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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Initially, information as to what’s happening, key players.’

  Oleg saw no reason to refuse. ‘Okay, I’ve got no issues, but I need some commitments from you.’

  ‘You want me to agree to not kill you, is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, you’ve got my word. I will not kill you. In fact, I need to ensure your safety from now on.’

  The meeting concluded. Oleg had failed to secure his gun, though he would have had no need of it. He slept soundly that night, at least for the three hours that remained before the sun rose in the early morning sky.

  With Malenkov no longer posing a threat, Oleg turned his mind to the other problems in Dushanbe. There was still Malika and her lover, Baroyev, as well as Farrukh. He had still not forgiven him for taking his apartment and his Mercedes. The Audi he was driving was fine, but the Mercedes was better. He needed more money, and he needed it fast. If Malenkov were off his back, possibly forever if he just fed him information, he could maybe consider a return to St. Petersburg and Natasha. He emailed her.

  ‘All looking good. Hope to see you soon.’

  Andre Malenkov received a copy of the email direct to his laptop. You’re not off the hook yet, he thought.

  ***

  Yusup Baroyev and Gennady Denikin were to meet the day before the party. There were matters to discuss and neither, primarily Baroyev, wanted the following day’s entertainment compromised with the need to talk business.

  Baroyev was concerned about his declining profits. However, it was not apparent to the visitors at the mansion, to the whores who still commanded premium rates, not even to the politicians with their greedy snouts in the trough, bleeding him for all they could while taking money from the Russians at the same time.

  Malika still spent his money as she wanted, but she was not an extravagant woman. All she needed was the latest fashion, the best hairdresser and the best apartment, but only sufficient to sustain the lifestyle as befitted a woman in her position. She was the mistress of a drug lord, a former drug addict and prostitute, but the society matrons adopted her with ease. They were fickle and cared little as to where she had come from or what her background was, as long as Yusup Baroyev was her lover.

  With funds slowing dramatically, Baroyev needed to make a deal with someone as soon as possible. He preferred the Afghans, but that was longer term, and he could not see how they could help him with the movement into Russia and the distribution channels. So far, they had only managed to enjoy his hospitality and take advantage of the women he had put their way.

  ***

  The mansion was suitably devoid of females the day Gennady Denikin arrived. Strict instructions had been given, no need to bring security. Viktor Gryzlov, the permanent shadow, was aggrieved at the rejection and found solace in a couple of bottles of local vodka.

  Denikin arrived at the mansion in a Rolls Royce reserved for special guests. He was suitably impressed. Baroyev was full of charm, eloquently dressed as usual and straight down to business.

  ‘You’re causing me great concern,’ he said.

  ‘It is not our intention to cause anyone concern,’ Denikin replied.

  ‘If you had come to me, I could have handled the Tajikistan side of the business. It would have been a much easier arrangement for you.’

  ‘In hindsight, maybe you’re right.’ Denikin saw it as a possibility to defuse the situation. The elements in the Russian mafia, especially in Moscow, were rallying for war, and he had received explicit instructions to come to an agreement.

  One war in Russia between rival mafia enclaves was enough. They did not want another in Tajikistan and, if it spilt over into Afghanistan, it could become political and then the militaries would become involved. Not that Denikin cared, not even Stolypin, but Dmitry Gubkin did. His previously unassailable position in Moscow society was being threatened by continuing articles in some of the most scurrilous newspapers, questioning as to who Dmitry Gubkin was.

  Was he the master businessman? Or the master gangster, as they would allude to indirectly. If they had made a clear statement, he would have sued them in an instant.

  Even the ballet had declined his patronage for the first time in ten years, and no amount of money would make them change their mind. The stupid bitch girlfriend was giving him aggravation, nagging him as to when he was going to make an honest woman of her; and then there were the increasing amounts of money she was spending on silly nonsense.

  He could see that he would have to get rid of her at some point. Maybe put her back on the street – or, at least, some street corner where she could sell herself to some drunk. But she had heard things, knew things, and if she talked to the police – or, more importantly, the media – he may well be placed in an embarrassing position, being asked questions for which he had no answer.

  ***

  Yusup Baroyev set aside most of the day for Denikin. A sumptuous meal, with the best of wines, had not helped Denikin in his deliberations. He instinctively liked the Tajik gangster when he was meant to be impartial, even a little hostile.

  ‘What do you reckon we can do to redress the imbalance?’ Denikin asked.

  ‘Give me control of the transportation up through my country,’ Baroyev replied.

  ‘That presents complications. It’s all working well, and then you have the Afghans up here trying to set up another deal, to put us out of the picture. You know what will happen if that occurs?’

  ‘It will get violent.’ Baroyev was no fool. He saw where this was heading. Violence was not the issue, but the scale of it may well be. Once the politicians and the police began to get scared and unwilling to accept bribes, then the whole trade would grind to a halt, maybe go back through the drug smuggling villages. That had been fine in the past, but now…

  No, he reasoned. The Russians were doing a decent job, making plenty of money for themselves. It was just that he wanted some of it and, if he could somehow make a deal with the Afghans, then maybe it would all work out without violence and in a spirit of harmony. There was still one issue to resolve.

  ‘Yezhov, he’s working for you?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Denikin. ‘You’ve got some issues with him, so I’m led to believe.’

  ‘He’s a dead man if I take him.’

  ‘That’s what he said. What has he done to incur your hatred?’ Denikin asked.

  ‘It’s professional and personal, that’s all.’

  ‘It must be serious, though?’

  ‘It is, but let us not talk about him,’ said Baroyev. ‘I know where he is. At this present moment, I have left him alone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Until I had met with you, I felt it was best. If I had liquidated him, it would have been seen as pre-emptive violence that could have ignited a war between our two groups. I did not want to be the person to start it.’

  ‘You were correct and, for now, it is important that he is not harmed.’

  ‘Then that will be the case,’ replied Baroyev. ‘He is safe for the foreseeable future, even welcome at my house. But he must never go near my woman, is that clear?’

  ‘That’s clear, and tomorrow?’

  ‘Bring him.’

  ‘I will respect your confidence. He will not know of our agreement. Personally, I care little for him. Trouble gravitates towards him and, the sooner I am free of him, the better.’

  Gennady Denikin saw that a deal was possible that would satisfy all parties, although not Oleg. Once his usefulness was at an end, he would be thrown to the wolves – or, in this case, the wolf, Yusup Baroyev.

  There had been no time to discuss financial details, and Baroyev had been clear with Denikin that he still needed to talk to the Afghans, to see what they were proposing. He saw no advantage in revealing the fact that he was in communication with another arm of the Russian mafia, and he intended to travel to Moscow to meet with one of their people.

  Chapter 2
1

  Oleg was pleased when Gennady Denikin phoned him on his return from meeting with Yusup Baroyev.

  ‘It’s all squared,’ said Denikin. ‘He will leave you alone. He’ll even forgive you as long as you are working for us.’

  ‘And if I’m not working with you?’

  ‘I’d suggest that you get out of the country as quick as you can. For now, you’re safe.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘The KGB, what about them?’

  ‘The cars have disappeared, must have been a false alarm,’ Oleg said, almost as a throw-away line, which concerned Denikin.

  ‘Just one other thing. Keep away from his woman.’

  ‘Which one?’ Oleg asked obtusely.

  ‘The one he’s keen on. The one you were screwing in the past.’

  Oleg agreed. But how, when she was visible too often, and he did want to talk to her? he thought. He saw no problems in phoning Andre Malenkov with at least a précised version of what Denikin had told him. He still saw Malenkov as critical, if he wanted to return to St. Petersburg as some time in the future. Better to keep him on my side, he thought.

  Life had taken a turn for the better, and Oleg felt freer than he had for the last few weeks. There was a party to go to – Denikin had given him the invite courtesy of Yusup – and the transportation of the drugs up through the country was going well.

  In fact, he seemed to have perilously little to do, and he wondered what his function was. He couldn’t openly meet with the politicians to grease their palms, so there must be someone else doing that. The police on the road blocks did not want to meet or talk to him, as they took their directives from someone at police headquarters and he had no entrance into there, either. It seemed to him an unusual arrangement. For the present, however, he would wait and see where it headed.

  If he played it straight with Malenkov for a little while, he would ask for written proof that his return to St. Petersburg was possible. Natasha had contacted him and said she was still willing.

  He could maybe go back to the old business of extortion, but trading in drugs seemed a better prospect and, with the contacts he was forming, it was indeed possible. With one day to go before the party, he felt the need of a woman. He knew of one, and her price was reasonable.

  She could come and keep him company, but tomorrow was Baroyev’s party, and he needed to be fresh and fit. Maybe he would take a run around the block before the drive up to the mansion, to get the blood pumping.

  ***

  Yusup Baroyev was exceptionally cordial on meeting Oleg at the mansion.

  ‘Welcome to my house. It is good to see you.’ It was unexpected, and Oleg could not be sure whether it was feigned or genuine. He suspected the former.

  There was no reason for Yusup to feel any great warmth for him and Denikin had confirmed that suspicion the previous day. He had caused the local drug lord a substantial loss of money due to his enforced absence. Dereliction of duty would have been Yusup Baroyev’s opinion. The fact that he had been tied to a post after he had killed the Afghan would not have been a sufficient excuse.

  There was also the matter of Malika, now firmly established as Yusup’s mistress, and she must have told her story to him. Oleg could see no reason for the friendly welcome.

  Regardless of his misgivings, he determined to enjoy himself at the party, screw as many as he could and keep his distance from the host. He was concerned when he saw Farrukh there as well, but even he had been cordial. Ali Mowllah, one of the Afghans from Kunduz, was already in the pool cavorting with the women. Ahmad Ghori, he was told, was not present, as he was staying at his guesthouse with a woman he had become acquainted with.

  Farrukh told him he intended to keep up with Ali Mowllah this time, in the tally of women seduced. Mowllah had won last time. By the end of the evening, they had tied. Later that night, Farrukh drove the Mercedes back to his apartment, whereas Oleg drove back in his Audi to an empty apartment, but it concerned him little.

  ***

  Denikin phoned him late the following morning. He had been at the party as well and was still feeling the effects.

  ‘What do we know about the Afghans? Can we trust them?’ he asked.

  ‘Afghans, never, but then you should know that,’ replied Oleg. ‘You met them in Afghanistan before I went there.’

  ‘That’s what I think, but what can they be planning with Baroyev? They can’t impact on our business and set up a rival transportation route – or can they?’

  ‘Certainly not up through Tajikistan,’ said Oleg. ‘At least, I wouldn’t have thought so. But the Afghans are a resourceful people. If there is an angle, they’ll find it. We need to find that angle first and close it.’

  ‘Agreed, but where do we start?’

  ‘That’s the problem. I’ve no idea.’.

  ‘We’re paying you good money,’ replied Denikin. ‘Figure it out and get back to me before the day is out.’ He slammed down the phone.

  Oleg’s contacts were not many in Tajikistan. The only one he could think of and trust was Pavel Suslov, the effeminate homosexual, whom he regarded as a friend as long as he kept his hands to himself. He phoned him.

  ‘Pavel, good to speak to you. How are you?’ Oleg said over the phone.

  ‘Fine, long time. Let’s catch up.’

  Feeling freer than he had in some time, Oleg took Pavel to a restaurant he knew, close to the centre of town. It was the same restaurant he had taken Tolib, the over-inquisitive gym attendant, before his untimely demise.

  Pavel appreciated the chance of a good feed as life had not been good to him. He was now reduced to running a few men selling drugs on some shady corners around the city. The money was sufficient, if meagre. His latest lover had just moved out, taken his stereo and left him with a black eye.

  Oleg promised to deal with him. Pavel said not to bother and that it was an occupational hazard for an effeminate queer. A black eye and a few electronic goods were minor compared to what had happened in the past. Oleg did not ask him to elaborate.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Pavel asked.

  ‘I’m not with Yusup.’

  ‘That’s what I heard.’

  ‘You know this country better than me.’

  ‘Not a lot. I’ve barely been out of Dushanbe,’ Pavel replied. Oleg could see that life had not been good for him, as he ate disproportionate portions compared to his size. It was as if he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days.

  ‘Is there any other way to transport the drugs up from Afghanistan?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. The main transport route from Kunduz is across the border at Panj-e Payon and then up to here. There are some other crossings, but the roads are not so good, not to mention a new setup of bribing and corruption would be needed to put it in place.

  ‘That’s what I thought. I need someone to come with me and prowl around a bit down by the border. Are you up to it?’

  ‘I am a city person,’ said Pavel. ‘Down there will be seriously scary for me.’

  ‘We need to know what’s going on and whether there are any plans in place for a rival operation. Pays well, and you look as if you could do with some money.’

  ‘The money will come in handy. I will go with you,’ Pavel said.

  Oleg had an answer and a plan for Denikin. He hoped it was enough.

  Early the next morning, Oleg and Pavel made the trip back down to the border town. Oleg hoped he would not have to cross the border again. Pavel hoped his time out of the city was minimal; but the money was good, and he knew, at least with Oleg, there would be no black eyes and that suited him fine.

  ***

  The Tajik Air flight to Moscow was full, although Yusup Baroyev, who was up in First Class, cared little. Malika was seated alongside him; his wife, meanwhile, was still spending his money at an escalating rate somewhere in France and pleading to come home.

  His affections had firmly been transplanted to Malika and, to the people in Dushanbe, she was his wife. His
legal wife had, in the past, turned a blind eye to his women, but the reports on the current one troubled her. Whereas she missed the loving husband, she knew well enough that a large part of the legitimate businesses were tied up in her name for tax reasons and that, financially, she would be well provided for.

  Firuza had loved Yusup Baroyev – still did, though less than when they had first met in college. He was majoring in business studies, she in social studies. They were both in their teens, idealistic and innocent. Pregnant in her early twenties, they had beaten her father to the wedding ceremony by a couple of weeks before the bulge had become more than a severe case of over-eating.

  Her father had blown his top, and her mother had gone into hysterics at the shame of a daughter of theirs getting married when she was already pregnant.

  It concerned her new husband that he was unable to provide his wife with the lifestyle that she was accustomed to. She had come from money, the daughter of a banking executive, and home had been a large house in a tree-lined suburb with staff to deal with the day-to-day running of the house.

  With Yusup, it was a small apartment in an old Soviet-era apartment block. Not that Firuza complained, but he did. Being the assistant financial manager in a small textile factory provided for no more, but he was ambitious and determined.

  The first foray into crime came by way of a friend – a silly, sanctimonious person who Yusup liked, but his wife didn’t.

  ‘I need someone to deal with the money,’ Iskandar had said, as he and Yusup rested between the games of tennis that they always played on a Thursday night after work.

  ‘What kind of help?’ Yusup asked. Iskandar, the son of the textile company’s owner, seemed to have no issues with money. He drove a good car, got around with some classy-looking women and always dressed well – too well, considering he was meant to be the maintenance manager. But then, he never got his hands dirty.

  ‘It’s a sideline,’ said Iskandar. ‘I’m tired of sponging off my father. Besides, he’s keeping most of it for himself. A regular Scrooge, if you ask me. I’m worth more than the miserable allowance he gives me.’ He was sanctimonious. Yusup’s wife, Firuza, was right in that estimation, but Iskandar made him laugh, and he was always good company.