well.’

  Yusup Baroyev’s concerns were all too real. After the events of Oleg and the killing of the Afghan over the whore, operations in the drug smugglers’ village had virtually come to a standstill until a replacement had been found. He had proved to be not as good as Farrukh, not even as good as Oleg, and the Tajik drug lord was starting to feel some minor constraints on his lifestyle.

  He had not forgiven Oleg for abandoning his position and an excuse such as detained due to killing someone held no weight with him. To a wayward employee, he was the devil incarnate, and Oleg had committed an error of judgement, which had left him exposed.

  ***

  Ahmad Ghori occupied a large two-storey building close to the centre of Kunduz. It had been built in the last few years and, whereas not as impressive as his country estate, it was impressive nonetheless.

  Farrukh’s welcome was in stark contrast to the first time he had met the prominent Afghan. Then, he had been in fear of his life, but now – it was as if he were a long-lost relative returning.

  Najibullah had met Farrukh on his arrival in the city and had taken personal responsibility to look after him and the magnificent car parked outside, with a guard at each corner of it holding a loaded rifle. It wasn’t the first Mercedes to be seen in Kunduz, but it was certainly the most impressive and the guards were fully occupied keeping the people and their hands off it. They had even been forced to slap a few hard around the face, but so far no one had been killed. Farrukh regretted bringing it, but it was too late now.

  ‘Farrukh, we have a problem for which I hope you have a solution,’ Ahmad Ghori said, as he reclined in an immensely plush black leather chair.

  ‘It is disturbing that our business has suffered.’ Farrukh had chosen to wear a shalwar kameez in deference to local custom. Ahmad Ghori wore a navy suit with a white shirt and a black tie.

  ‘It is your business that has suffered, not ours,’ Ghori said.

 
‘That is true. I only hope we can realign our interests.’

  ‘So do I, but it is us who hold the strength. I am not sure that you can compete with the Russians, but I am willing to let you try.’

  Ghori puffed on a large cigar. He was a man who felt comfortable with himself and the position he held in both the government and the community. He also felt exceedingly comfortable that two criminal organisations were vying for his business. He knew someone would pay well, probably both.

  ‘Why do you deal with the invaders? We are brothers. It is us you should deal with,’ Farrukh said. He knew, as an opening ploy, it was weak, but it was all he had at the present moment. Until he had seen the Russian’s man and ascertained his style of negotiating, he was at a disadvantage.

  ‘Farrukh, your argument is valid, but you know my reply.’

  ‘That business is business. Politics and past history are another matter.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tonight I will lay on a banquet. You will be present, as will the Russian representative.’

  ‘Have you met him?’ Farrukh asked.

  ‘Not yet, but I am told he is competent. We will meet him together. It may be possible that the two of you can come to an agreement that is beneficial to all parties.’

  ‘I see that as unlikely, but I will meet with him as you have requested,’ Farrukh said.

  Chapter 13

  Yusup Baroyev had satisfied Malika’s requirements. He had found her delightful; she had found him magnificent. Their second meeting allowed him to visit at her apartment.

  It was an unlikely pairing, a former whore from a drug smugglers’ village and an urbane businessman.

  He arrived at the apartment, not in the Bentley, but a more modest car, almost inconspicuous. The bodyguard he usually travelled with maintained a cautionary distance, watching for any sign of trouble. He was a man who had been targeted before, two assassination attempts at the last count and a bullet wound in the arm from a rival he had put out of business.

  Tonight, it was clear to the guard that all was calm.

  Malika had dressed elegantly in a long gown made of silk, a pearl necklace around her neck. The tattoos, so abhorrent to Oleg, had mellowed, barely distinguishable. The complexion, hard and blotched in the village due to the drugs and the infrequent intake of any quality food, had blossomed, and she showed the look of the healthy, vibrant person she had become. Her legs were long and slim and her hair, flowing and lustrous. She had made a special effort for this customer, a man she genuinely liked.

  Her mother, now reluctantly accustomed to her daughter’s unusual lifestyle, had decorated the apartment with flowers and had ensured that the kitchen was well-stocked with the best food money could buy.

  It was fortunate that Malika could afford what she wanted, and it was increasingly rare that she thought back to that night, when the mad Russian had killed another man and almost killed her. She did not know what had become of him, nor did she care. The eye patch she wore, one of several, was specially made by a man close to the centre of the town. It had become a fashion statement to her and not an encumbrance. Her damaged eye had a tendency to look off centre from the other, and some people felt uncomfortable looking her straight in the face without staring.

  Her neighbours in the apartment block, successful business leaders and their wives, took no notice of the men entering her apartment. No one asked and no one pried. She had even spent a pleasant evening in the next door neighbour’s apartment, discussing history with him and pottery with his wife. Her past and her story were never raised, although the wife did ask about the tattoos.

  ‘A moment of wildness in my youth,’ Malika had said, and the subject was left to rest.

  ***

  Yusup knocked on the door at the agreed time. Malika hesitated to rush and open it. He had brought her flowers, a bottle of the finest champagne and a selection of wines from his extensive cellar. The dining room table had been laid, and there was a meal in the oven. She wasn’t sure if it was appropriate, but he said that he appreciated the thought.

  He spoke of his happy childhood and growing up in a rural village with little money. She talked about her father and her mother and the good upbringing she had enjoyed. Neither spoke in detail of their subsequent lives.

  He told her how he had risen from an apprentice at the age of sixteen in a building company, up to being a man of significance in the country. She never mentioned her time in a drug smugglers’ village, or how she came to lose an eye, other than to say it was an accident. They spoke of life, love, history and a myriad of other things, but not once did he attempt to touch her. He had held her hand and gently kissed her, but never once did he indicate a move to the bedroom.

  It was early in the morning of the next day when he finally left. The champagne had been consumed and, at least, three bottles of the vintage wines he had brought. As he left, he gave her a long and lingering passionate kiss, the first sign of overt sexual emotion during the whole night.

  She had found a man who had treated her like no other, a man she was drawn to both sexually and emotionally. He felt a calmness with her that he had not felt for many years. Yusup realised on leaving that his wife was a fine woman, but she had become cold and indifferent. The whores at his parties were fun, but conversationally they were bereft. He was not sure why he did not make love to Malika. She was available and paid for, but he was glad he had not.

  They agreed to meet the following week at a restaurant close to her apartment. They both saw it as a date, but he would still ensure she received her money.

  ***

  Dmitry Gubkin was a worried man. The meeting was in Kunduz; he was in Moscow, relying on people he did not know. He was not sure that the Afghans could be totally trusted, although he knew of Oleg Yezhov and his history: the extortion in St. Petersburg and the issue with the KGB. He also knew that he had previously worked for Yusup Baroyev, the gangster in Tajikistan. It was hardly a glowing reference for someone entrusted with such responsibility.

  Grigory Stolypin had been right in that Dmitry Gubkin’s vanity would force him to join with his mafia brethren. He hadn’t told Dmitry that they did not have clear authority from their senior leadership. They were running a risk that, ultimately, he hoped Dmitry would be able to resolve.

  Dmitry saw a dangerous precedent was being set in Kunduz, where Baroyev’s man would meet with their man in what appeared increasingly to be an auction. One would win, and the other would probably die before the full details were revealed to the losing party. He had to ensure his man won. There was no way he could go to Kunduz; there was no advantage if he did. But one way or the other, he needed to control the outcome.

  He phoned Stolypin. ‘Grigory, this is not going well.’

  ‘Dmitry, I realise that. The Afghans were always going to give us trouble, and now Baroyev is breathing down our necks. What do we do?’

  ‘We stack the odds in our favour.’

  ‘But how? We’re not down there. It’s up to Yezhov.’

  ‘Can Baroyev’s man seriously impact on what we’ve set up?’ Dmitry asked.

  ‘It seems unlikely, although he is known to the Afghans.’

  ‘Will they be swayed by a friendly relationship?’

  ‘Probably not, but it will help,’ Grigory replied.

  ‘How can Baroyev offer them the same money? He was only shipping small quantities compared to us.’

  ‘That’s true, but he could reclaim the transportation up to Kazakhstan and force us to deal with him.’

  ‘It’s what I’d suggest if I were Baroyev’s man.’ Dmitry agreed with the wisdom of Grigory’s statement. ‘One thing’s certain,’ he added. ‘His man must never return to Tajikistan.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Oleg Yezhov must kill him.’

  ‘The Afghans will string Oleg up if they know.’

  ‘Then, they must never know. Tell Yezhov the situation.’

  It had not been necessary for anyon
e to inform Oleg as to what was required of him. As he arrived for the banquet, albeit reluctantly, he saw the Mercedes ‒ his Mercedes ‒ parked outside with a disruptive group of men aiming to stretch their necks to peer inside. He resolved that the car would have a different driver on the return trip to Tajikistan.

  ***

  ‘Oleg, I did not expect to see you,’ Farrukh said when they first met.

  ‘Still driving my car?’ Oleg replied in a sarcastic manner.

  It was not a good start to the evening for either of the two men at the function organised in their honour.

  Ahmad Ghori was seated at the head of the table. It was the first time of meeting him for Oleg, the third for Farrukh.

  ‘Farrukh, it is good to see you again. I hope we can see more of you while you are here in our country.’ Ahmad Ghori’s welcome seemed disproportionate to Oleg, considering the reduced amount of business that was being directed Yusup Baroyev’s way. Oleg assumed it was a ploy by Ghori to disarm the Russians, especially him, into thinking that Farrukh and his people were welcome bidders.

  ‘Oleg Yezhov, this is our first meeting,’ said Ghori. ‘I hope your stay in our country has been to your liking.’ Ghori was more formal with him. Oleg was not sure if it was a typical response, or whether it had been planned. Regardless, he resolved to enjoy the evening and, if possible, talk in a cordial manner to Farrukh, who he blamed for his current predicament.

  It was to be some hours before the opportunity presented itself.

  ‘How long have you been in the country?’ Farrukh asked.

  ‘A few weeks,’ Oleg replied.

  ‘You are working for the Russian mafia now?’

  ‘It appears that way, yes.’

  ‘Business good?’ Farrukh asked.

  ‘Yes, how about you?’

  ‘It’s fine, about to get better.’

  ‘It would be best if we worked together on this,’ Oleg said.

  ‘I’m not sure how we can. Besides, Yusup will be displeased to see you here.’