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

by Phillip Strang

  Wednesday evening came, and he was on the roof. He had managed to conceal himself early before the people in the apartments had come home from work. If the stairs proved too difficult to negotiate, there was a metal ladder fitted at the rear as a fire escape. It was the least favourable option, as it would be slippery due to the steady rain and there was no light to show him the rungs if he clambered down. He discounted it as it would have taken at least forty seconds longer than the stairs and he wouldn’t have the time.

  The rain was annoying, the cold was already becoming a nuisance and he still had two hours to wait. Sobchak, a stickler for punctuality, usually arrived at 8 pm sharp, but tonight he was thirty minutes late. Gryzlov was feeling excessively cold, and his legs were starting to cramp up. He couldn’t start jumping on the spot to warm up as the occupants of the apartment below would have heard him. He had been on stakeouts in Chechnya, but it had not been as cold there, and he wasn’t as young as he was then.

  Boris Sobchak and his entourage arrived: three men in a good mood, laughing, and four attractive women in ankle-length fur coats. The men grabbing the women, putting their arms around them and joking with them, the women letting them do what they wanted. To Gryzlov, they looked bought. Not that he cared. All that he needed to do was get a clear shot at the target, but the target was moving in and out of the people as they prepared to enter the building. The temperature had dropped to close to freezing, the falling sleet distorting his visibility. He knew he would not get a clear shot as they entered the building. He would have to wait until they exited.

  It was another two hours before the group left. The snow had eased, and the target was clearly in his sights when Gryzlov pulled the trigger, a perfect shot. He was up on his feet and moving towards the stairs and the rear exit, when his left leg folded under him. The cold temperature and sitting for a prolonged period of time had caused his leg to go to sleep. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a minor issue. He would have just hobbled around for a couple of minutes until the leg received some warmth and some circulation and then he would have been fine. Here, he did not have a couple of minutes, not even a couple of seconds to spare, as two of the bodyguards were on their way.

  Two had stayed with Boris Sobchak, but that served no point. He was dead before he had hit the floor. The women were screaming; the men were shouting instructions at the bodyguards. Viktor Gryzlov heard nothing up on the roof. His problems were more immediate and his planned exit time was extending at an alarming rate. Hobbling, he made the top of the stairs, inadvertently dropping the weapon. Cursing his stupidity at losing his only protection, he continued on, down one flight, then two. He should have been down four in the time the first two had taken and closing in on his car, but he wasn’t.

  The first guard was already on the first floor of the apartment block, and he had the assassin in his sights. He took a shot but missed. His balance had been thrown by the uneven flooring in the building. The second guard further down steadied himself and took a shot. He hit Gryzlov in the shoulder. Still upright, he moved on down, catching the first guard a glancing blow with his fist and knocking him over the balustrade. The man hit the tiled floor three metres below, cracking some tiles, cracking some ribs and breaking a leg.

  The second guard, now the only obstacle between Viktor Gryzlov and escape, took aim again. He hit him with a clean shot in the stomach. Bent over in agony and bleeding, Gryzlov continued to move down until blood loss sapped his strength. The third shot from the guard to the head killed him.

  ‘You fool,’ another guard shouted as he rushed through the door at ground level. ‘Now, we’ll never know who he was or who sent him.’

  The second guard answered back. ‘Viktor Gryzlov, that’s his name. He worked for Grigory Stolypin.’

  ***

  Ivan Merestkov was the first to hear of his partner’s death. Personally, he cared little either way. He had not liked Boris Sobchak anymore than Sobchak had liked him, but their attempt to wrest control from Stolypin and Gubkin was thrown into confusion at a time when confusion was not needed.

  The negotiations with various people in Tajikistan, the impending approach to Yusup Baroyev and a representation to the Afghans, were thrown to the wind with this one death. The disappearance of Rasul Dostiev also caused concern. That was the reason for Sobchak’s lateness at the restaurant. They had been on the phone discussing his disappearance, which could only be seen as suspicious. Dostiev was an unpleasant weasel of a man, but with the money, they were willing to pay him, they were convinced he hadn’t just failed to pick up the phone.

  It had to be Stolypin, on instructions from Gubkin, who was organising everything behind the scenes. And then, there was the impending meeting with the senior members of the mafia and, without Boris to back up his story, there was a possibility that Stolypin, with Gubkin’s coaching, may have been able to talk his way out of it.

  Merestkov was a worried man and, as with all men in such situations, they eventually act irrationally and out of character.

  He was not alone. He was a serious player in organised crime and he had his trusted lieutenants, his foot soldiers, his thugs and villains. He saw the need for retribution, the need for war, and he knew who the enemy was and where he was hiding. Without the reasoned advice of a Gubkin and the cunning of a Baroyev, he was to make the wrong decision.

  Stolypin was protected, well enough at least for the present and, after the assassination of Sobchak, his security was tighter than ever. Gubkin would be equally well-protected, but he wasn’t mafia, just an adviser. He saw Stolypin’s people down in Tajikistan as a possibility, but how and who could he use?

  ***

  Gennady Denikin, his television permanently tuned to a Russian satellite channel, learnt of Viktor Gryzlov’s death soon after Merestkov. Denikin was a saddened man. He and Viktor had formed a good team and had been through some tough scrapes. He trusted him more than any other man.

  Grigory Stolypin had phoned to tell him the good news about Sobchak and to express remorse over Viktor. He didn’t sound remorseful, quite the opposite.

  It took some time to digest the news and the best part of a bottle of vodka that night before Gennady Denikin fell into a restless sleep.

  Stolypin’s instructions had been clear. ‘Continue discussions with Baroyev, intimate that a possible other player is out of the game.’

  ‘Is he?’ Denikin had asked.

  ‘Merestkov can’t do anything on his own. He’ll soon be pushing up daisies,’ replied Stolypin.

  Dmitry had given Grigory a plan to handle the upcoming enquiry with his senior executive. It looked good, and he was convinced that, in two weeks’ time, it would be business as usual and Baroyev would either agree to the deal or he wouldn’t. Personally, he felt sure he would.

  ‘We need Baroyev to deal with the transportation,’ Stolypin said the next day when Denikin had woken up.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Pure logistics. We’ve set up the trade route, put the plan in place and shown that we don’t need him. Now we offer him a piece of the action to keep him off our back. Besides, it was always the plan to bring him back in. It’s a nightmare dealing with all the payments to every two-bit official down there, and Baroyev can handle them better than we can. He can have his piece of silver, as long as we take the gold.’

  Chapter 24

  Ivan Merestkov had had a restless night. One assassination required another and, turning up at the meeting with the senior executive of the Russian mafia, without the benefit of Boris Sobchak, would weaken his case against Stolypin. He realised that Boris Sobchak’s death would need to be avenged. Someone had to die and soon. That someone had been chosen. The only issue was to whom to entrust the task.

  Rasul Dostiev was gone ‒ assumed dead, but then he would have been no use as an assassin.

  Khasan Boqiev had been taken on by Merestkov at the same time as Dostiev. Boris had interviewed them and recommended them both as suitable, at least in
the short term. Dostiev was an organiser, but not a very good one judging by the dismal results he had achieved. He had managed to spend plenty of money, but the results and the information supplied had been limited.

  Khasan Boqiev had not been employed for his organisational skills, although he could not have done a worse job than Dostiev. Boqiev was a physically tough man. He made a reasonable living as a bouncer at some of the more boisterous clubs in Dushanbe, where the music was too loud, the alcohol flowed too freely, and the drugs were too readily available. He supplemented that meagre income with the occasional murder to order. He was not as sophisticated in his technique as Viktor Gryzlov had been, but Ivan Merestkov judged him adequate for the task.

  ‘I want someone dead,’ he said on the phone to Boqiev, a man who had a distinctive Asian appearance and eyes that looked strange. Cross-eyed was how Boris had described him. He dressed poorly, his clothes invariably two sizes too small, which made his muscles look more than they were. He had few friends and many enemies.

  ‘It will cost.’ Boqiev’s standard reply.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two thousand American dollars.’

  To Merestkov, it sounded a bargain. In Russia, a death would have cost at least five thousand. He agreed.

  ‘Who do you want taking out?’ Boqiev said.

  ‘Gennady Denikin. Do you know him?’

  ‘Sobchak sent me a picture. He told me to keep a watch on him. Didn’t say why.’

  ‘It has to be today.’

  ‘Any problems where or how?’ Boqiev asked.

  ‘That’s up to you. Just phone and let me know when it’s done.’

  ***

  Gennady Denikin prepared for his day’s activities. He was still feeling a throbbing headache from the vodka he had drunk the night before. The meeting with Yusup Baroyev was scheduled for two in the afternoon. As such, he had time to catch up with Oleg, give him an update and see that all was okay. He saw the day as not too strenuous and, hopefully, that night, he would catch up with a lady he had met not far from the house he occupied, who was both pleasant and available. He was surprised how quickly he had dealt with the loss of his colleague.

  For Denikin, security had never been a major issue in Dushanbe and Viktor Gryzlov’s position as a bodyguard had been supplanted by his position as a companion and loyal friend, which he had enjoyed. He had no plans to replace Viktor in the short term, and the trip over to Oleg’s apartment was no more than a two-minute drive in the BMW he had purchased. It was only two years old and in fine condition. He enjoyed driving the car and took every opportunity to give it a spin around the block. Khasan Boqiev also knew the car, having observed his target in it on several occasions.

  At the first intersection after leaving his house, Gennady Denikin braked, obeying the stop sign displayed to his right. He always followed the rules, when many just sped across with barely a glance to their left or right. At the moment he stopped, Boqiev approached the vehicle and stood in front, hindering the forward motion of the vehicle.

  Denikin beeped the horn on the car, the road was clear, and he was ready to move. At the second beep, longer than the first, Boqiev raised his right arm and levelled the pistol he carried, a Russian-made MP-443 Grach. He pulled the trigger twice.

  Gennady Denikin slumped over the steering wheel, firmly pressing on the horn, which continued to sound. The motorbike standing to one side with its motor running provided the perfect getaway for the assassin, who quickly disappeared. The stolen motorcycle would be discovered, a burnt-out wreck, some time later.

  Boqiev phoned Merestkov. ‘Two thousand dollars and make sure it’s in my account today.’

  ***

  Oleg had been quick on the scene. He saw the car, the slumped body and the local police hovering. He did not stay long enough to check who the body was, but he knew the car.

  He phoned Grigory Stolypin, who was thrown into panic mode. He made it clear to Oleg that he was to take Denikin’s place and to get out to Yusup Baroyev’s mansion for the arranged meeting. Oleg was not pleased with his request.

  He knew that, during the week, Malika would often be there and, so far, he had managed to avoid her. How she would react at the sight of him was still unknown, although he imagined it would not be favourable.

  Stolypin quickly passed the message to Dmitry, who expressed dismay and wondered why he had ever become involved with gangsters, murderers and thieves in the first place. However, it was too late for him to back out now.

  For Dmitry, corporate crime, bankrupting a competitor and instigating a fraudulent tax investigation against them, just to make them more conducive to his offer, did not come with murder. Sure, there were occasionally a few deaths, but they were suicides when the people and the companies he was aiming for couldn’t take the heat and some had taken the easy way out. That was how he saw it, and there was no way he, Dmitry Gubkin, was going to take that option.

  Evgeni Ovechin, a successful corporate raider in his time, had built up a sprawling empire of interlinked companies, elaborate tax avoidance schemes and an impressive portfolio of prime real estate in the post-Soviet era. He had fallen foul of Dmitry Gubkin’s aggressive takeover tactics. The tax audit, the criminal trial for tax evasion and the subsequent ten years hard labour without remission, courtesy of a group of Gubkin operatives manipulating, pulling in favours and bribing officials.

  Ovechin had lasted six months in jail before hanging himself from the security bars welded into the window of his cell, using a piece of rope purloined from the prison stores. Long before his death, Dmitry Gubkin had purchased the bankrupt assets, including the substantial real estate portfolio. He had made fifteen million dollars on the deal. Ovechin’s premature death caused him little concern.

  Alex Plushenko, a successful entrepreneur with several department stores, was a similar story. A corporate raid, some scurrilous rumours and a subsequent criminal investigation into how he was importing so much into the country, duty-free, and he was gone. The Russian train system provided the solution, as he threw himself in front of an express train passing at speed through the station near where he lived.

  There had been others, but Dmitry had been little affected. But now? It was all a little too real for him, and he worried for his well-being.

  ‘Is this a gang war?’ he asked.

  ‘Probably,’ Grigory replied.

  ‘You seem very casual about the situation.’

  ‘What do you want me to be? It’s happened. We just have to deal with it.’

  ‘So, what do you suggest?’ asked Dmitry. The situation had changed. Grigory Stolypin had become the adviser.

  ‘We’re targets, that’s certain, but we should be safe until after the meeting with the senior executive.’

  ‘We? Don’t you mean you?’

  ‘Ivan Merestkov would see you as a liability,’ replied Grigory, ‘and liabilities are not what he requires at the present moment.’

  ‘So my life is in danger, is that what you are saying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe it’s best if I disappear for a while.’

  ‘Maybe, but where? I still need you for my defence.’

  ‘Your defence doesn’t come at the cost of my life.’

  ‘If I lose, what do you think will happen to you?’ asked Grigory.

  ‘You tell me,’ Dmitry countered.

  ‘They’ll come for you.’

  ‘You approached me,’ said Dmitry angrily. ‘How did I know you were cheating the Bratva out of their money?’

  ‘Do you think they will be interested in your protestations? It’s not a court of law.’

  ‘What do we do?’ Dmitry accepted the situation. He had to help Grigory, and he had to stay alive.

  The moving of his money from one bank to another was complete. Passwords changed and encrypted, cash stored in various locations around the world, backpacks with cash in railway station lockers in several locations around Moscow. He was ready to move, although he still w
restled with the problem as to why he had become involved, but it was history now. Better just to get on with it and see where it led.

  Grigory suggested that Dmitry vacate his house and move to a secure location he had in the country ‒ Dmitry agreed. Grigory also phoned Oleg for an update.

  Oleg informed him that he had spoken to Baroyev and that the meeting was going ahead. The news of Gennady Denikin’s slaying was common knowledge, and that Baroyev had expressed regret over the death.

  Grigory knew that Baroyev would not have been concerned and that it was just a courtesy he had shown, nothing more. Oleg went over the deal and how far he could go. He asked whether he should phone from the mansion if there were any issues.

  Grigory had told him just to make a deal. If it needed fine-tuning, he would come down to Dushanbe and sort it out, once he was clear of his current problem. Oleg had no problems with pressing forward.

  Oleg’s drive out to the mansion in his new Mercedes, far better than Farrukh’s, was fine. The weather was balmy for the time of the year, and the windows were down. He had no issues with Denikin, although with his demise, his escalation within the organisation looked more certain, as long as he could come to an agreement with Baroyev and ensure Merestkov’s alternate drug smuggling operation was scuttled.

  ***

  Yusup Baroyev was magnanimous, exceedingly polite when Oleg arrived. Malika was not present, not that he could see.

  He did not know that Baroyev had told her the man who had beaten her severely and permanently damaged one of her eyes was meeting with him.

  She had been angry, but he had told her it was only a temporary arrangement and that his fate was sealed, just delayed. She accepted his statement and left the mansion early.

  With Oleg Yezhov present in the circle that she and Yusup moved in, Malika was not certain as to how she would react, if she encountered him face to face. She admired Yusup’s ability to be able to act like a friend when the person was anything but. She was not confident she could emulate him, especially with Oleg, who had treated her well initially and then treated her badly. She determined that, whatever happened, she would remain calm as long as Yusup honoured his agreement to deal with him when the time was right.