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

by Phillip Strang

  He regretted agreeing to become involved with the Russian mafia. Stolypin had reminded, too rudely for his liking, that he came in of his own free will. It was also on record that he had put forward the idea of the murder of his wife, and they had obliged as a favour. If they were going down, any of them, then he was going down with them. He could see no way out.

  The patronage of the opera, the visits to the ballet and the social functions, were all maintained with another beautiful woman on his arm. He was eloquent, educated, dispensing wisdom, listening to the old women with their plastic surgery while they told him about their decadent lives.

  In the quiet of his office, back in his house, he would reflect. However, he was not a man to dwell on the past for too long, and some issues required his attention.

  ***

  Oleg Yezhov’s last communication had troubled Dmitry Gubkin. Why would the two Afghans be guests of Yusup Baroyev? he thought. To him, it seemed illogical.

  He had initially passed it off as just two Afghan rogues attempting to play the field, to see if there was more money to be made elsewhere, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  Yusup Baroyev’s transport route up through Kazakhstan and Russia was broken, Grigory Stolypin had seen to that. He said he had killed a few, but Dmitry had not asked too many questions.

  ‘Grigory, the Afghans with Baroyev, what do we know?’ Dmitry asked over the phone. He did not like to be seen associating with criminals, and he liked Grigory Stolypin no more than when he had first met him, and he didn’t like him much then. He had appreciated his honesty, saying that he was a criminal with a criminal’s mind and he was neither proud nor ashamed to say it, either. How many white-collar criminals, himself included, professed honesty, while at the same time circumvented the corporate and financial laws in the country to achieve their aims, then hiring the very best legal teams to defend their position afterwards?

  ‘Not much,’ Grigory replied. ‘They’re staying at his guesthouse, even been to one of his parties by all accounts. Apart from that, there is little more information.’

  ‘Then you’d better find some,’ said Dmitry. ‘I can’t sit at the end of a telephone imparting wisdom when I don’t have all the facts. Who have you got down there?’

  ‘Oleg Yezhov’s our main man now.’

  ‘What happened to Gennady Denikin?’ Gubkin asked.

  ‘We sent him up to Kazakhstan, to ensure there are no issues there.’

  ‘And are there?’

  ‘None that we can see.’

  ‘What do we know about Yezhov? What’s his history?’

  ‘Came out of St. Petersburg, did a runner when the KGB was after him.’

  ‘Espionage?’

  ‘No. He was running an extortion business, inadvertently killed the brother of a KGB operative. The brother took it personally and put the resources of the KGB behind him.’

  ‘And he’s still alive?’ Dmitry said.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Grigory. ‘He high-tailed it to Tajikistan, ingratiated himself to Yusup Baroyev, who then shipped him off to the Afghan border. Supposedly killed an Afghan over a whore, then switched sides and joined up with us.’

  ‘I hope that’s not a reference on his résumé?’ Dmitry was used to an assorted bunch of nefarious characters in the mafia, but Oleg Yezhov seemed to take the cake.

  ‘He was in Kunduz the same time as Baroyev’s man, but then I told you that,’ said Grigory. ‘You even spoke to him.’

  ‘I know, but I need to know if we can trust Yezhov. What do you reckon?’

  ‘Too early to say. He did alright in Afghanistan; he’s out now checking on the transportation of the goods. But whether we can trust him, only time will tell.’

  ‘We don’t have time, and we need to know what Baroyev’s up to. Can we get someone in on the inside?’

  ‘It’s unlikely in the short term. He’s a shrewd character. His trust does not come easily. If we managed to put someone there, he'd come to an unpleasant end if he were found out.’

  ‘Unpleasant?’ Gubkin said.

  ‘Baroyev’s speciality, upside down over a termite nest, minus your balls,’ replied Grigory. Dmitry cringed at the thought of it and crossed his legs.

  ‘Can we get Yezhov in there?’

  ‘Not a chance. Baroyev would string him up at first sight.’

  ‘That much bad blood?’

  ‘Apparently, and it’s complicated by Yezhov having put Baroyev’s mistress in intensive care sometime in the past.’

  ‘Gennady Denikin, what about him?’ asked Dmitry.

  ‘Infiltration is impossible, but he could meet with Baroyev and sound him out. Can’t do any harm. He may be able to figure out what’s going on.’

  ‘Set it up.’ Dmitry put the phone down and went to see what his girlfriend was up to and whether she was in an amorous mood.

  ***

  Gennady Denikin had been doing a decent job in Kazakhstan. Another of the former Soviet Union satellite countries, it was one of the countries that stood between Tajikistan and the final destination of Russia, but it had never given the same level of problems. Russian migration, forcible in the early days, had ensured that a high percentage of people in Kazakhstan claimed Russian heritage. The Russian mafia was well-established, and the transportation caused relatively minor issues.

  There had been no need for him to go, but he had taken the opportunity to get out of Dushanbe and let Oleg get on with it. He still had serious doubts about Oleg. He just seemed to come with too much baggage, and trouble seemed to gravitate towards him. The phone call from Stolypin came as a surprise. The request concerned him.

  ‘We need you back in Dushanbe.’

  ‘What for?’ Denikin asked.

  ‘We need you to meet with Yusup Baroyev.’

  ‘Are you serious? That man does not appreciate intrusions lightly, and we’ve been taking his business.’

  ‘Yes, we know about him and how he deals with people who cross him,’ said Stolypin. ‘But setting up a meeting carries little risk.’

  ‘Three days, okay?’

  ‘Three days is fine. What’s the situation like where you are?’ Stolypin asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Denikin replied. With little to do apart from meeting up with the mafia leadership in Kazakhstan, he had taken himself down to the local whore house, where he had been wiling away his time exhausting the women. They were not as demanding financially as the woman who had inadvertently put him in prison, not as sour-faced and whining as his wife had been. All they wanted was money, a hundred American a night and they were fine.

  He had been hoping to head north into Russia, not south as Stolypin requested, but it made little difference. He would follow through on the request, maybe even get an invite to one of Baroyev’s legendary parties, where the woman he was screwing would have only been fit for making the beds, not lying in one with him on top of her.

  ***

  Engaging with Yusup Baroyev on his return had not been as difficult as Gennady Denikin had imagined. He had merely phoned up Farrukh Bahori, whose phone number he had obtained from Oleg. He was not pleased that his immediate superior wanted to meet with the one man who wanted him dead, even more than Andre Malenkov.

  ‘Oleg, it’s business. It may even help you,’ he said, although he cared little for his well-being.

  Oleg, back in the capital, was maintaining a low profile. He wanted to be out and about making money and picking up women. The Russians did not pay as well as Baroyev, not yet anyway, and a quality whore came expensive. Natasha kept in contact, but what could he say and do? He assumed she was flat on her back making a living for herself. It was what she had been doing before he had set her up in a nice apartment and told her to be available for him and no others. It had been an excellent arrangement, but he wasn’t there, the bills still needed to be paid and he knew she had kept the apartment.

  Denikin’s return to Dushanbe had one more disturbing component. It came with an additional piece of information.

>   ‘Your man’s in town.’

  ‘Which man? Baroyev?’ Oleg responded.

  ‘No, the KGB man who’s after you.’

  ‘Malenkov?’

  ‘Yes. He’s with the local equivalent of the KGB.’

  Oleg’s fears had been confirmed. Here he was now, with Yusup Baroyev on the hunt for him, although he must have known he was in town. Then there was Andre Malenkov, which explained the four-wheel drive; and then there was Malika, moving around freely, and lately there were the two Afghans, Ali Mowllah and Ahmad Ghori.

  If he had been a superstitious man, he would have thought the cards were stacking up against him and that he was a doomed man.

  With so much against him, he reminisced back to northern Afghanistan and the obliging, if vain, Farhana, but she was dead. She had been undemanding, uncomplicated and, for the price of a new top or a pair of jeans, she would spend as long as he wanted satisfying his every whim. She had been a limited lover, devoid of the consummate skills of a Natasha, the wild animal movements of a Malika, or the infinite beauty of one of Baroyev’s whores. But, with her, it was less complicated. He would have swapped his present predicament for a simple life back in Kunduz if he could; but it was just an illusion, a momentary reflection brought on by the current situation.

  He needed to talk to Gennady Denikin, sound him out and get him to agree to move him somewhere else and soon. Sitting in his apartment, not free to move, was no better than a prison, which was something he had managed to avoid over the years. His only relief was the occasional woman he could phone, who would come over and deal with his frustrations, but even that was being affected by the worry of the tenuous situation that he found himself in.

  ***

  ‘I can’t stay here,’ Oleg said. Gennady Denikin had agreed to meet with Oleg in a café on the outskirts of the city, somewhere he felt was safe.

  ‘What is it? Yezhov?’ Denikin did not appreciate the meeting at short notice. His shadow, Viktor Gryzlov, was at his back. He looked menacing. He glared intensely at Oleg.

  ‘It’s just too dangerous for me here.’

  ‘What do you want?’ replied Denikin. ‘We bring you here; saw you as a good risk, an asset to the operation. So far, all you’ve done is moan and groan, and your complaining has taken on epic proportions. Maybe it’s best if I let Baroyev know where you are and let him deal with you.’

  Denikin was in no mood for small talk, although he neither wanted Oleg dead nor to tell Baroyev where he was. He assumed he knew anyway. He still wanted to get back to Russia and, without Oleg, he would be stuck back in Tajikistan for the foreseeable future.

  The only good news, as far as Gennady Denikin was concerned, was that Yusup Baroyev had invited him up to the mansion on the coming Saturday, for one of his parties.

  ‘I’ll have a talk to Baroyev when I meet up with him,’ he said. ‘I’ll also look into the matter of Malenkov. There’s not much we can do about him, but maybe Baroyev will have some ideas. Perhaps he will be able to pull some strings.’

  ‘But why would he want to help me?’ Oleg failed to understand.

  ‘You work for us.’

  ‘And that will work in my favour?’

  ‘Why not? Baroyev’s a businessman. Personal animosities and hatred will not get in the way of money, at least not the money we can put his way.’

  ‘But you’ve cut him out of the loop.’

  ‘That’s true, but we can always bring him back in somehow. Maybe we’ll get him involved, maybe just pay him to keep out of our way. Who knows? It’s all to do with the percentages, nothing more.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll go for that?’

  ‘No idea, but it is worth a try. We don’t want a war down here between his people and ours, and then there’s the possibility of war up in Russia.’

  ‘Is there?’

  Gennady Denikin had said too much to a man who may well be more indiscreet than necessary. ‘You focus on down here. Ensure the business keeps operating. Just maintain the margins, make sure the wheels are greased, money where it’s needed, but don’t let any of those thieving bureaucrats and petty officials get the upper hand. They are all too greedy for my liking. If any issues need resolving, I’ll leave it up to you.’

  ***

  Malenkov was to become the least of Oleg’s worries. He had noticed, on his return from the café, the four-wheel drive had disappeared. Two days later, it was still not there. He did not know what to make of the situation, other than to feel some relief.

  His fears soon resurrected when, late one night, there was a knock on his door. The whore had just left. He assumed she had forgotten something: her handbag, phone or something similar. Certainly not her money. He had never known one who failed to secure that tight on their person at the first opportunity. Half asleep and, without thinking, he opened the door ‒ the safety chain not in place.

  ‘Oleg Yezhov, we meet at last,’ said a tall, red-faced man, puffing from walking up several flights of stairs. The lift wasn’t working due to the electricity failing yet again, as it seemed to every other night; something to do with load-shedding or low water levels in the dams.

  The man stood firm. He was wearing a dark suit, Russian-made. He was slightly overweight with a pronounced chin and a hairstyle parted in the middle, creamed down with some gel. He was not an unattractive man – although, to Oleg Yezhov, he was the most evil man in the world. He was Andre Malenkov.

  ‘May I come in?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t see how I can stop you,’ Oleg said, looking down at the standard, KGB issue Makarov pistol firmly pointed at his chest. ‘Have you come here to kill me?’

  ‘Personally, I would kill you now. Professionally, I am here to offer you a chance of redemption.’

  ‘Do you need the gun?’

  ‘We shall see. It depends on your reaction to my proposal.’

  Oleg saw no option but to invite him in, make him welcome. He had a gun hidden in his bedroom but wished he had it closer. If he were to be killed, he would endeavour to, at least, take Malenkov with him as well.

  ‘We shall talk then,’ Oleg said. ‘It appears I have no option.’

  ‘That is correct,’ replied Malenkov. ‘No option.’

  Oleg made some strong coffee and placed the two mugs and some biscuits on the coffee table in the middle of the room. Malenkov continued to hold the gun, although his grip had weakened and he no longer kept his gun finger on the trigger.

  ‘I did not mean to kill your brother,’ Oleg said by way of an apology.

  ‘Yezhov,’ said Malenkov, ‘you are a small-time hoodlum who has found himself in the middle of a war. My government has ordered me to make you an offer.’

  ‘And you? Will you still kill me, given the opportunity?’

  ‘Given the opportunity.’

  ‘Is there no hope?’

  ‘There is always hope, but not yet. It depends on your reaction tonight.’

  ‘My reaction to what?’

  ‘I am to make you an offer which you should consider.’

  ‘If I consider the offer and reject it, then what?’

  ‘My instructions are clear. If what I tell you does not ensure complete and unequivocal agreement on your part to work with us, then I am to kill you. That will not be a personal action, but an action sanctioned by the Russian government.’

  ‘What is to stop me killing you and making my escape?’

  ‘It is not possible.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I came into your apartment alone. That does not mean I am alone. On the street, there are six men from the Tajikistan State Committee for National Security. They will ensure that, if you leave this building in advance of me, you will be dead.’

  ‘Maybe I could avoid them.’

  ‘Impossible. They have been trained by the KGB. You will not escape.’

  ‘Then it may be best if you put the gun down,’

  ‘And it may be best if you prepare another pot of coffee, this tim
e without any sedatives.’

  Oleg made a fresh brew of coffee.

  ‘Here’s the situation,’ Andre Malenkov said as he sipped on his coffee. ‘There’s a war developing.’

  ‘I have heard it mentioned, but I know little of the details,’ Oleg replied, more relaxed than before when the gun had been pointed at him.

  He had looked out the window, seen the four-wheel drives, three in total. He ascertained that he had been told the truth. Either he agreed with Malenkov, or he would kill him. If he could get to the bedroom, second drawer, bedside table and then make a run for it… But run where? His opportunities were limited. Gennady Denikin would do little for him, Russia was out of the question, and Dushanbe offered no possibilities. Afghanistan, maybe, but what was he to do there? A Russian in that country with no benefactor and no one looking out for him was as good as dead.

  ‘You’re tied in with the Russian mafia, correct?’ Malenkov asked.

  ‘Yes.’ There seemed no point in denying the fact.

  ‘Before that, you were with Yusup Baroyev, but you fell foul of him.’

  ‘There’s no point in denying what you already seem to know.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Then why don’t you get to the point.’.

  ‘Yusup Baroyev is being squeezed,’ replied Malenkov. ‘His business empire is crumbling. The Russians, your people, are trying to cut him out entirely or make some compromise agreement. That’s why Denikin is meeting up with him. Then there are two Afghans here, who have supposedly stitched up a deal with the Russians. They are also friendly with Baroyev, staying at one of his houses and screwing some of his women as well, according to reports. Then there is the mafia senior executive, back in Russia, asking questions as to who sanctioned all these deals and whether they are receiving their full financial returns. There is a war coming, criminal in the main, but this is a war across countries, and the politicians are going to be dragged in, whether they like it or not. There’s just too much money involved.’