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 a cursory glance late one Friday afternoon, when he had settled at his desk at headquarters, the Lubyanka Building, on Lubyanka Square. Reclining in the chair, the front two legs just raised off the ground, the rear two taking his weight, the back of the chair just touching the top of the radiator behind him. Almost teetotal he sipped on a glass of vodka, although his consumption in his younger days had been prolific. He had nearly been killed once out on a mission some years previous when a CIA agent had managed to take some secrets out of a government department, and he had been tasked to ‘deal with the situation.’

  It was before the days of encrypted emails and instant communications, and the CIA man was making his way to the railway station and an overnight trip to the border. Malenkov had cornered him two blocks from the station, went to pull out his gun, fumbled the safety switch and received a bullet from a standard issue CIA pistol in his left shoulder.

  He spent two weeks in hospital, another three on light duties and received a severe reprimand from his superior officer, who had the temerity to accuse him of being drunk on duty. It was ironic when the whole department knew that the superior officer was drunk from the moment he walked in the door at nine in the morning and until he left at night.

  Malenkov did not need the reprimand. However, he needed vodka on an occasional basis and, over time, he had moderated his drinking to one or two glasses every night.

  The email, sender unknown, had been received ten days previous by Natasha, the girlfriend who was back on the game and selling her favours to the more affluent of St. Petersburg. More affluent than me, anyway, Malenkov thought.

  He remembered her as an exceptionally attractive woman with pale skin, long dark hair, almost down to her waist, and a figure to die for. He, Andre Malenkov, reformed alcoholic, the avenger of his brother’s senseless murder, would have taken her in an instant if the opportunity had been afforded him. He had digressed into daydreaming on reading the email.

  ‘Back in Dushanbe, all well.’

  He knew who it was from, and he knew he would follow through, even if it meant a further reprimand and a possible suspension. The flight, next day with Tajik Air, he put on his KGB credit card. He would deal with the flack on his return.

  ***

  Oleg, firmly established back in Tajikistan, was not feeling as comfortable as he should have been. There was Malika, very visible in the places he would usually have frequented. He also assumed Yusup Baroyev was looking for him, no doubt for more than a chat. And, then there was Farrukh, not more than two blocks from where he was staying and irritating him immensely with the black Mercedes. He thought the situation could not get any worse; he was to be proven wrong.

  It had been two days previously when he had seen the two men in the four-wheel drive Toyota, aimlessly sitting for a couple of hours on the corner, fifty metres up from the two-bedroom apartment that he leased. The previous one on a lower floor had been adequate, but this was a penthouse and, with the advance payment that Denikin had given him, he was able to afford it. It gave him a good view of the surrounding area, and the blue Toyota initially gave him little concern. He had not done anything wrong in Tajikistan, or at least nothing anyone knew about. The gym attendant, he had found out, was of an itinerant nature, going from one gym to another until he was ejected for sticking his nose in where it was not required ‒ invariably the female changing room. He was not missed, and no one had raised the alarm.

  The vehicle being there at odd hours, day and night, caused him some concern after the third day. It may have been there before, but he would not have noticed it, due to having lived on the lower floor with the view obstructed by a building to the right.

  He did not know what he could do about it. Gennady Denikin would have cared little for his problems. He had no one he trusted who he could turn to.

  It seemed the best thing he could do was to get out of town for a while, check on the contacts on the route from the border with Afghanistan and up through Tajikistan. Denikin had told him not to worry after it had crossed the northern border of Tajikistan, as they had other people dealing with that part of the route.

  Oleg could not see the sense in checking something that was already working well, and he knew, the moment anyone discovered he represented the Russian mafia, they would be after more money. He held firmly to the principle of if it isn’t broke, don’t fix it, but Denikin was an accountant with an accountant’s fastidious mind, always looking to improve.

  To Oleg, if the drugs were leaving Afghanistan and arriving at the border with Kazakhstan, with sufficient margin after paying for the goods, and all the bribes had been paid, that was fine. Why become further involved? At least, his theory had worked well enough back in St. Petersburg, until the unfortunate incident with Artur Malenkov and now there was his brother to deal with.

  ***

  Unbeknown to Oleg, his nemesis, one week earlier, had been sitting on an uncomfortable chair at the headquarters of the State Committee for National Security, the KGB’s equivalent in Tajikistan.

  The one thing Oleg did not realise was that the secret services of any country were more closely aligned with their foreign counterparts, regardless of ideology and government directives, than they were with their own countrymen. They were a club of secretive and devious individuals, mainly men, who wallowed in the cesspit of espionage. The cold war of forty years previous had been between governments, not between rival security services. They exchanged information and people as required, killing each other when necessary, but they followed rules, not always Queensberry or Geneva Convention, but rules nonetheless.

  Malenkov knew this, and he knew the Tajikistan State Committee for National Security’s name belied their vicious nature.

  ‘Yezhov, it’s personal,’ Andre Malenkov had said, as he sat in a charmless room that his Tajikistan counterpart considered perfectly acceptable, bare apart from a small desk with two chairs. The desk augmented with a computer screen, which appeared, to Malenkov, to be at least five years out of date, but he was no expert on such matters. At least, the KGB’s equipment was always up to date.

  A forlorn flowering shrub, planted in a large metal pot, close to a small and dirty window, clutched for the meagre sunlight which attempted to stream into the room.

  Malenkov did not like his counterpart very much, but he needed him. He would be polite and endearing, even obsequious if that were necessary. They had done business before, mainly following up on fundamentalists and villains, who may have had a grievance against Russia and a means to make that grievance known.

  The man behind the desk pretended to check his emails. He affected an air of indifference. He was of medium height, slim with a healthy glow to his face. He looked as if he exercised regularly. The collar on his shirt frayed, his suit jacket, dusty and faded.

  The man spoke. ‘We’re not here to deal with personal matters.’

  ‘I realise this,’ replied Malenkov, ‘but I said that as a way of ensuring further cooperation from you. I assumed you would understand that this is a matter of family honour.’

  Yudik Khujandi, the man, continued to speak. His previously fluent Russian, from when the Soviet Union had held his country in an iron grip, had lost its edge. He cared more for intrigue than national or international borders. Selling secrets to the Russians, selling back Russian secrets to the Tajik government, even indulging in the occasional assassination, caused him very few sleepless nights or guilt-trips.

  He was a solitary man, no time for a woman, which was just as well as they would not have found him attractive, with the pronounced mole just below his left nostril, a scar on his chin and an irritating habit of cleaning his nose with one of the fingers of his right hand. Andre Malenkov had not wanted to shake his hand, and would not have done had the meeting not been so important. Once the initial greeting was over, he excused himself for an urgent call of nature and rushed off to the bathroom to scrub the mucus from his hand.

  Yudik Khujandi continued to procrast
inate, although there was no doubt that he would help, personal or otherwise. They were both members of the club, and they knew each other well. There was always a villain, a double-dealing agent or someone waylaid by one side or the other for suspected espionage activities, mainly an attaché who worked at the other’s embassy in Moscow or Dushanbe. They had rarely met, but Malenkov did not forget favours given and favours received. He would remind Khujandi if necessary.

  ***

  Yudik Khujandi had relented and assigned two men to conduct surveillance activities. Oleg Yezhov had not been difficult to find. His association with Yusup Baroyev had been recorded, and his new position with the Russian mafia had been noted by the Tajikistan Secret Service. The criminal part of the Russian mafia did not concern Khujandi and his people, the police could deal with that, but the Russian mafia sometimes became involved in espionage and selling secrets. It was not often, but there had been instances in the past when the money had been sufficient, the risk acceptable.

  Andre Malenkov had his man, but Khujandi had made it blatantly clear.

  ‘He’s your problem, not ours. If you want to liquidate him, do it in your own country, or else you will have committed a criminal activity, and I’ll make sure the local police deal with you. Is that clear?’

  ‘That is clear,’ Malenkov said, although it presented a complication for which he had no resolve. His boss, the vodka-swilling superior, was already asking questions about where he was and what he was spending KGB money on. One of his associates had given him the update, and he wasn’t sure what to do. Knowing where Oleg Yezhov lived served little purpose if he could not liquidate him, and the State Committee for National Security wouldn’t do it for him.

  Malenkov had done them enough favours in the past, even liquidated a renegade Tajikistan national before he had had a chance to fly out of Russia, intent on killing the President of Khujandi’s country. Not that he didn’t deserve killing, corrupt and evil that he was, but he was friendly to Russia, and one thing the government of any country does is to look after their friends, whether good, bad, indifferent, competent or worthless. The President he had saved had long fallen foul of a coup d’etat, and he could now be found in a dacha, a country mansion, close to the Black Sea on the Russian side, enjoying life immensely. According to reports, the deposed president was surrounded by a twenty-four hour guard, electric security fences and, by all accounts, a bevvy of women.

  Why is it, Andre Malenkov had thought when he had heard of the ex-President’s fate, that I, a hard-working patriot of Russia, has to suffice with a squint-faced woman at home? All she does is complain that I don’t make enough money, how I’ve missed the endless opportunities in life and how she struggles to put food on the table.

  She was right, of course, but he never said so. He couldn’t change the situation. History was history, long past and buried, and now his requirements in life were modest and, for peace of mind, he chose not to respond to her endless mouthing. He felt like hitting her sometimes but never did. He was not a violent man, though he could be. He had killed a few men in his time, but he had seen them as worthy of death.

  His wife could sometimes do with being told to shut up, maybe he would one day, but then he knew the outcome. She would be out the door, straight down to the local government department that deals with such matters, and he would find an automatic debit on his salary, meagre as it was.

  He knew why he had not risen up the slippery pole to an executive position and a well-appointed office. It was because he was comfortable in his job, good at what he did and he enjoyed it.

  Sometimes, he would speculate as to whether he had chosen the right vocation in life, especially when he had seen Oleg Yezhov’s girlfriend. He realised that she was out of his league – or, at least, his pay scale – whereas a grubby gangster could afford her. It irked, but he just dealt with it by turning a blind eye and busying himself with work.

  How he missed the good old days, when the Tajikistan and Russian Security services were not accountable to bureaucrats and open government. Then it was easy, grab Yezhov late at night, swift stiletto knife in the back and a quick and decisive cutting of the throat, no questions asked, no case investigated.

  ***

  Seven days after Khujandi had agreed to his request, Andre Malenkov’s supervisor, Mikhail Kandinsky, phoned him.

  ‘What are you doing down there?’ he asked impolitely.

  ‘I’m following up on some leads.’ It was a lame reason, often used, seldom believed and it was not going to work this time.

  ‘Don’t give me that hogwash. You’re down there checking up on Yezhov and don’t lie.’

  He saw no reason to lie. If he was suspended, so be it. He was tired of the bellicose supervisor slurring his words, although this time, he sounded remarkably coherent.

  ‘So what if I am?’ He had taken the bait and responded in a manner that he had somehow restrained before.

  ‘Look here, Malenkov. I’m not concerned why you’re there, but for once, you’re in the right place at the right time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Something big is going down, and we’re being pulled in to help. More of a police matter, if you ask me, but we know they haven’t got a clue what they’re doing. We’ll fix it up, and they’ll take all the credit.’

  It was a verbose statement, which irked Malenkov. How many times had he saved the department's reputation? How many times had Supervisor Mikhail Kandinsky taken the credit?

  ‘What’s so big that the police need our help?’ Malenkov asked. ‘Normally, they avoid us like the plague.’

  ‘Bratva, the Russian mafia.’

  ‘Why are they our concern? They’re criminal?’

  ‘Andre…’ The supervisor had never used Malenkov’s Christian name before. He recognised a favour being asked. ‘There’s a war brewing.’ Kandinsky continued in a remarkably affable tone.

  ‘Between Russia and Tajikistan?’ Malenkov failed to understand what Kandinsky was saying.

  ‘Indirectly. It’s the Russian mafia fighting it out with their equivalent in Tajikistan,’ said Kandinsky. ‘And then there’s the added complication of splinter groups here in Russia fighting against each other.’

  ‘It still sounds criminal.’

  ‘Andre, you’re right, of course. But this has the possibility of bringing down governments, impacting on the reputations of senior politicians here and in Tajikistan.’

  ‘Senior politicians?’ asked Malenkov. ‘What’s the issue? If it’s criminal, what has that got to do with the politicians, senior or otherwise?’

  ‘Are you naïve, or are you just trying to wind me up?’

  ‘Not at all. It just seemed a valid question.’

  ‘Valid, maybe,’ said Kandinsky. ‘We have politicians, both here in Russia and Tajikistan, standing up and spouting their determination to stamp out organised crime. How many do you think are in the pay of the criminal organisations? This, unchecked, could bring down some big names.’

  ‘Is that our concern?’

  ‘Not directly, but we’re a government organisation. Our function is to follow the directive of the government and to prevent the impending war from escalating. Information is what we want.’

  ‘We’ll end up protecting some politicians who should be locked up in a prison cell, you know that?’ Malenkov said.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ replied Kandinsky, ‘but we’ve always been doing that one way or the other. We serve, that’s our function.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do down here?’

  ‘Keep your eyes peeled, follow up on leads and start to get an understanding of how the society works down there. Who the major criminals are, corrupt politicians, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yudik Khujandi, my counterpart down here?’

  ‘He’ll be brought up to speed.’

  ‘What’s the war about?’ asked Malenkov. ‘You never said.’

  ‘Heroin, and it’s coming over from Afghanistan in ever-inc
reasing quantities. The amounts of money are enough to turn anyone’s head, even yours and mine.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ Malenkov said. ‘I’m incorruptible, stupidly incorruptible.’

  ‘So am I. At least, we sleep with an easy conscience,’ Kandinsky replied.

  Andre Malenkov thought a restful sleep was hardly compensation for his inability to afford Oleg’s girlfriend in St. Petersburg, or to drive around town in a Bentley, as Yusup Baroyev did in Dushanbe. He realised he was not as incorruptible as he had previously thought. There was only one further statement from Kandinsky before the phone call concluded.

  ‘Lay off Oleg Yezhov for now. He’s involved, in the thick of it and until the situation is clear. We need him, you need him.’

  Chapter 20

  Dmitry Gubkin had maintained a detached indifference to the problems coming up from Tajikistan. He had made it clear with Stolypin when he decided to become involved with the Russian mafia, that he was a white-collar criminal, above suspicion and he wanted it to stay that way.

  It was not progressing as well as he had hoped. Firstly, there were aspersions over the death of his wife. It had been some time since her death, and he had dutifully mourned her. Even with a great deal of sadness on his part, especially when he had discovered, through a friend of a friend, that Katerina, his trophy wife, had ended her romance with her younger lover. He was not sure of the truth, but there had been the lingerie strewn across the road after Stolypin’s men had driven her off the embankment, crushing her skull as the upturned vehicle impacted with the road down below. The shop assistant, where Katerina had bought the lingerie, had said that it was a special treat for her husband that night.

  He had learnt to deal with the guilt in the succeeding months, but he could never be sure. He had moved on, found another trophy woman, a girlfriend this time, and she was less demanding, more dependable and less interested in spending his wealth. He hoped that was true, but once he married her…