‘It’s a free country. I can choose where I want to be.’
‘In Tajikistan, that would not be true. In this godforsaken place, free is not the word I would use, and surely you don’t want to stay here. I assume Ahmad Ghori does not throw parties in the same manner that Yusup does.’
The conversation was not going well. Oleg excused himself and went to talk to Alam. Farrukh sent an SMS to Yusup Baroyev.
Oleg Yezhov is the Russian mafia’s representative in Kunduz.
The response was predictable.
Ensure he does not leave Afghanistan.
The message was confusing. Have I been given carte blanche to kill him? How will the Afghans react? Farrukh thought. Will they let me go free and thank me for removing one more Russian from their country? His people are providing them with some serious money. He resolved to talk to Yusup further once he had ascertained how the negotiating was to progress.
The banquet was long and tiring, and Oleg was glad to go back to his home. Ten minutes after he arrived, when he was preparing for bed, there was a knock on the gate that secured the house from the outside world. Farrukh stood there hoping to gain entry.
‘What do you want?’ Oleg asked in a curt, offhand manner.
‘We need to talk.’
‘I don’t see there is much for us to talk about. You are up in Dushanbe, living in my apartment, driving my car and no doubt screwing my women.’
‘None of them are yours. They all belong to Yusup.’
‘What are you here for then?’
‘I can remember being stuck in that village with no hope of reprieve,’ said Farrukh. ‘I know that you spoke to Yusup, argued my case for me to be relocated to Dushanbe. I have no bitterness towards you.’
‘That may well be, but now we are on opposite sides.’
‘It appears that we’ve been given a rough deal, although mine is immeasurably improved,’ said Farrukh. ‘It is, however, still dependent on the caprice of Yusup Baroyev. Tomorrow, I could be hanging over a termite nest, so could you. Let us keep our apparent animosity in check until we conclude our negotiations with Ahmad Ghori. Then we can meet and see if there is any common ground that is mutually beneficial.’ It had been a good speech. Farrukh hoped that Oleg had been convinced of his goodwill, insincere as it was.
The men parted on good terms. Oleg had not believed a word of what he’d said. He still intended to take his car back. As to Farrukh, he could go to hell.
***
Ahmad Ghori was direct when he met with Oleg the next day.
‘We are taking all the risk, yet you are taking all the money.’
‘My understanding is that there was a contract signed.’
‘What is the worth of a contract when your people did not tell us all the facts?’
‘What facts are these that you mention?’
‘We were not aware of the massive profits you are making once our product reaches Russia – and now, we are led to believe, into Europe. It may be best if we strike a deal with Farrukh, who we know and trust.’
Ghori did not trust Farrukh and Yusup Baroyev any more than the Russians. It was purely the opening salvo in a drawn-out and lengthy negotiation.
‘You dealt with Baroyev before. You know he cannot move the quantity,’ said Oleg.
‘He assures us he can.’
‘But how? Have you asked him for details? I know his operation. I know he cannot do what he says.’
‘He can take the quantity from us and sell it to you.’
‘We would not buy.’
‘Oleg Yezhov, do not treat me like a fool. I know that all Russians see us as ignorant savages, but we know you well. We have had experience of Russians in the past. Baroyev and his people have never invaded our country, slaughtered our men and raped our women.’
‘That is not my generation,’ Oleg protested.
‘What does it matter? Russians do not change.’
The meeting had not gone well. Ghori had been dismissive, almost rude, yet he had not explained the compromises he was looking for.
***
Dmitry Gubkin was equally baffled when Oleg relayed the details of the meeting to him.
‘But what does he hope to gain?’ asked Dmitry. ‘We’re giving them plenty of money.’
‘It is unclear,’ Oleg replied. ‘I came here to ensure the merchandise was being shipped and that quality was maintained, not to enter into commercial discussions with the Afghans.’
‘That is true, but it would serve no useful purpose for anyone else to come down there.’
‘I will continue with the discussions and update you. It may be that they want more money, and Baroyev will never be able to match us in quantity shipped.’
‘It’s probably no more than that,’ said Dmitry. ‘And remember, Baroyev is to be taught a lesson.’
‘I will deal with his representative.’
Dmitry Gubkin’s statement that he would not come to Afghanistan was obvious. His name was known to Grigory Stolypin and a few others. He had been behind the scenes setting up the deal with the Afghans, and he was aware that they were treacherous and not to be trusted. The drugs flowing into Russia in greater quantities aligned well with Stolypin’s initial premise and, with the special rates on heroin, the number of addicts in the country that Gubkin felt great patriotism for continued to rise.
‘Once hooked,’ Stolypin had said, ‘we raise the price.’
Shipments onward from Russia and into Eastern Europe and even further west showed a steady increase. Dmitry saw the challenge and the money and embraced both with ardour. It was clear that the risk to his person and his reputation was also exacerbated. Entering into an auction with the Afghans, maybe even the Taliban, enhanced the likelihood of exposure dramatically.
***
With the phone conversation to Afghanistan concluded, Dmitry Gubkin focused on another issue that troubled him greatly.
It had been at a visit to the Bolshoi Ballet, a performance of ‘Swan Lake’, that he had seen the first signs. He had always known that Katerina, his wife, was an adornment. She was there to make him look good, and he to make her rich. It was an arrangement that had served him well for five years. In that time, he had often suspected her of a younger lover, but he had never taken the time to pursue a resolution. With his business-related activities to deal with, as well as sitting on the board of several leading companies in the country, he had let his suspicions pass. Then there was the patronage of several well-known charities to consider. He was a busy man; a wayward wife was a distraction he did not want to think about.
Anton Davydov, a family friend of long standing, was twenty years younger than Dmitry and in his late thirties. He had become recently widowed after his wife, Maria, had succumbed to a long-fought battle with cancer. He was an attractive man, almost as tall as Dmitry, and possessed great wealth. He was old money and generous to a fault. Dmitry liked him immensely and, judging by the touching hands during a break in the ballet, so did Katerina. The hand touching, the smiling and the glancing eyes were clearly not those of friends.
He suspected they were lovers. He was almost sure of it, as she had been late home one night from a friend’s house, supposedly, and he had seen her exit Davydov’s car. She had brushed it off, said he had just popped up at the friend’s door, and she had taken the opportunity to accept a lift home. At the time, he had accepted her statement. Anton was a decent man, a friend; Katerina, a woman he had bought, but somehow trusted.
It weighed heavily on his mind, and he knew that, in business, a clear mind was paramount. He needed to ask her, although he did not want to. An answer in the affirmative would have troubled him greatly.
***
Farrukh’s meeting with Ahmad Ghori had not gone as well as expected. The Afghan had been direct with him, as he had been previously with Oleg.
‘The Russians take a considerable quantity,’ he said.
‘We will match them.’ Farrukh was surprised to see the man so unplea
sant when at the banquet he had been hospitable and friendly.
‘That’s impossible,’ said Ghori. ‘You have neither the distribution channels nor the money.’
‘Yusup Baroyev assures me we have.’
‘I will need to see a firm proposal of how you intend to achieve this and who your customers will be.’
‘Our customers are confidential.’
‘Do not treat me like a fool as the Russians do,’ Ghori replied angrily.
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Farrukh. ‘But even I am not aware of what happens to the merchandise after it leaves Tajikistan.’
‘Then let me tell you.’ Ahmad Ghori straightened himself up from the reclining, disinterested position that he had previously adopted. ‘You sell it to other members of the Russian mafia.’
‘That is what I suspected.’
‘So what is the point of selling to you, even talking to you?’
‘We are of the same blood. We are Tajiks.’
‘This is business we are talking about here, not tribal issues and certainly not family.’
‘The Russians are our enemy,’ Farrukh said.
‘I would kill them with pleasure,’ Ghori replied, ‘but they have the money, and we have need of it.’
Farrukh’s meeting had not gone any better than Oleg’s. Yusup Baroyev spoke in detail as to his plan when Farrukh phoned to update.
‘He’s right, of course. Our only customer is the Russian mafia,’ said Yusup.
‘But they won’t deal with us. They’ve cut us out so far,’ replied Farrukh.
‘Why not?’
‘They have the business sewn up.’
‘Why do you say this? You spent too much time in that village. You’re out of touch with the reality.’
‘Are you saying, if I manage to secure a deal, the Russian mafia will be forced to make another deal with us?’ asked Farrukh.
‘Precisely. I’m already in initial discussions. We are not finished yet. You conclude a deal and then we’re back in business, even bigger than before. We’ll have a party to celebrate, with some new women, unless you’ve fallen in love with the woman you’re living with.’
‘Love, yes, but one of your parties? I’ll be available.’ Farrukh said.
Chapter 14
Yusup Baroyev was in an upbeat mood. The second meeting at Malika’s apartment had gone well, and they had slept together. They complemented each other’s personalities and needs. It would not be long before she became his mistress. Her mother was pleased and sad at the same time. She was no longer selling herself as a common prostitute, but she was unmarried and committing sin with a known gangster and married man.
Malika had told her this was, to her, an ideal arrangement and she felt a great fondness for the man. He enjoyed her company and, on many occasions, they would not have sex, but would talk and laugh and discuss current affairs and art. With time on her hands, she took the time to revitalise her education. A bright, above average student in her youth, it had taken a little time for the brain to kick into gear. Yusup paid all the bills and ensured she was picked up and dropped off at the college whenever she wanted.
It had been a few weeks into their relationship when, in a particularly candid moment for both of them, she told him all about her past, the successful life as an escort, the drop into despair and how she ended up in a drug smugglers’ village. She told him of how she knew Oleg Yezhov. She mentioned her previous fondness for him and how he had reacted when he found her with another man. She told him of the killing and the beating she received and the eye he had destroyed.
Yusup had known the story of how Oleg Yezhov had come to kill an Afghan, and how his weakness had cost him a considerable amount in lost revenue. He had not known the woman and had assumed she was just another whore of no consequence. He was initially shocked when she told him.
She explained how her fondness had turned to hatred; how that hatred had forced her to leave the village to find her mother and to rid herself finally of drugs.
‘He saved me,’ she said, ‘but I hate him. I wish him dead.’
Yusup Baroyev had already decided, before her telling him the story, that Oleg Yezhov was a dead man walking. He would now kill him for her as well. He had not known for certain where he was until Farrukh had told him.
He would need to contact Farrukh and countermand his instructions. He, Yusup Baroyev, would personally deal with Oleg Yezhov’s death.
***
Trade had resumed after the Afghan army raid, and the post-raid levels were even higher than before. Grigory Stolypin was pleased with how seamlessly it worked. The Afghans were loading at the new compound in an adequate manner, the packages concealed in a shipment of minerals from a copper mine in the north of the country, or a sheep container strapped to the soft underbelly of a sheep, carefully located in the most inaccessible part of the truck’s restraining pen.
The animals were left in the sun for a couple of days, with adequate food. The smell of urine and faeces was overpowering. Only the most ardent of border guards and customs officials would have investigated with any zeal and none had any of that virtue, although some did have crisp American dollars for their negligence.
Bandits had attempted an attack on a truck moving up to the border on the Afghan side. They had waited, hidden behind some rocks on a rising bend when the truck, labouring as they always did due to poor maintenance and chronic overloading, was at its slowest, no more than a walking pace.
They had come out, fast and determined, brandishing Kalashnikovs and making threatening noises. They had failed to notice the two men sitting in the cabin of the truck armed and, compared to the bandits, professional. The bandits’ bravado soon dissipated when the first and, apparently, the bravest or the most foolhardy, was cut down with a burst of rapid fire from the AK-47 that Ashkan, a former Afghan army conscript and subsequent deserter, carried.
Sensing the situation was precarious, and none being brave nor foolhardy, the remaining bandits, six in total, made a dash down the sloping ridge the truck was crawling up and attempted to get away. One did, the other five did not.
After that particular incident, the number of bandit attacks reduced dramatically. Sometimes, the trucks even dispensed with the guards after Alam, on instruction from Ahmad Ghori, had made a deal with the largest bandit gang.
‘You protect our convoys, we’ll pay you a retainer,’ he had said to Azad, a fierce-looking man who claimed to be their leader. He was a rogue who professed piety to his God, yet that did not prevent him from abusing his children, especially his teenage daughters, and hitting his two wives at the slightest provocation. He was illiterate, uncouth and a loud-mouth who bragged to all about his exploits fighting the invaders, Russian and American, and how many he had killed in single combat.
Alam knew him for what he was and that he would have been no more than ten years of age when the last Russian had exited the country. Those he bragged to either did not know that he consistently lied or, as was more likely, did not care. The abuser of little children ‒ girls mainly ‒ and hitter of women, still provided for an extended group of one hundred people, if the bandits’ families were included.
It was a meagre assistance he provided, but in a country where one dollar American was regarded as an average daily wage, even if there was work, the three to four that he managed to provide seemed like a fortune. The bandit leader received one hundred a day to protect the convoys. After giving five a day to each of his ten bandits, that still left fifty for him. He was illiterate, but the trucks were making him rich. In another six months, he could see an extended house, another wife to hit and two hundred more goats that would give milk and feed the family.
***
Once the border into Tajikistan was crossed, the trucks moved north along a good and sealed road. There had been one incident when the policeman charged with stopping all vehicles to check for registration and contraband had failed to receive his regular payment.
The truck drivers
carried no money for bribes, and the policeman had been difficult, until a phone call to the police commissioner in Dushanbe, who phoned his commander down where the incident was occurring. Then, another phone call from the local commander to the policeman, telling him to stop causing trouble or else he’d be confined to somewhere so remote, he would wonder which country he was in. Typically, the police went through the motions, looked official, occasionally asked a few questions and then waved the vehicle through.
After reaching Dushanbe, several different transportation methods were utilised. Either a truck all the way up to Kazakhstan and then through Uzbekistan into Russia, or sometimes a person would carry some on a train. Commercial flights were occasionally used if the airport and airline officials were corrupt and open to a bribe.
Intelligence gathering was vital and, in Russia, there was barely a problem, but Kazakhstan could sometimes prove difficult. Eighty-five to ninety per cent of all shipments were making it through to market and, considering the quantity of the shipments, it was a good result. Any shortfalls in revenue could be made up by the end-user, the drug addict, who would find the extra money, one way or the other.
To Grigory and his mafia brethren, how they obtained the money concerned them little, as long as they found it.
However, it still concerned Dmitry Gubkin, as the Chairman of the Committee for the Rehabilitation of Former Drug Addicts in Moscow. The contradiction so extreme, that he had learnt long ago to separate his public persona from his criminal bent.
In a meeting, or when making a speech, he would espouse abhorrence at the demon drug. ‘The scourge of our young people...’ Then, five minutes later, he would be on the phone to Grigory questioning why shipments were down, what was the current rate on the street for a gramme of heroin and what was he doing to bring the price up.
Gubkin was a complicated man who felt he was losing his edge. The situation with his wife continued to trouble him. Finally, she had admitted that she was in love with Anton Davydov and that she intended to leave and to marry her younger lover, who could give her children while he, Dmitry Gubkin, was impotent and infertile. He had decided to talk to Grigory for a solution.
Malika's Revenge: A Powerful Mix for a Complex Noir Novel. An Organized Crime Thriller - not for the faint-hearted Page 17