She had spent the first sixteen years of her life struggling with a father who had abused her physically as a child, sexually as a teenager when her breasts attained a prominence, and her thighs expanded, barely contained by the school uniform that she wore every day. There was always a man abusing her and, by the age of seventeen, she knew how to work the system. They wanted something. She wanted something in return. A phone when she was a teenager, a car later on, maybe a trip somewhere, but her father took her for free.
Her mother had been no help; a former prostitute, who had walked the streets before the marriage to her father and still did occasionally, when the electricity needed paying or a meal needed to be put on the table that night. It was not a good upbringing and, at the age of eighteen, Valentina left the house and married a foolish man of nineteen who had genuinely loved her.
For fifteen years she laboured for him, bearing him two children – a daughter, bright and precocious, and a son, the spitting image of her father and there was every indication that he would grow up to be an abuser of his own children, especially the females. She tried to love him as a son, but could not. The daughter she took from the family house one day, after finding the son attempting to force the daughter to suck on his penis. They never returned and, whereas she had struggled for some years, she never regretted the decision.
There had been a few men before the civil servant, of varying wealth and means and her daughter had wanted for nothing. Her daughter had married at the age of twenty, to a good and honest businessman who treated her well and for whom her daughter felt great affection.
The son, she knew little of his fate, other than he had become involved with crime and was in and out of jail with alarming regularity.
The civil servant had been suitable, but her demands and his new boss, a boorish man with old-fashioned ideas of honesty and fair-dealing, had squeezed his skilful ability to extract the necessary corrupt amounts of money to keep her satisfied.
He had informed her one summer’s day when she had just returned from giving her poodle a nice walk in the park, that he could no longer afford her and that it was over. The rent on the apartment was due in two weeks, and he was not going to pay. Indignant at his affront, she hit him squarely between the eyes with a jewel-encrusted hand and kicked him out of the apartment.
***
Desperation had forced Valentina to the bar to find someone else. The accountant had seemed ideal. He had been pleased with her company, enamoured that someone so beautiful could appreciate his limited conversation, focused as it was on money and taxation laws. His wife did not understand him. They all say that, she thought.
She seduced him that night at her apartment. The rent was paid the next week, and Gennady Denikin was hooked.
He was to have a similar problem as the civil servant. Her demands were to escalate; the previously luxurious apartment was no longer luxurious enough, the poodle needed a companion, and there was another round of fashion events for her to attend, in some exorbitantly expensive capital city in Europe, and he would have to pay.
Adept at maintaining two sets of books – or two sets of databases, as they were stored on a computer – he had managed to syphon off the necessary money to keep her passionate and willing. The poodle sitting at the end of the bed did nothing for his performance, complicated as it was by Valentina and her obligatory sounds of orgasmic joy. He was not sure they were genuine.
Denikin soon came to see it as a farce, but his wife, purse-lipped and stringent with her sexual favours, had given him no option. It was either Valentina, with her excessive financial demands, or some tart on a street corner, but he had never felt the inclination or the courage to approach them and ask how much.
Unable to double-dip the accounts at work or at least as much as was necessary, he became careless. An independent financial audit of his department’s accounts showed his guilt with no hope of a mistake on their part. At the resultant trial, embarrassing in the extreme, his wife, in desperation, had stood up and announced to the assembled throng that Gennady Denikin was a waster, and she wanted no more of him. She made it clear at the divorce that, if he wanted to see his two children, she would fight him through the courts to stop him.
Ten years in prison, but out in five for good behaviour and with no prospects, he looked a hopeless case. He soon drifted into petty crime, handling the books for an illegal gambling operation in Moscow. His skill soon elevated him from petty to minor to major, until Grigory Stolypin had recognised his talents and brought him on board.
Denikin’s redemption with Stolypin and the mafia had been swift. However, whereas he may have cheated others once, he would not cheat them.
***
‘It’s not safe here in Dushanbe for me,’ Oleg said to Denikin at one of their regular meetings.
Viktor Gryzlov, Denikin’s bodyguard, stood close – too close for Oleg’s liking. Gryzlov was a bear of a man; the sleeves of his suit looked as though they would split when he flexed his muscles, as he was apt to do. He had an annoying habit of cracking the joints in his fingers and his neck. Oleg saw it as intimidation. He had known some tough men in his time, but this one stood out from the majority.
To see Denikin and Gryzlov from the rear was akin to a silent movie, with Denikin not even reaching the shoulders of his permanent shadow, and then the hat that Gryzlov never took off added another fifteen centimetres to his height. Gryzlov said little, Denikin said plenty.
‘You wanted to come here,’ Denikin reminded Oleg.
‘That was before I knew that Baroyev was after me.’ Oleg had purposefully kept quiet about Malika.
‘Did you expect him to welcome you back with a bunch of roses after you swapped sides?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then stop complaining and get on with your job. We have to deal with Yusup Baroyev at some point. When the time comes, you can have that pleasure.’ Gryzlov nodded approval of violence in the future.
‘Okay, then what do you want from me?’ asked Oleg.
‘We want you to ensure the goods are transferred through the region. That’s not too difficult, is it?’
‘No, but you will have to update me on the details.’
‘I’ll ensure they are given to you.’
‘And then?’
‘I will go back to Russia.’
‘I wish I could go,’ Oleg said.
‘Will you ever stop moaning?’ Viktor Gryzlov rarely spoke, but when he did, at least to Oleg, it was direct and unpleasant. Oleg felt it appropriate to stop talking about his woes and to focus on business.
‘Who do I need to meet to ensure the business flows freely?’ he asked.
‘Just about every damn politician, senior military man and senior policeman,’ Denikin replied.
‘That will take forever.’
‘I was talking figuratively. We just need to make sure they hold up their side of the agreement.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’
‘We will either make them see the error of their ways, or we’ll arrange a little accident.’
‘Do you expect many of them?’
‘There will be some, already have been.’
‘You’re not expecting me to be responsible for the accident?’ Oleg asked. He had killed too often and, each time, he said it would be the last. But then again, someone inquisitive, someone in the wrong place at the wrong time and another death... The gym attendant had not concerned him greatly. He just hoped he hadn’t been seen.
‘If needed, then either you do it, or you get someone else to do it. Do you see any problems?’ Denikin asked.
‘No, that’s fine.’
***
The party at Yusup’s mansion, the highlight of Farrukh’s week, was as promised. It was a rip-roaring affair of exceedingly beautiful and compliant women, a smattering of politicians ‒ senior, mainly ‒ and a good cross-section of the most successful businessmen in Tajikistan. There was only one rule: no business was to be discussed.
Yusup had been annoyed that Ahmad Ghori, who sat in a room some distance from the main entertainment out at the pool, had attempted to discuss some plans that had been formulating in his mind. However, he had been put in his place very quickly.
Yusup had judged Ghori correctly. Some twenty-something with firm breasts, a tight arse and a flat stomach was not for him. Instead, a more mature woman in her early forties, with a good intellect and a voluptuous body. The woman Yusup had considered suitable came into the room where the Afghan had been sitting, a little bored.
‘I see that you are alone,’ she said. ‘My name is Nilufar.’
‘I am Ahmad,’ he replied sheepishly. He was not used to being addressed by a woman who treated him as an equal. A woman in his society was subservient; the only women he would talk to on a regular basis were his wives, though they would only speak after he had first addressed them. It felt wrong to him that this woman should sit across from him, her face uncovered, the cleavage of her bosom visible and feel no shame.
He had decided, before coming to the party, that he would bring no preconceptions or prejudices with him and that he would attempt to embrace the society, although the longing to embrace the woman seated across from him was already featuring in his mind.
If he and Ali Mowllah were to help Baroyev, it was important to know how his society behaved. It would not be possible to assist by applying Afghan values and behaviour patterns in a society that acted and moved differently.
He spoke to the woman in a calm and agreeable manner. He was not an unattractive man, his beard too long for Nilufar, but she could see herself seducing him.
‘I am not used to this society,’ he said.
‘You mean the openness of the women?’
‘Yes, I suppose that is what I am referring to.’
‘Does it disturb you that I am dressed in a manner that, to you, must be provocative, distasteful even?’
‘In Afghanistan, yes, but here it troubles me little. You would be shamed in my country, probably stoned for dressing in the clothes that you are now wearing.’
‘I grew up in a small village, close to the border with Afghanistan. I understand the situation there.’
‘Then what brought you to the capital?’
‘My father was a politician in the region. He was elected to represent them here in the capital.’ Nilufar had spoken the truth. She was a virtuous woman, not a pay-by-the-hour tart. In Ancient Greece, she would have been regarded honourably as a concubine, an intelligent woman who could mix in male society and dispense her pleasures as she saw fit.
For her to be here with an Afghan of some prominence, did not cause her concern. As to whether she would sleep with him or not, that depended on her discretion. Yusup had agreed without hesitation. He knew that the Afghan would weaken in the presence of an articulate and beautiful woman.
Yusup had used her occasionally in the past, with an older politician no longer up to threesomes or wanting to prove how many women he could seduce in a night. With her, it was the full package, the elegant dining, the enlightened conversation, the gentle massage, the hot tub and then, possibly, the sex. She saw Ahmad Ghori as worthy of the full treatment.
They talked for several hours about regional politics, about the issues in Afghanistan, the increasing intolerance and extremism in society, all the while becoming friendlier, eventually sharing the same leather sofa. She held his hand, she stroked his face, and he felt at ease.
Neither remembered which of them first suggested retiring to the bedroom, but eventually, long after the sun had gone down, that was where they had ended up. Ahmad Ghori had forgotten who he was, the society he belonged to, the beliefs he held and surrendered himself to the moment and to Nilufar. She also did and, with him, she felt no inhibitions, no need to complete their lovemaking and to dash off. They were content and stayed in the room until the next morning, when Ali Mowllah, with a grin that stretched from ear to ear, knocked on the door to remind him it was time to go back to their guest house.
Nilufar, for her part, stated that she would visit Ahmad at his guest house the next day, and this time, it would be at no cost to Yusup Baroyev.
Ali Mowllah had been a major hit, frolicking in the pool with the girls and seducing them, either in the pool when the light went down, or in the many bedrooms to the side of the pool that were set up especially for such activities.
Farrukh’s initial disappointment, when he had first espied Ghori and Mowllah at the mansion, quickly dissipated and he regarded the party as living up to what he had expected. How Mowllah, an older man, had managed to seduce more women than he had caused concern. But then, he thought, an Afghan would not get a lot of practice back in his home country, and he was only blowing off pent-up frustration.
Chapter 19
With the party behind him, Yusup reverted back into business mode. His approach the next day at the guest house was more formal, although Ahmad Ghori was looking a little sheepish. Ali Mowllah’s ribbing did not help, though even he was looking every one of his fifty-something years, plus a few more. Yusup was not surprised judging by the enthusiasm he had shown at the party with the women.
‘Let’s get back to how you can help,’ Yusup started off, although one of the maids came in abruptly and began to place cups of tea in front of them. He was mildly annoyed, but let it pass.
‘You cannot compete with the current situation. The Russians are taking much larger quantities, and the risk to us is infinitely reduced,’ Ahmad said.
‘That’s already been stated enough times, but what’s your idea?’ replied Yusup. ‘I don’t want to let my business suffer because of some opportunistic Russian gangsters muscling in on my territory, but you are right. I can’t take the quantity.’
‘So who are they bribing to get the drugs through Tajikistan and up to Russia?’ Ali asked.
‘The same people I bribed in the past. Still do, for the meagre amounts that I am able to transport now.’
‘Then why don’t you emulate what the Russians are doing?’ Ahmad continued. His focus had suffered since the night before. Five minutes before the meeting, Nilufar had phoned to tell him that she was coming over that night. Her casualness in inviting herself to the house had thrown him, but he had said nothing. He was quietly pleased.
‘It’s the scale firstly and, whereas we could ramp up to compete, even take higher quantities, I would still need to find the market in Russia to sell to,’ said Yusup.
‘But you’ve indicated that the Russians down here are not the same as you used to deal with,’ Ali said.
‘That’s correct. The only one that I know is Oleg Yezhov, but he’s not important, just a late blow-in after he ran out on me. He killed one of your fellow countrymen and almost killed a woman.’
‘We know about that,’ Ahmad said. ‘Nearly got himself killed in Afghanistan as well, messing around with a local woman.’
‘Can you mess around with the women there?’
‘Depends on whether you have an affinity for rocks being thrown at you,’ Ali said in a casual manner.
‘Our society is not perfect,’ Ahmad said. ‘There’s always a woman who will sell herself for survival, or to buy some trinket or other. Oleg Yezhov found one such woman. She was stoned to death for her crime.’
Ali Mowllah sat still, hoping that he would not be dragged into the conversation.
‘She was stoned because she was with Yezhov?’ Yusup asked.
‘For being with someone else,’ Ahmad said. ‘The Taliban knew that Yezhov had been taking her back to his house, but I paid them to leave him alone. It wouldn’t help our relationship with the Russians if their man were killed while he was a guest of ours.’
‘If I had been there, I would have paid them to kill him,’ Yusup said.
‘That may be, but he was our guest. It was our duty to protect him, regardless of whether he deserved to be punished or not. What you do with him over here is of no concern to us, unless it impinges on our business
interests.’
‘I will do nothing until the appropriate time.’
‘Getting back to the subject,’ Ahmad said. ‘Is it possible that the people we are dealing with are not sanctioned by their senior executive in Moscow?’
‘It is possible,’ Yusup acknowledged. ‘Why are you concerned? You are making plenty of money.’
‘It is because we do not trust them and because we want you to take more.’
‘More? How can I?’ asked Yusup. ‘I don’t have access to the sellers on the streets in Russia. That’s all sewn up by the mafia, and I do not have access to their senior leadership. I don’t know who they are and how they operate.’
‘Then it would be best if you made their acquaintance. Pull in some favours, talk to the Russians you’ve dealt with in the past,’ Ahmad said.
‘Yes, I can do that, but I will need a few days.’
‘That is fine,’ Ali replied. ‘We will wait here for an update.’
Yusup resolved to get Ali Mowllah some company. Ahmad Ghori said he was fine. Yusup left the guest house determined to find a solution. He was a Tajik, and a Tajik would never let a Russian take control in his country. He would fight until he won back his position as the premier drug lord in Tajikistan.
***
Andre Malenkov’s obsession with Oleg had caused a reprimand on one occasion and the threat of disciplinary action on another. He had been told explicitly to stop using government money and resources to conduct an investigation which was clearly personal and criminal and in no way related to the security of the country.
He had acquiesced, apologised profusely, said it would not happen again. For some time, that had been the case – except that he had never issued a countermanding order to stop monitoring the emails of Yezhov’s girlfriend in St. Petersburg.
Malika's Revenge: A Powerful Mix for a Complex Noir Novel. An Organized Crime Thriller - not for the faint-hearted Page 23