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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘So, who else is paying you money down here?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘Why would I take money from anyone else?’ replied Drygin. ‘You pay me well enough.’

  ‘Look here, Yuri.’ Oleg tried another method to obtain his cooperation. ‘It’s only normal that others would want a piece of the action. If I were in their position, I’d be doing the same. You must know something.’

  ‘I have been approached, but I’ve done nothing about it. Besides, I don’t think they’ve attempted to ship anything yet.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘They paid me to keep quiet. You know if I tell you they may come down here and have me eliminated. My word is my bond.’

  ‘And if you don’t tell me, then I may have some of my people come down here and save them a trip. The choice is yours.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Drygin saw that he had no option. ‘Another Russian syndicate, that’s all I know.’

  ‘But who did you speak to?’

  ‘Someone from Dushanbe.’

  ‘Russian or Tajik?’

  ‘Tajik.’

  ‘Name?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘Rasul Dostiev. He told me that there were some other Russians. Apart from that, I know no more.’

  Chapter 23

  It was evident to Oleg that he would get no more from Yuri Drygin. He and Pavel left for the capital within the hour. Pavel had achieved little; his trip down had been wasted, but Oleg had another job for him – find Rasul Dostiev.

  Gennady Denikin, meanwhile, had eventually been able to make contact with Grigory Stolypin, who was preparing his defence for the meeting with the senior members of the mafia. Dmitry Gubkin, effectively isolated from the upper echelons of Moscow society, was spending increasing amounts of time with him, mentoring him on how to conduct his defence.

  ‘Gennady, I’m busy up here,’ said Stolypin. ‘What do you want?’ The impending meeting was playing on Stolypin’s nerves; he was not handling the situation well. He knew that the wrong answers with a poorly planned defence, and he would be convicted and sentenced with no chance of appeal. The decision of the executive was final, sentence to be carried out immediately.

  ‘Baroyev, what’s the deal with him? What can I offer?’ Denikin asked.

  ‘What does he want? What have you offered?’ Stolypin was not focused on the conversation.

  ‘I offered him a percentage and the option to perhaps take over the movement of merchandise through his country.’

  ‘Did he go for it?’

  ‘He’s interested, but he’s playing all sides. He will not come to a decision quickly.’

  ‘Neither will we. Just ensure that the merchandise gets through while this is all going on.’

  ‘There’s been an approach by a rival organisation, apparently Russian, down at the Afghan border,’ Denikin said.

  ‘Any details?’

  ‘Not at the present moment, but we have a local name. We’ll follow up and keep you posted.

  ‘Fine. Now let me get on with what I’ve got to do here.’ Stolypin hung up the phone.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Dmitry asked. It was the first time for Grigory in Gubkin’s country house. He was staggered by its beauty.

  ‘Denikin,’ replied Stolypin. ‘He’s met with Baroyev. Yezhov has been down on the border. He’s confirmed that someone else, probably Russian, is aiming to muscle in on our business.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He doesn’t know.’

  ‘It may be significant,’ replied Dmitry. ‘We need to know if they are coming through the senior mafia, whether they are sanctioned or if they are freelance. It may help with the defence.’

  ***

  Rasul Dostiev proved to be elusive. Pavel tried all the clubs, ferreted in the underbelly of the city and paid some money out in his hunt for the man. Eventually, he traced him hanging out in a den of inequity in a suburb to the north of the city, a low-life place frequented by drug addicts, pimps and prostitutes. It was Dostiev’s kind of place.

  Pavel was uncertain how to approach him, as he was surrounded by a group of men. Shady was how he described them to Oleg, who told him to back off and they would pick him up later that night.

  It was midnight when Dostiev left the club. He was drunk, staggering down the street, oblivious to his surroundings. He took off down a side-street, about fifty metres distant, where the street lights didn’t work.

  Oleg was out of the car ‒ Pavel was driving ‒ and over to the man. He hit him across the back of the head with a baton he kept in the vehicle, just in case it was ever needed. It had been needed that night and soon Rasul Dostiev was gagged and bound and in the boot of the car, heading to a place where everyone could have a cosy chat.

  Oleg had resumed the driving as Pavel was a poor driver, too nervous, and the last thing Oleg wanted was an accident, or to be pulled over for failing to observe the traffic lights, or because the car was wandering on both sides of the road. The trip to a remote location previously picked out by Oleg, was isolated and out of sight of any recent habitation.

  The old barn was warm, although the smell was not pleasant. Ravel Dostiev moaned as he slowly regained consciousness. He failed to understand the seriousness of the situation.

  His hands were shackled with some rope, his ankles firmly secured in a similar manner. Oleg judged him to be about forty-five years of age and not in good shape. He had attempted to delay baldness by combing his hair over the top of his bald patch. He wore prescription spectacles. He reeked of vodka, which he had apparently consumed with relish that night – and probably most nights previous, as his complexion was blotchy, his nose ruddy and his eyes bloodshot.

  His attempts at standing up, dazed as he was, were both ridiculous and hilarious. Each attempt would cause him to collapse, as if in slow motion. The bindings, especially on his ankles, were too tight and, as he straightened, they twisted and caused him to lose balance. If he had been sober, he would have realised the pain, but even after a thirty-minute drive, he was still powerfully drunk.

  Oleg did not have time for the niceties; he needed answers and fast. Stolypin was becoming increasingly nervous and had been on the phone every couple of hours for the last couple of days, and it was starting to irritate. The sooner he could give some information, the better it would be for all concerned. At least, then he could maybe get some decent sleep and spend some time with a woman, without the constant phone calls.

  ‘Dostiev, wake up!’ Oleg firmly hit him on the shoulder, aiming to revive his prisoner.

  ‘What do you want? Leave me alone.’ Dostiev seemed unaware of his circumstances.

  ‘You’ve been on the border with Afghanistan.’

  ‘Who are you? What do you want and why am I here?’ Dostiev said. His accent was coarse and slurred. Oleg struggled to understand him, but Pavel had no trouble.

  ‘Who sent you to the border?’ Oleg persisted.

  ‘Nobody sent me. I just fancied a drive.’ Rasul Dostiev was not proving to be an ideal witness. He was either too drunk or too stupid. Pavel thought he was both.

  Oleg found a bucket and some water in a rain tank. He threw the water over Dostiev. It had the desired effect, and the prisoner regained full consciousness.

  ‘Dostiev, who told you to go to the border?’ Oleg asked again.

  ‘Nobody did, I told you that,’ said Dostiev. ‘What do you want me for? I’m just a harmless drunk, nothing more.’

  ‘Harmless and drunk, I don’t care. What I do care about is why you went to the border and why the Russians are using you?’

  ‘Russians? I don’t deal with any Russians. I spent ten lousy years in Moscow, working as a security guard. The pay was lousy, the weather was lousy, and the people were pigs.’

  ‘You speak Russian?’

  ‘After ten years, what do you think?’ Oleg realised one of the reasons they were using him. He spoke their language.

  ‘Who was your contact?’ Oleg reverted to his mother tongue.

  ‘You’re Rus
sian,’ Dostiev replied. His Russian was more understandable than his Tajik, at least to Oleg.

  ‘Who are the Russians?’ Oleg asked. He was getting tired of the procrastination.

  ‘I don’t know any Russians.’

  Oleg hit the man hard and firm in the chest with the end of the baton. Pavel looked away.

  ‘Who are the Russians you have been speaking to?’

  ‘I don’t know any Russians.’

  Oleg hit him again, this time across the face, the sound of cracking bones, or breaking teeth, clearly audible. Pavel went outside and vomited.

  It was a couple of minutes before Rasul Dostiev was able to speak again. The blood streamed from his mouth. His speech was barely audible.

  ‘Who are the Russians?’ repeated Oleg.

  ‘Don’t hit me. I’ll tell you all I know.’

  ‘Then be quick or I’ll be forced to hit you again.’

  ‘Don’t, I’ll talk.’ Dostiev gulped and took a drink of water that Pavel had held to his mouth. ‘I don’t know their names.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to more than one?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘Only on the phone and I don’t know their names.’

  ‘You’ve said that once already. Tell me about them.’ Oleg sat on an old wooden crate, the baton on the floor at his side.

  ‘They asked me to go to the border, talk to the border guard there.’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘Nothing else. They told me they were taking over the operation, and they wanted me to be their man in Tajikistan.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘I heard them speaking in the background. One was called Boris. They said they were tired of playing second fiddle to Stolypin. That’s all, I swear it. Please, let me go.’

  It was clear to Oleg what he had heard. It was the information that Grigory Stolypin needed. He phoned him immediately. Stolypin said to leave no loose ends. Oleg told Pavel to go and sit in the car.

  Thirty seconds later, Rasul Dostiev was dead. Oleg Yezhov, the reluctant killer, had killed again. He buried the body under a pile of compost in another corner of the barn, knowing full well that all that would remain in time would be some bones.

  Pavel said nothing as they drove back to the city. He did not want to know what had happened to Dostiev.

  ***

  With the information from Oleg, who had, at last, proved his worth, Grigory and Dmitry evaluated the situation and formulated the plan. Grigory was for slash and burn, his typical style. Dmitry needed time to consider.

  ‘It seems we have a chance to get you right off the hook. All we need to do is state the facts,’ Dmitry said.

  ‘But where’s the proof?’ Grigory replied. It was a fair question.

  ‘What sort of proof do you need?’

  ‘Iron cast,’ said Grigory. ‘Otherwise, it’s my word against them, and Ivan Merestkov is no fool. We have one shot at this. If we can’t convince the executive of their guilt, then Boris will go into full war mode, and you and I will be seriously inconvenienced.’

  ‘Seriously inconvenienced?’ Dmitry questioned.

  ‘Dead. How else do you want me to say it? Boris and Ivan’s best hope will be to lay the blame on us, and that won’t be too difficult. The executive will assume that Boris doesn’t have the brains, and Ivan doesn’t have the guts or the skills for such an operation.’

  ‘Does Merestkov have the necessary skills to run an operation of this size?’ Dmitry asked.

  ‘Hypothetically, yes,’ said Grigory. ‘If you and I are dead, we’ll never know. You’re the brains, think of something.’

  ‘Grigory, give me time. Ten minutes’ peace and quiet, while I mull over the situation.’

  Dmitry moved over to his favourite seat, poured himself a glass of vintage sherry and closed his eyes. To Grigory, it looked as if he had fallen asleep; for Dmitry, however, it was the time when he was able to look out the box, to see the problem from all sides, to see the actions and counter-actions, all the possible scenarios. It had served him well during corporate takeovers. He hoped it would serve him well now.

  The ten minutes stretched to fifteen and still Grigory waited. Dmitry barely sipped on the sherry, just held it firmly by the base. Grigory was ready to interrupt, but he stayed calm. Eighteen minutes later, almost to the second, Dmitry opened his eyes, stood up, drank his sherry and spoke.

  ‘We need to separate Boris Sobchak and Ivan Merestkov,’ he said.

  ‘Where’s the gain in that?’ Grigory asked, perplexed.

  ‘If you go in there and have to stand up to arguments from Boris and Ivan, you’ll lose. You tried to play it smart with them, they know this. They’ll corroborate each other’s statements, and you’ll be left out on a limb.’

  ‘Okay, then how do we separate them?’

  ‘You’ve got to kill Boris Sobchak.’.

  ‘Hold on, I’m not a killer,’ replied Grigory angrily.

  ‘Then find someone who is.’

  ***

  Gennady Denikin was not pleased that Oleg Yezhov and Stolypin were talking direct, or that Yezhov had, by default, become Stolypin’s favourite man down in Dushanbe. He had been working with Yusup Baroyev and not achieving a lot.

  In fact, Baroyev was playing hard to get and spending a lot of time with the Afghans. He was more displeased when Stolypin requested him to send up Viktor Gryzlov on the next plane to Moscow. He had no option but to comply and, early the next day, Gryzlov arrived in the Russian capital on what was to prove to be a cold and overcast day. The snow clouds had been forming, and the forecast was for an early start to the cold season, not that it was ever very warm. Gryzlov turned up the collar on his fur-lined jacket and hailed a taxi.

  Oleg freed of any immediate responsibilities, took the time to enjoy himself. He rejoined the gym where he had nearly bumped into Malika. She hadn’t been there for some time, so he thought it was safe. The new attendant, a muscle-bound individual with a T-shirt designed to show his physique, said little when Oleg casually asked as to what had happened to the previous attendant.

  ‘Just didn’t turn up for work one morning,’ he said.

  Oleg thought it best not to tell him that he was resting at the bottom of the lake in the quarry on the outskirts of town. How many people had he killed now, when he had wanted to kill no one? How many would he have to kill before this was all over and he was back in St. Petersburg with Natasha? He thought he may even make an honest woman of her, marry her and have some children, get a legitimate business. But, he realised that it was probably a daydream. His life revolved around crime and violence. It was all he knew.

  ***

  Viktor Gryzlov was not happy with the news when he met up with Stolypin. They were casual acquaintances, having only met when Gennady Denikin had been around. Gryzlov respected and trusted Denikin, but his feelings towards Stolypin were ambivalent and here he was, asking him to assassinate someone. He was not sure he wanted to be involved and less sure how to get out of it.

  ‘Viktor, it’s one death and then you can go back to Dushanbe.’

  ‘But why me? Can’t you get someone else?’

  ‘This is important. If I go down, then so does Gennady. It’s that simple.’

  The delegated assassin had no option but to comply. It was what he was paid for, what he was good at. But Boris Sobchak? He knew him by reputation and his retribution, if it went wrong, was too frightful to consider.

  Grigory laid out the plan. ‘Every Wednesday, he visits the same restaurant. All you need to do is to position yourself somewhere close by, a rooftop maybe. Then, when he exits, you shoot him and get out of there quickly.’

  ‘It sounds too simple to me,’ Gryzlov replied. He was not a man of many words.

  ‘Choose any weapon you like and I’ll arrange it,’ said Grigory. ‘Just check out the place and be ready.’ Gryzlov did not like simple plans, especially for the assassination of a prominent member of the Russian mafia. It was bound to have repercussions, even he could see th
at.

  He saw Stolypin as a desperate man, but then they were all desperate, at least by association. If Stolypin were found guilty and subsequently liquidated, there would be a call to find all those associated with him, find them all guilty on the flimsiest of evidence and dispose of them. He did not want to do the killing, even phoned up Gennady, but he said Stolypin was right, and there was no other option.

  ***

  Boris Sobchak had a passion for pasta, especially home-made, and the Italian restaurant he favoured made the best. Each Wednesday, without fail, when he was in town, he would come down with a group of people. There would be some men, some women and some bodyguards, four at least, who would stay outside in the cars or on the street.

  Viktor Gryzlov reasoned that his only chance was to get one clean shot at the restaurant as the target entered. There was a rooftop on the other side of the road which seemed suitable. The building was three storeys; the ground floor, a florist, and the upper two floors, good quality apartments. He had paced out his escape route. He calculated that thirty seconds after firing the shot, he would be down the stairs, over the back fence, exiting the rear of the building and into his car and away. Timing was tight, but he couldn’t risk any more.

  As the first shot pierced into Boris Sobchak’s chest, two or three of the bodyguards would be moving in the direction of the bullet ‒ the angle of trajectory easily calculated by the angle of entry, based on the position he had been standing when he had been hit. Gryzlov did not want to be caught by them as they would torture him until he told them all he knew. He had used torture in the past, and he knew that, regardless of what anyone may say, everyone has a breaking point.

  Grigory Stolypin had supplied him with a semi-automatic Dragunov sniper rifle, with a silencer as requested. Gryzlov had used them before. It was the best there was, the only weapon of choice for the serious marksman.